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GEORGE ABRAHAM THOMAS 
 
 BORN SEPTEMBER 10, 1847 
 DIED SEPTEMBER 3, 1913 
 
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 MAR -3 1916 
 
GEORGE ABRAHAM THOMAS, A. B., LL. B. 
 
 September 10, 1847— September 3. 1913 
 
 p:riEORGE ABRAHAM THOMAS, the son of Abraham 
 ^jr j and Amarille (Russell) Thomas, was born in 
 M^ Norwich, Sept. 10, 1847, and died Sept. 3, 1913, 
 * and with the exception of the time he was in 
 college, his entire life was spent in his native village. 
 The house where he was born is still standing, much as 
 it was at that time, at 294 North Broad street, but later 
 his father built a home on Hayes street, and in 1854 the 
 family, consisting of father, mother, two sisters — Almira 
 H., who later became the wife of Albert C. Latham, and 
 Love E., the wife of Thomas S. Miller, and the son, George 
 A., moved there. For more than sixty years this has been 
 known as the Thomas homestead. It is a strange coin- 
 cidence that every member of the family died in and was 
 buried from this house. George never went away from 
 the old home to live, and today it is the home of his wife, 
 Fanny Makepeace Thomas. 
 
 Of the Thomas family but little need be added. His 
 father was a carpenter and many of the older houses in 
 the town today bear witness of the fact that he was a 
 master workman at his trade. A bit of historical interest 
 is found in the fact that on March 24, 1837, the legislature 
 had passed a law authorizing the building of a new courc 
 house in Norwich for Chenango county, and Mr. Thomas 
 secured a place among the workmen. It was he who went 
 to New York and bought from the widely known William 
 E. Dodge, of the firm of Phelps, Dodge & Co., the life-size 
 figure of Justice. This had been beautifully carved from 
 a piece of a mast of an old ship and it stands today on 
 the pinnacle of the dome of our court house, having weath- 
 ered the winds and storms of the old Chenango valley for 
 well nigh a century. 
 
 5 
 
His sister, Mrs. Latham, was widely known in musical 
 and church circles. In her earlier life she was a success- 
 ful teacher of music and for many years she was the 
 organist in the First Baptist church, of which she was a 
 devoted member, giving freely of her time, her talents 
 and her money. And at her death, which occurred Oct. 
 27, 1914, she left large bequests to the church for which 
 she had worked so many years. 
 
 The history of George A. Thomas is far from being the 
 story of an ordinary life, although it was lived so quietly 
 that only those who knew him best altogether understood, 
 for his was a rarely beautiful character. From his 
 earliest childhood he manifested an intense love for books, 
 for study, for school. When he was only a young boy, 
 hardly fifteen years of age, at the suggestion of his teacher 
 in the old academy. Prof. Milan L. Ward, he commenced 
 keeping a journal of passing events, and it is from this 
 it is most interesting to quote, because so much of the 
 boy and the man are revealed that would otherwise have 
 been lost. 
 
 From this same journal we learn that in 1863, before 
 he was six years old, he was sent to school in the primary 
 department of the old academy, never having attended a 
 district or select school. His first teacher was Miss Lovina 
 Pendelton. He continued to attend the academy until he 
 was fitted for entrance to college. He was not only an 
 eager student, applying himself thoroughly to his task, 
 but he was a boy who thought out many things for him- 
 self, and very early in his life he began to write both in 
 prose and poetry. Jan. 21, 1864, when only sixteen years 
 of age, he sent the following poem to the "Chenango 
 Union" and it was published in the next issue: 
 
 The End 
 
 Standing alone by the surging sea 
 That rolled on the sands continually, 
 I stretched my hand out o'er its tide, 
 6 
 
And in a voice of anguish cried — 
 
 Oh for the power! Oh for the might! 
 
 To quell this great unholy fight, 
 
 That is raging now in our own dear land 
 
 Which seemed so prospered by God's own hand. 
 
 The sea stood still, and its white-foamed crest 
 Seemed to hear my vain request; 
 And an echo bourne from that now calmed sea, 
 Calling back in answer to me, 
 "Fight on! Fight on! shrink not from the fray, 
 ' For it shall end at last in victory." 
 Rebuked by the words I turned aside, 
 And for that end to God I cried." 
 
 Early in July of the same year he wrote another 
 poem, which was published and also a colloquy which 
 was acted at the close of the year of the Norwich academy, 
 
 Nov. 10, 1864, he received his first certificate to teach 
 school from Boliver Bisbee, the school commissioner. 
 This was in pursuance of the plans which he had formed 
 a few months before to secure a college education; for 
 he knev/ that if he ever had a college training, he would 
 have to work and work hard to earn the money with which 
 to pay for it. Having decided this great question he was 
 not easily discouraged, and went to work picking berries 
 to sell, splitting wood, doing errands, and trying in every 
 way possible to earn what he could, and once having 
 earned a dollar, it was religiously added to the coveted 
 store. 
 
 He was happy in the possession of the teacher's 
 certificate, but was not quite ready to take a school; so 
 he kept on with his studies in the academy until fall. 
 This was really an advantage to him, for Prof. Ward, 
 appreciating the real worth of the boy, used often to leave 
 classes in his care and he always made good. 
 
 7 
 
April 3, the news was flashed over the wires that 
 Richmond was taken and George writes: — "I am so ex- 
 cited I can hardly write"; but April 15, came the news 
 that Lincoln had been assassinated and the joy was turned 
 to gloom. Here he writes: — "Everybody was dazed. This 
 morning the awful news comes — I say awful, for I con- 
 sider it the worst news we could have recieved, that 
 Abraham Lincoln, president of these United States, was 
 shot last night and no hopes entertained of his recovery. 
 That Seward, secretary of state, had been stabbed in his 
 bed. I consider this one of the worst features of the 
 civil war — the ruler of one part attacked in his own 
 capitol. It shows that we have enemies in our own homes. 
 The stores and many of the dwellings are draped in black; 
 flags are all at half mast. The rain is falling — fit simile 
 of our country now! We can never say "God bless 
 Abraham Lincoln!" And then with prophetic vision he 
 adds — "Though Lincoln perhaps has made mistakes, he 
 will stand forth in history as one of the most honest men 
 that has been invested with the highest gift of the people. 
 When I say the feeling is intense, I do not express half. 
 Men of all classes are deeply moved. Said one who had 
 always opposed Lincoln — 'The man that rejoices over the 
 death of Abraham Lincoln is a traitor to the North, to the 
 South and to all mankind.' And I shall always honor that 
 man for coming out so boldly. The rain is pouring down; 
 the heavens seem to weep! Farewell, Abraham Lincoln! 
 Vale! Vale!! Vale!!!" Then follows an original poem: — 
 
 O God, Protect Our Land 
 
 O God, protect our land. 
 Firm may she ever stand 
 
 For truth and right. 
 And do Thou soon remove 
 War from the land we love 
 And by Thy power above 
 
 North and South unite. 
 8 
 
Our hope is growing weak, 
 So from Thy throne we seek 
 
 New grace and faith. 
 Turn Thou from our dear land 
 The parricidal hand; 
 And once more may she stand 
 
 Free from war and death. 
 
 And if Thou wilt but hear 
 This our simple prayer, 
 
 Most humbly we will raise 
 Through our succeeding days 
 Hymns of lasting praise 
 
 For the victory. 
 
 June 19, 1865, the veterans of the 114th Regiment, 
 N. Y. Volunteers, came marching back to Norwich; and 
 were given a reception in floral hall; and George Thomas, 
 as one of the committee, did a great deal of hard work in 
 the preparations for the event. In July he had a serious 
 talk with himself in his journal, as follows: — "Been at 
 home writing. This seems a lazy sort of a life for a boy 
 nearly eighteen years old! Other boys are at work. Is 
 not that your place, George? Ought not you to be learn- 
 ing how to get a living? The idea of your ever going 
 through college should be thrown away! All this I think; 
 and then comes the longing to be something more than a 
 clerk — to be something — a man who shall fill an honorable 
 place in the history of our county. Whither it will ever 
 be I cannot tell! Prospects are dark." And then he 
 writes — "The sun has come out! the clouds all scattered. 
 May it be an omen of my life. Though dark clouds 
 obscure the future now, it may be they will clear away 
 and all become bright — I kind'a think I've got the blues — 
 but it is enough to give anyone the blues to look forward 
 and see nothing but a clerkship, v/hen he feels there is 
 something more in him — that he was born for something 
 higher." 
 
 9 
 
At the end of the winter term of Norwich academy in 
 1865, Prof. Hopkins, a former principal, offered a prize of 
 $5.00 to the student who should write the best essay on 
 the proposed monument to the fallen soldiers of Chenango 
 county. George Thomas was one of the five competitors 
 and to him the prize was awarded. (The essay will be 
 found later in this volume). 
 
 During the strenuous days of which he has written, 
 his teacher's certificate was resting quietly in his desK 
 almost forgotten; but in November, 1865, he engaged to 
 teach the school in district No. 6, known as the Hale 
 district, for which he was to receive the munificent sum 
 of $64.00 for the term, and board. This meant "boardin' 
 round," but the records show that he spent most of his 
 time in the home of Mr. Hiram Hale, who fortunately was 
 the trustee. 
 
 His version of his experiences as a school teachei- 
 were varied; some of his descriptions were amusing; some 
 pathetic; and ofttimes the poetic nature of the boy would 
 reveal itself, whether it found expression in verse or 
 sentences of prose, that were almost sublime. Those who 
 have been permitted to stand upon the hill west of our 
 beautiful city and looking across the valley have caught 
 the glory of the picture nature has painted for them, can 
 almost catch the vision as they read the wonderful word 
 picture of a winter scene from his journal: — 
 
 "East from the school house is a large gra,ceful elm; — 
 
 "a keen eastern breeze arose 
 And the descending rain unsullied froze," 
 
 so that tonight it was completely covered with ice, under 
 the weight of which the branches droop in a most graceful 
 manner. Off in the distance the pines present a beautiful 
 appearance. Their dark green is coated with crystal and 
 they look like trees of glass. My school house might be 
 called a crystal palace, for it is coated with the clearest 
 crystal. My wood pile is not wood, but ice; and adown 
 
 10 
 
the fence there is a fringe of icicles. The stone wall, the 
 fence and everything, look as though they had been weep- 
 ing great tears of grief and as they fell had frozen." Could 
 words have been found to portray more beautifully one of 
 nature's rarest pictures? 
 
 His loyalty to the stars and stripes finds expression 
 worthy a man of mature years, when he writes on Feb. 
 22, 1866: — "As I look from my window I can see the flag 
 floating from the pole down in the village. As the western 
 sun shone upon it, it presented a beautiful sight. It 
 fllled me with a patriotic glow; and with those feelings I 
 wrote these lines: — 
 
 I see our glowing flag afar 
 
 Spread proudly to the southern breeze; 
 The flag our braves have bourne in war. 
 
 Triumphant over land and seas; 
 The flag of many victories bought 
 
 By lives and blood in battle flame; 
 The flag upon which ne'er was brought 
 A blot by foul dishonor's stain. 
 
 The flag when spread in any land 
 
 Proclaims aloud our land so free; 
 The land on which war o'ped his hand 
 
 To rid it of dark slavery. 
 But now 'tis free from north to south. 
 
 No slave within its bounds now breathes; 
 And its brave sons who proved the truth 
 
 Crowned now are by the victors wreathes. 
 
 Flag of the free, forever float 
 
 Where freedom takes her firmest stand; 
 Or on the battlefield or mote 
 
 Upheld by freedom's valiant hand. 
 Spread thy deep folds unto the wind, 
 
 And let it round thee gently play; 
 Proclaim to every mortal mind 
 
 That thou art freedom's flag today!" 
 11 
 
Feb. 23, 1866, lie closed his school with the usual 
 exercises, and distribution of prizes; delivered the record 
 book to Mr. Hale, and bid farewell to his first and last 
 "deestrict skule." But the memories of some of those days 
 must have lingered with him, for shortly after there ap- 
 peared in "The Telegraph" an article entitled — "A Plea for 
 a Warm School House." 
 
 Another characteristic of George A. Thomas was an 
 under current of deep religious sentiment. He had stronj^ 
 faith in God; but with his peculiarly retiring nature this 
 did not reveal itself so readily as in the life and words of 
 many young men. A bit of his experience is briefly told 
 by himself. "Sunday, Jan. 14, 1866. Have been to church. 
 I rose for the prayers of the Christian people and made up 
 my mind I would live a Christian life. It has been a 
 peculiar day to me. Thank God he gave me decision." 
 March 4, he was baptized by his pastor, Rev. R. A. Pater- 
 son, and became a member of First Baptist church This 
 was one great question settled; and in July he decided to 
 enter Madison university as a sophomore, in the coming 
 fall — another serious question answered. During the sum- 
 mer weather he worked and planned with this in view. 
 
 September 2, we find this beautiful simile: — "The day 
 has been cloudy; rained in the morning and shov/ers in 
 the afternoon; but tonight there was one of the most beau- 
 tiful skies I have ever seen. Toward the northwest, along 
 the hills, there were long stretches of clouds. They seemed 
 to be terraced. They were of a golden crimson color. 
 Above them was the pure blue sky. Then a deep purple 
 cloud, tinged at the lower edge with the golden yellow of 
 the setting sun; while along the edge the dark storm 
 cloud, from which the rain was falling, drifted. It was a 
 beautiful sky and I gazed at it with feelings never ex- 
 perienced before. It seemed an emblem of the Christian 
 life. Though at this stage the storm cloud may encompass 
 you, and you catch but glimpses through the rifts of the 
 glory beyond, yet when they have passed, a rest as quiet 
 
 12 
 
as the peaceful blue sky, will be the reward; while still oa 
 beyond are the crimson glories of the eternal life." 
 
 September 9, he writes: — "This is the last day of my 
 eighteenth year. When the evening shadows come down 
 I shall have completed it. One naturally feels a sort of 
 sadness as he stands at one of the milestones, every one 
 of which brings him nearer eternity. Life is uncertain 
 now, but as a man grows older, it becomes apparent that 
 death is certain. Life is uncertain; but is heaven sure? 
 Do I feel that it is? A dark heavy cloud hung over the 
 sun as I wrote the last few lines — the cloud is gone — the 
 light breaks through — may it be an augury, an omen of 
 the new year on which I am entering. Enough! I await 
 the revealing finger of time to light the future." 
 
 Sept. 10, 1866, he writes: — "Am nineteen years old to- 
 day"; and complained of a lack of confidence in himself. 
 So strongly was this ingrained in his nature that he was 
 never able to altogether overcome it. This was unfortu- 
 nate, for many times he held back from public addresses, 
 when he would have found few equals in framing of sen- 
 tences, in purity of English, beauty of imagery and 
 strength of expression. One thing Mr. Thomas never did 
 lack; and that was confidence in his ability to overcome 
 any obstacle in the way of his acquiring a thorough edu- 
 cation, even though there could come but little help from 
 outside his own efforts. 
 
 In these days when books and paper are almost as 
 plentiful as the leaves on the trees, it would be difficult 
 for the average boy to understand how much they meant 
 to one whom they knew only as an eminently successful 
 man. At the time he commenced the writing of his 
 journal, he was made exceedingly happy by having a blank 
 book given him for that purpose; but when this had been 
 filled and the problem of securing another faced him, it 
 was indeed a serious problem; but it was not to him an 
 impassable mountain of difficulty. He spied the family 
 rag-bag which he eagerly begged from his mother. He 
 
 13 
 
took the rags to the bookstore and sold them, taking in 
 return a blank book which he used until Sept. 9, 1866. 
 The day he was nineteen years old he commenced his third 
 journal, and of this he writes: — "This book was procured 
 in the following way; which I write down to show by what 
 turns I obtained many things which others procure so 
 easily. When Ed. Bradley (afterward, Dr. A. E. Bradley) 
 was a student in the academy he bought a twenty-five cent 
 novel at Hopkins' bookstore, and when he went away he 
 gave it to me. After I read the book I took it back to the 
 store and by paying five cents more procured three dime 
 novels. I read these and stored them away in my desk. 
 A few weeks later I exchanged two of them for a package 
 of envelopes. The other book, with some paper I had, I 
 exchanged for a blank book about the size of my other 
 journal. But a few days later I saw in the store a book 
 twice as large, which cost only seven shillings. I returned 
 the book I had, paid the extra two shillings and returned 
 with this book. I think that was a good many turns of 
 the wheel of fortune to procure one book." This naive 
 relation of a "boy's thoughts, written in a boy's style, is a 
 good illustration of the character of the man. He was 
 neither parsimonious nor prodigal, and this, together with 
 his untiring perseverance was the key to his success 
 financially in later years. 
 
 Wednesday, June 27, 1866, George Thomas delivered 
 his oration, "Aspirations," and the valedictory, and gradu- 
 ated from Norwich academy. He was anxious to enter 
 college as a sophomore and spent much of his time during 
 the summer on Latin, Greek and studies he would be 
 obliged to pass in for that grade. The style of reading he 
 selected is revealed in this sentence: — "This is what I 
 shall strive to learn in my college life; I shall try to in- 
 crease my vocabulary by reading Prescott, Hugh Miller 
 and the writers of the purest English." 
 
 Thursday, Sept. 26, 1866, he writes:— "Was up at four 
 o'clock, bid the folks good-bye and jumped aboard the 
 
 14 
 
stage*! There were eleven and one-half passengers, and 
 others got aboard at Sherburne; so it was indeed crowded 
 when we reached Hamilton, at ten o'clock. I found Albert 
 Prentice and went up on the hill with him. Went to 
 chapel and saw the professors. Told them I wanted to 
 enter the sophomore year, and was given a choice of 
 rooms in that class. I drew No. 34, in the Eastern Edifice, 
 the southwest corner room and very pleasant." At the 
 heading of the page he writes in heavy script: — 
 
 COMMENCEMENT OF MY COLLEGE LIFE 
 
 MADISON UNIVERSITY 
 
 SOPHOMORE YEAR. SEPT. 27, 1866. 
 
 It has come. The dream of his life is realized! He 
 is a college student! As we read the bits of record in his 
 journal, we are led to believe that his life in college was 
 much like that of other college boys. He was manly 
 enough to admit that he was homesick. He never missed 
 an opportunity to go to Norwich when he could con- 
 sistently do so; but never did he neglect the work of the 
 day for a trip home. It is true, perhafps, t^t he worked 
 harder than most of the college fellows, but he still found 
 time for some social life, and was not free from the pranks 
 known only to college boys. That he was a favorite is 
 known by his election as vice-president of his class very 
 early in his course. His talent was recognized by his 
 being chosen as one of the disputants in the Adelphian 
 Debating society. He also gave an oration at the semi- 
 annual meeting of the society on "Systematic Labor and 
 Individual Prophesy." During his vacation he was not 
 contented to spend his time in idleness, but was studying 
 Latin, Greek, history, some French, German and survey- 
 ing; reciting to Prof. Ward, who always took a great in- 
 terest in the success of his scholars. How he found the 
 time for helping about the home, reading many books, 
 writing prose articles and poems for publication, one or 
 two orations prepared and the social and church appoint- 
 
 15 
 
ments he met, is a problem^ not easily explained. It could 
 not be truly said that he was lazy; it is equally true that 
 he never seemed to be in a hurry. He knew the value of 
 time, how to economize it and how to use it. At one time 
 he delivered an oration, over which he had been exceed- 
 ingly anxious, and without cause, for he was never known 
 to fail or to break down when speaking in public. Of 
 this special occasion the local paper writes: — "The oration 
 by Mr. George A. Thomas was the most clearly and care- 
 fully written production of the evening, showing a mind 
 capable not only of original thinking, but of earnest logic 
 as well. The speaker neither did himself nor his oration 
 justice in its delivery, having too much constraint in man- 
 ner, evidently the want of training;" and then a shower 
 of criticism broke on the heads of the faculty for not 
 properly training its students in speaking. But the fact 
 remains that Mr. Thomas was never fully able to overcome 
 this difficulty. 
 
 The day he was twenty-one, he writes: — *"I have been 
 somewhat sad today; the thought that I am twenty-one 
 years old has brought to my mind forcibly that I must now 
 assume the responsibilities of life. I can only trust that 
 God will give me strength and wisdom to fulfill all." Char- 
 acteristic words were these, for he had ever felt to shrink 
 from responsibility, but once having assumed it he was 
 ever faithful to the trust. 
 
 During his senior year he set for himself a high 
 standard of work, higher than most young men would care 
 to attempt; but he was systematic in his work and carried 
 all through splendidly. At this time he was corresponding 
 secretary of Delta Upsilon society, president of Adelphian 
 society, and president of the Students' association, the 
 highest office in the gift of the students. He was organist 
 also and was glad to have this position, as the salary paid 
 his tuition. This means much to a man who is working 
 his way through college. 
 
 16 
 
Tuesday, Aug. 3, 1869, the day of days came at last — 
 graduation day for the class of '69. There were ten men 
 in the class and each one had an oration. Mr. Thomas 
 took for his title the question, "Free?" The oration was 
 highly complimented by the local paper and "Utica 
 Herald," but Mr. Thomas himself writes in this modest way 
 of the event: — "The great day has passed. I have gradu- 
 ated from college. The whole went off without a break, 
 and diplomas were given. Now the realities of life stare 
 me in the face. What shall I do next? — Get well! — and 
 then to work." Then as if an after thought he adds: — 
 "I received four bouquets and the attention of the audience 
 during my speech," revealing the fact that the attention of 
 the audience was of far greater importance to him than 
 the bouquets. He adds: — "Thus ended my college days — 
 ono of the pleasantest seasons of my life. The boys met 
 and elected officers and appointed the first class reunion 
 for 1872 — three years hence. God spare our lives. And 
 so I bid good night to college life and good morn to active 
 business life. God grant it may be as successful as my 
 college course has been." The next day he stayed to see 
 the boys off, paid his bills and left for home, ending the 
 last scene of the drama; and pulling down the curtain the 
 show was out. 
 
 On August 16, he engaged to teach a term in Norwich 
 academy, for two hundred dollars. The next day he com- 
 menced his work with Prof. John G. Williams as principal 
 and Mrs. Amelia B. Proctor, preceptress. 
 
 When Mr. Thomas graduated from college he had to 
 go to work; and the position of teacher in the academy 
 was gladly accepted. He was happy in the work; but he 
 did not expect to follow the profession indefinitely. No 
 one was surprised when he made an arrangement with 
 George W. Ray to enter his office for the purpose of study- 
 ing law. His plan was to teach one half the day and study 
 the rest. He had been for years what might be termed 
 an omniverous reader, but what is far better, he was a 
 
 17 
 
careful reader, selecting books that were well written; 
 choosing those of purest English and finest conception. 
 Added to this he had a marvelously retentive memory; all 
 of which were factors that were of great help in the study 
 of law. The majority of boys only twenty-three years old, 
 would think their time fully occupied were they teaching 
 school one half the day and reading law the other half; 
 but not so George Thomas; for we find him writing, July 
 23, 1871: — "Have been looking over things today and have 
 published this last year 38 articles — 17 in the "Temperance 
 Patriot"; 10 in the "Golden Rule"; one each in the "Ameri- 
 can Union," the "Telegraph" and the "Madisoniensis"; 
 showing that the minutes were used for profit. 
 
 In September of this year he was appointed the Nor- 
 wich correspondent of "Utica Observer," and he held the 
 position until the close of his life. The pen name with 
 which these articles were signed was "S. A. Mott," or 
 "S. A. M." The same nom de plume he used when writing 
 for other papers. 
 
 Jan. 11, 1872 — "Hired out as S's clerk" — was the la- 
 conic way in which he made note of his having been 
 engaged by Judge Prindle as surrogate's clerk. He held 
 this position until Judge Prindle was succeeded as surro- 
 gate by Judge William F. Jenks. 
 
 Judge Prindle soon hired rooms over the jewelry store 
 — now A. D. Sturges — and Mr. Thomas went with him and 
 took up the practice of law. He had been admitted to the 
 bar. May 10, 1878, in Binghamton; but not altogether 
 satisfied with his preparation, he soon entered Hamilton 
 College Law school and was graduated in June 1, 1879, 
 with the degree of LL. B. The late vice-president, James 
 S. Sherman, was one of the same class. He then returned 
 to Norwich and to his place in the office with Judge 
 Prindle. After the death of Judge Prindle, he bought the 
 law library and finally the buildings, where he continued 
 to practice the remaining years of his life. 
 
 18 
 
In addition to his ever increasing practice of law and 
 his writing so largely for publication, Mr. Thomas was for 
 many years the editor of one of our village papers. First 
 of "The Norwich Post" and later of "Chenango Telegraph." 
 He held this position until the death of B. Gage Berry, 
 when the paper passed into the hands of the "Norwich 
 Publishing Co.," and he retired. A large part of the local 
 matter in the "Geneological and Family History of Central 
 New York," a work of three good-sized volumes, published 
 in 1912, was written by him; he also wrote all of the Che- 
 nango county history in "Official New York." Mr. Thomas 
 was an attractive writer, possessed of a clear sense of 
 honor and with good judgment; there was nothing sensa- 
 tional or overdrawn in his writings; but they were given 
 in an easy, flowing style sparkling with wit and humor, 
 which made them delightful reading. 
 
 In politics he was a very pronounced Republican, but 
 he had no sympathy with "machine politics" and would 
 have none of it. 
 
 In 1898 he was appointed supervisor of the town of 
 Norwich, to fill the vacancy caused by the death of G. 
 Henry Holcomb, whose death occurred soon after election. 
 May 15, 1900, he was elected justice of the peace and was 
 re-elected at each successive term, holding the office at 
 his death. 
 
 Mr. Thomas was not a demonstrative man. He was 
 quiet and retiring by nature, but with a keen sense of 
 right that made him indignant over wrong, and he never 
 feared to say or do the thing he believed to be right. 
 Because of these characteristics he was a valued advisor 
 on the official boards of several organizations. His lan- 
 guage was clean, his thoughts pure, his deportment up- 
 right and men sought advice from him. 
 
 He was a member for many years of Chenango County 
 Bar association; one of the directors of National Bank of 
 Norwich; for nine years was president of Chenango County 
 Co-operative and Loan association. Few men have given 
 
 19 
 
so much of thought, time and money toward making Mt. 
 Hope cemetery the beautiful place it is today. 
 
 As has been stated before, George A. Thomas became 
 a member of First Baptist church, March 4, 1866, when 
 only a boy. After his return from college he was soon a 
 member of the official board, and has served at times as 
 clerk, trustee and treasurer. He was a member of the 
 board of trustees for many years, and his judgment on 
 questions of great importance was always good and will 
 be greatly missed. In the Sunday school he served as 
 superintendent for a number of years, while he was a 
 teacher in the Sunday school the greater part of his life. 
 He was also president of the Young People's association 
 for some years. 
 
 Sept. 15, 1910, he was married to Fanny C. Makepeace, 
 in Norwich, and they established their home in the Thomas 
 homestead. Three beautiful years of life together were 
 granted unto them. The blow came and all that remained 
 was a memory; for Sept. 3, 1913, after a brief, but severe 
 illness, George A. Thomas entered into the home eternal. 
 
 Funeral services were held in the home, conducted by 
 his pastor, Dr. J, A. Monk, and burial was made in the 
 family lot in Mt. Hope. 
 
 A large delegation from Chenango County Bar associa- 
 tion, members of Norwich club, the Loan association, di- 
 rectors of National Bank of Norwich, officers of the Ceme- 
 tery association and officers of First Baptist church, were 
 in attendance at the service testifying to the high regard 
 in which he was held. 
 
 I had almost said a great man lived and moved among 
 us and we knew it not. It were better to say a good man 
 lived in our midst for a time and men and women and little 
 children knew that he was good, and that they were better 
 and happier because of him. Many were the words of ap- 
 preciation spoken, and resolutions of respect adopted by 
 the various organizations of which he was a member. 
 
 20 
 
O well beloved voice! Never to be 
 Heard in our councils! Hence forever flown! 
 No more that haunting pathos in his tone 
 To witch us with its wistful melody! 
 Nay, but the voice it was not. It was he. 
 Himself, the man, the Christian, therein shown; 
 The regal pride not driven from its throne. 
 But chastened to a high humility; 
 The opulent, sweet, wordly wisdom blent 
 With such clear innocence of worldly guile; 
 Learning, to service of his fellows bent; 
 The gift of sympathy, in tear or smile; 
 The upward vision on the heavens intent — 
 These were what won us with resistless wile." 
 
 Mr. Thomas was a voluminous writer of verse. Many 
 of his poems were printed in the papers, but he had never 
 made a collection of them in book form. While in this 
 memorial volume some of his writings will find a place, 
 they will be so few as to give but little conception of the 
 great variety of subjects upon v/hich he v/rote; for prose 
 sentences and poetic feet ran from his pen as easily as 
 the rain drops fall; and whether it was wit, humor, 
 patriotism, pathos, religion, history, politics, poetry or 
 baseball, he wrote with equal facility and beauty. 
 
 Lord Bacon says: 
 
 "Speaking makes a ready man; 
 Reading a full man; 
 Writing an exact man." 
 
 HUSTLE 
 
 Life is too short to waste 
 In critic peep or cynic bark, 
 
 Quarrel or reprimand; 
 'Twill soon be dark — 
 
 Up — heed thine own aim 
 
 And — God speed the mark. 
 21 
 
THE RIVALS 
 By Geo. A. Thomas 
 
 High o'er the clouds, through azure blue. 
 
 An eagle soared on tireless wings; 
 The great, big world shrank flat and small 
 
 And men became mere ant-like things; 
 And naught was above him save the dazzling sun 
 
 As in mighty circles his goal was won. 
 
 On top-most peak his flight he stayed. 
 With approving eyes on self he gazed; 
 
 "Ah, here I perch above all the kings; 
 At my wondrous flight, the world's amazed — 
 
 For this lofty flight who else dare try?" 
 Out of the silence a voice said "I." 
 
 Amazed he turned, and on the rock 
 
 An earth-worm saw. "We, rivals, ho? 
 From whence art thou, nor wings nor feet?" 
 
 "The same as thou, from the world below, 
 I saw the mountain — the mountain called." 
 
 "But my wings brought me?" "And I? — I crawled.* 
 
 Ye statesmen, lords and great ones all. 
 That fill the seats the world calls high. 
 
 To us below, who in wonder gaze 
 
 On your dazzling place with blinded eye — 
 
 How got you there without a fall? 
 With wings did you fly, or on belly crawl? 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 Rich in experience that angels might covet; 
 
 Rich with a faith that has grown with his years; 
 Rich in a love that grew from and above it. 
 Soothing his sorrow and hushing his fears. 
 Growing old lovingly. 
 Loving and dear. 
 22 
 
"BOARDIN' 'ROUND" 
 
 How brief is life! how passing brief! 
 
 How brief its joys and cares. 
 It seems to be in league with time 
 
 And leaves us unawares. 
 Wherever, in its pathway mixed. 
 
 Bright spots and dark abound, 
 And of each kind I had a bit 
 
 When I went "boardin' 'round." 
 
 At sixteen with a valiant heart 
 
 The task I did commence 
 To teach young ideas how to shoot, — 
 
 The germs of common sense; 
 Ah yes! a mighty task was that; 
 
 But verj'' soon I found 
 That it was not a simple one 
 
 To go a "boardin' 'round. 
 
 The times were dif'rent then from now; 
 
 The folks were dif'rent too; 
 The master's path with honor bright 
 
 Quite thickly they did strew; 
 And questions grave and problems deep, 
 
 That did their brains confound. 
 They always would be sure to keep 
 
 Till he came "boardin' 'round." 
 
 Fathers would talk of politics, 
 
 Or church affairs propose; 
 And if my views were not like theirs 
 
 A warm dispute arose. 
 And some old "posers," sly and wise. 
 
 Did oftentimes propound 
 Questions which often puzzled me. 
 
 When I went "boardin' 'round." 
 23 
 
The mothers talked of rude young girls, 
 
 Of sermons, books and boys; 
 But always tried their best to add 
 
 Unto my earthly joys; 
 And did I catch the slightest cold. 
 
 Or hoarse my voice should sound, 
 I got a dose of catnip tea! 
 
 When I went "boardin' 'round." 
 
 Tho girls would talk of everything, — 
 
 Of parties, rides and calls. 
 Of presents and the holidays, 
 
 Of beaux and Christmas balls; 
 Some grave, some gay and mischievous 
 
 (The last I wish were drowned 
 For sticking pins into my bed) 
 
 When I came "boardin' 'round." 
 
 Long winter evenings then were passed 
 
 With laughing, jesting, joy; 
 Nor did good apples, cider, nuts. 
 
 The least that fun destroy; 
 Or if a singing school were near. 
 
 We'd go and I'll be bound, 
 I've often sung till I was hoarse, 
 
 When I was "boardin' 'round." 
 
 The dinner-basket every noon. 
 
 My willing hand would greet. 
 And scarcely ever fail to bring 
 
 Me something good to eat; 
 Mince-pies were full of raisins then, 
 
 Doughnuts were large and round; 
 Alas! such cakes I have not had 
 
 Since I went "boardin' 'round." 
 
 But now those pleasant days are gone, 
 Life's sunny springtime's past; 
 24 
 
The boys I taught have one by one 
 
 Into the world been cast. 
 My locks are growing thin and gray, 
 
 I'll soon be under ground; 
 Then I'll forget and not till then, 
 
 About the "boardin' 'round." 
 
 EASTER FLOWERS 
 
 Easter flowers this year are crystal petals of snow 
 drifts. The cloud that brings fresh showers for the thirst- 
 ing flowers, has forgot its tricks except to sift snow on 
 the mountains below and the great pines that stand aghast. 
 We can believe with Shelley, that "the earth has found 
 the snow its pillow white, and it sleeps in the arms of 
 the blast." Tho' the flowers have, nevertheless, Christen- 
 dom will not forget the day, nor the resurrection it com- 
 memorates. The burgeon of the buds and the bursting 
 Into bloom, symbolize that resurrection. Easter com- 
 memorations may be delayed, but the precious memories 
 9f the day will yet remain clear and bright. 
 
 More important than all other sacred anniversaries is 
 Easter. While Christmas recalls the birth of Christ, 
 Easter celebrates his victory. Until he burst the portals 
 of the tomb, his work was not complete. In truth, in that 
 fact, centers all there is of faith and hope to the believer. 
 In vain was Christ born, in vain did he die, if he broke 
 not the bonds of death and flung not open the doors of the 
 sepulcher and came not forth to be the victor over nature 
 and the giver of a blessed immortality. 
 
 The date of the first Easter day we know not. It is 
 immaterial. Christ rose on some one of the three hun- 
 dred and sixty-five days of the year. That is the fact. 
 There is a poetic fitness in allotting it to the spring time, 
 when old earth is rousing herself from the death sleep of 
 the winter to the new life of the summer. 
 
 What a contrast between the first Easter morn and 
 that of this blessed year, 1883. Then it broke on a little 
 
 25 
 
band of weak, disheartened, doubtful disciples; today it is 
 welcomed by millions of self-confident believers. The 
 Christ of the first era was one, today he is many. Then 
 A-Pollo, Palles, Jove, and Mars held undisturbed their 
 ancient reigns. Now they are only classic memories, and 
 the lowly Nazarene, whom their followers scorned, is 
 worshipped, not only in their own, but in other lands. 
 Then the Christ of the first Easter was one, today he is 
 as many as humanity, for along side of the Christ of the 
 gospels, there has grown up an ideal Christ that follows 
 him like his double. Question the world and you will find 
 this ideal Christ transforms the Judean Christ into an 
 American Christ; it has the living Christ, as well as the 
 dying and dead Christ of the gospels; its American Christ 
 as well as its Judean; its woman's Christ as well as its 
 man's Christ; the Christ of the infidel, of the Unitarian, 
 of the Protestant, of the Roman Catholic; its Christ for 
 the refined, intelligent and educated worshipper, as well 
 as for the lowly and the poor; — for the intellectual, 
 esthetic and sentimental, as the uneducated and forlorn. 
 
 DEWEY AT MANILLA 
 
 It was a Sunday morning. 
 
 But Saturday with us; 
 When Dewey put his armor on 
 
 To have a little fuss. 
 He only stopped for breakfast — 
 
 It was a glorious day. 
 And the Spanish in Manilla 
 
 Thought the devil was to pay. 
 
 Then hurrah! hurrah! for Dewey, 
 
 For Dewey and his tars; 
 They thumped the Spanish royally 
 
 And made them all see stars. 
 
 We didn't get the news here 
 Until 'twas Sunday night; 
 26 
 
When all our information was, 
 That there had been a fight; 
 
 For Dewey cut the cables. 
 So the news it could'nt leak; 
 
 And then how big had been the fight 
 We knew not for a week. 
 
 Then hurrah! hurrah! for Dewey, 
 And his famous 8-inch gun; 
 
 He never let us know a thing. 
 Until the thing was done. 
 
 From this we learn a lesson — 
 
 When you've got a job to do. 
 Don't stop, except for breakfast. 
 
 To put the business through. 
 Care nothing for the world outside. 
 
 Stand simply to your gun; — 
 For it can wait a week to learn 
 
 Of the big thing you have done. 
 
 Then Hurrah! hurrah! for Dewey, 
 For Dewey and his tars; 
 They taught the world a lesson 
 And writ their names in stars. 
 
 And we advise our Sampson, 
 
 Like Dewey he should do 
 When he plans to catch the war-ships 
 
 And the slippery Spanish crew; 
 To cut off all the cables. 
 
 And fight his fight all free 
 From every bit of influence by 
 
 The Board of Strategy. 
 
 Then Hurrah! hurrah! for Sampson, 
 
 For Sampson and his tars; 
 We hope he'll catch the Spaniards — 
 
 May he make them all see stars. 
 27 
 
"COME UP TO THAT" 
 
 The battle raged, the musket's din 
 Was heard in rapid volley's play, 
 
 And then the deep toned canon's mouth 
 Sent forth fiercer war's majestic lay. 
 
 Two armies — one from northern hills; 
 
 The other of fierce southern blood; 
 With hate and anger madly filled 
 
 Arraigned against each other stood. 
 
 The clouded smoke above the field 
 
 Proclaimed how fierce the battle raged. 
 
 And cor'ses scattered o'er the ground, 
 
 Showed how they charged all undismayed. 
 
 As charge on charge was fiercely made, 
 Hotter and hotter grew the fight; 
 
 At length the line of freemen quailed 
 And seemed about to turn in flight. 
 
 They wavered, then they backward fell; 
 
 On came the overwhelming host; 
 And all the freemen seemed to feel 
 
 That now for them the day was lost. 
 
 But no! from out their ranks there stood 
 One sturdy freeman brave and bold, 
 
 Who seized our flag with steady hand, 
 And shook aloft each glowing fold. 
 
 Then from the wavering line he marched, 
 The death shots falling thick around. 
 
 With firm set step — then quickly raised 
 The staff and thrust it in the ground. 
 
 "Come up to that," he loudly cried 
 Unto the wavering, faltering band. 
 
 They did it, and the glorious shout 
 
 Of victory thrilled throughout the land. 
 28 
 
O warrior in life's checkered fight, 
 Faint not when foes opposing come 
 
 Nor falter even at the sight 
 Of battles to be fought and won. 
 
 But ever keep your banner bright 
 
 Far in the front amidst the strife; 
 Attain it always, whate'er the cost — 
 And you'll have lived a glorious life. 
 Dec. 29, 1865. 
 
 VOICES 
 
 There are voices all around us 
 
 Thrilling ever through the soul — 
 Voices, which as strange as mystic 
 
 On our life a sadness roll. 
 They are calling from the thin air. 
 
 As the winds go moaning by; 
 And the sound they oft'est utter 
 
 Seemeth like a quivering sigh. 
 
 From life's drear and wasteless ocean. 
 
 Strewn with hulks of long ago. 
 Floating ever come these voices 
 
 Mingling joy with saddest woe. 
 Wak'ning in us olden memories, 
 
 Scenes long gone in weary years. 
 Scenes, o'er which there thickly gathered 
 
 Leaden clouds, whose rain was tears. 
 
 Through our souls we feel these voices 
 Throbbing with the strangest dread, 
 - And they startle all our senses, 
 Like the touch of sheeted dead. 
 Often struggle we for freedom 
 
 From their power — but all in vain; 
 Still they shriek and sob and whisper, 
 Like a demon, in our brain. 
 29 
 
Often fond and oft reproachful. 
 
 Often choked with saddest woe. 
 Often sadly sweet and tender — 
 
 As a mother's long ago. 
 Then they thunder forth their orders 
 
 With a harsh and stern command. 
 And we cannot stop their ringing 
 
 As on brain we press the hand. 
 
 Then a sister's gentle pleading 
 
 Strikes upon our listening ear, 
 And their accents soft and winning 
 
 Seem to mingle with a tear. 
 Then the voice of one still dearer, 
 
 "In the golden days of yore" 
 Comes to us a sadder music 
 
 Than ear ever heard before. 
 
 O sad voices! O sad memories! 
 
 Will you never cease to throng 
 In our brain, as oft the phantom 
 
 Of a long forgotten song! 
 Will you never leave in calmness 
 
 My poor, weary, troubled soul! 
 Will you never from it, ladened. 
 
 All the load of sorrow roll! 
 April, 1868. 
 
 DEATH CONQUERED 
 A voyager upon life's stream 
 
 With fleshless and sightless eye 
 Is Death, who conquers all 'twould seem 
 
 And o'er them shouts his victory. 
 
 And thus 'twould be, did we not see 
 
 The light which Christ o'er Life does fling; 
 Which leaves the grave no victory 
 
 And takes from Death his deadly sting. 
 Aug. 21, 1867. 
 
 30 
 
WAR 
 
 (A composition written and read by George A. Thomas 
 •when he was about fifteen years old, a student in Norwich 
 academy. It is among the first of his literary efforts.) 
 
 Of all the punishments which God inflicts on man, I 
 think war is the worst. Just imagine the consequences of 
 a single battle; men in the prime of life cut down like the 
 ripo grain before the reaper's sickle; and others crippled 
 for life. It is a sorrowful sight to see a single man, in 
 the full flush of manhood, cut down by the darts of death, 
 but to see hundreds and thousands, hurried out of ex- 
 istence in a single moment is too awful to contemplate. 
 Yet in this wicked war, which is going on in this country 
 at the present time, no less than half a million of men 
 have been sacrificed, and the fair prospects of as many 
 more have been blighted, by being crippled for life. Yet 
 after all this misery and suffering, the hearts of those men 
 who have caused this dreadful war to come on our land, 
 are as hard and persistent in their work of destruction, as 
 though not a man as yet had been sacrificed. When their 
 hearts shall be turned from their work, by the cries of 
 the widowed and the fatherless, God in heaven only knows. 
 All that I wish, and all that most of those who wish their 
 country to be preserved, wish, is that they shall be turned 
 soon, and that a righteous peace may be made, and our 
 country once more may smile under the beams of a sun, 
 that shall look down upon a people friendly, peaceful and 
 prosperous. 
 
 1862-3. 
 
 CHENANGO RIVER 
 
 All hail! Old Chenango! Grand fallow of God! 
 For he plowed this one bout — turned grandly this sod. 
 And some spring, like a lamb, broke away from its tether — 
 And they went — this first Baptist, born of wet weather — 
 The Lord and His river down the furrow together. 
 
 31 
 
WHEN THIS OLD HAT WAS NEW 
 
 When this old hat was new. 
 
 There wasn't a single dude — 
 And all the girls wore pantalettes 
 
 And none were ever rude; 
 And men were honored though they worked — 
 
 And women were brave and true — 
 Folks were not ranked by the size of their purse 
 
 When this old hat was new. 
 
 When this old hat was new 
 
 Our village had simple ways, 
 It had'nt more laws than the statute books 
 
 To regulate our days. 
 Our "parks" were always called "the green" — 
 
 Where boys their kites oft flew, 
 And "patched" each other as they played baseball, 
 
 When this old hat was new. 
 
 When this old hat was new 
 
 None had to shovel snow — 
 The "beautiful" lay on the sidewalks then, 
 
 The spring suns made it go; 
 No sprinkler came with the summer time; 
 
 But the dust with each wind flew; 
 And every man ate his pint or more, 
 
 When this old hat was new. 
 
 When this old hat was new, 
 
 The people went to church; 
 They did not leave the ministers 
 
 For hearers in the lurch; 
 The churches were but small, 
 
 And their debts were very few — 
 And they didn't baptize on the hot water plan, 
 
 When this old hat was new. 
 
 When this old hat was new 
 Politicians were not bad; 
 
 32 
 
Their ways were honest, as was too 
 
 The dollar of our dad. 
 The "Octopus" had not been born; 
 
 Prohibitionists were few; 
 They had'nt busted a single ring, 
 
 When this old hat was new. 
 
 When this old hat was new 
 
 The taxes were not tall; 
 Burr B. had never once appealed 
 
 From supervisor's gall; 
 But Oxford was at the same old game. 
 
 Which now she doth renew; 
 And wanted the Court House just as bad 
 
 When this old hat was new. 
 
 When this old hat was new 
 
 We never sang this song; 
 Which it seems to me as it does to you. 
 
 We've made by far too long; 
 But, really, though the times are such. 
 
 Who would his life renew? 
 And go back again to those "good old times," 
 
 When this old hat was new. 
 
 SWEEDLE— INK— TUM— BUM 
 
 The shades of night were coming down swift, 
 
 Sweedle — ink — tum — bum. 
 The dazzling snow lay drift on drift, 
 
 Sweedle — ink — tum — bum. 
 When through a village a youth did go, 
 
 Sweedle — ink — tum — hi — ro — sah. 
 Bearing a flag with this mot-to — 
 
 Sweedle — ink — tum — bum. 
 
 Chorus. Litoria, Litoria — 
 
 Sv/eedle — ink — tum — hi — ro — sah. 
 Litoria, Litoria — 
 
 Sweedle — ink — tum — bum. 
 33 
 
ADDRESS OF WELCOME TO G. A. R. 
 Sept. 3, 1912 
 
 The unexpected — yet distinguished — honor has come 
 to me to voice the welcome of the citizens of Norwich to 
 you today. 
 
 To you, veterans of the 114th, as well to tne people 
 of Norwich, this gathering today is a notable occasion, — ' 
 for this 3d day of September, 1912, is a semi-centennial in 
 your and their history — for it marks the fiftieth anni- 
 versary of the day when your regiment — right on these 
 grounds — was sworn into the service of the United States 
 and became a component part of that great army of bo\ s 
 in blue, that saved the nation. 
 
 At this hour, into my mind as into yours, there rushes 
 the past and crowds out the present. It could not be 
 otherwise. The natural association of awakened memories 
 makes that day of fifty years ago even more vivid than 
 today. 
 
 I remember September 3, 1862. It was one of those 
 golden days that September alone gives to this old home 
 valley of Chenango. A day of mellow sunshine, and genial 
 warmth, with the air just full enough of smokey haze to 
 make all things delightful. I was a school boy, but much 
 more absorbed in you and the war than in my school 
 duties. That morning I saw you men of the 114th march 
 from your camp above Rexford street to the open square 
 in front of this old court house. You were ten companies 
 of young, resolute and inexperienced men, but a regiment 
 of volunteers one thousand strong full of the highest ideals 
 of pure, unselfish and self-sacrificing patriotism. You 
 marched from your camp that morning, citizens; you re- 
 turned to your camp that September afternoon, soldiers — 
 a thousand soldiers of that proudest army ever gathered, 
 consecrated to one purpose, the union must and shall be 
 preserved. 
 
 34 
 
I saw you again, not quite three years later, when you 
 returned from the war. You went out boys, you came 
 back veterans. You marched away with untrained step; 
 you returned with the swinging step of empire — a step 
 you had learned in the sv/amps of Louisiana, along the 
 Bayou Teche, before Port Hudson, on the Red river cam- 
 paign and on the sacred soil of old Virginia. But in learn- 
 ing it, over one half of the thousand that met here fifty 
 years ago, had dropped out by the way. Smith and Tucker 
 and Breed and Lev^as and Newton — men I knew — and many 
 others were gone. But on that return day our thoughts 
 were not on the past, as they are today; but upon the 
 glorious victory achieved — that purpose to which youi* 
 lives would be consecrated — had been achieved, and the 
 union preserved, now and forever. 
 
 You are with us again today. The citizens of Norwich 
 are proud of it. All most gladly bid you welcome. The 
 heartfelt wish of everyone is that this fiftieth anniversary 
 and fortieth reunion may be to you veterans of the 114th 
 and your friends, one of unmarred pleasure — a day that 
 will be ever recalled by all with the pleasantest recollec- 
 tions. 
 
 HOW COULD I? 
 
 He carried my satchel to school. 
 
 And me through the drifts carried too; 
 
 Could I think why he hugged me so closely? 
 If I couldn't, how could I? — could you? 
 
 He told me my eyes were quite black. 
 And the brightest of any he knew; 
 
 I blushed and looked down — could I help it? 
 If I couldn't, how could I? — could you? 
 
 He left on my cheek a warm kiss. 
 
 Then off with the lightning speed fiew; 
 
 If I could I'd have scolded him soundly; 
 If I couldn't, how could I? — could you? 
 
HISTORICAL POEM 
 
 Read at the 75th Anniversary Banquet, Oct. 2, 1889, First 
 Baptist Church, Norwich, N. Y. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 The clock of time has swung three-quarters round, 
 
 The hand that marks the waning centuries' flight; 
 The middle of the afternoon we now have found — 
 
 It is the ninth hour, unclouded, sweet and bright. 
 Unlike that one a score of centuries past 
 
 When hung upon the cross the gentle Son of Man, 
 And all the world stood shuddering and aghast 
 
 And darkness filled the earth — thus the Holy story ran. 
 But had not come that first ninth hour of woe, 
 
 And had not on the tree, blind man sought to destroy 
 The blessed Redeemer of both friend and foe — 
 
 There had not come to us this hour of praise and joy. 
 
 THE EARLY DAYS. 
 The Red Man camped on Waupaunaucau's brink, 
 The deer in Canasawacta came to drink, 
 The forest dense then graced the valley sod. 
 When first our fathers worshipped here their God. 
 Remote from busy world, 'mid stately trees, 
 The two and three were gathered on their knees. 
 To them the Father kept His promise true 
 And filled their souls with his own heavenly dew. 
 Then comes a scene which taste fastideous shocks. 
 We see them in their home made linen frocks, 
 With hat of straw rough fashioned by the wife, 
 And feet as bare as when they entered life. 
 Coming on foot, on horseback or, in state 
 Riding on oxcart, excuse for being late — 
 At least 'twould be in these degenerate days. 
 When for less cause, from church the Christian stays — 
 But not for them, they early were in time. 
 With hearts sore hungry for God's word divine; 
 
 36 
 
Reverent they gathered in log-barn incomplete 
 
 And heard the wandering preacher, God's holy truths 
 
 repeat. 
 O patient, hardy pioneers of yore! 
 Ye builded well and laid foundations deep. 
 On which, whom ye thus worship and adore, 
 Might build his temple, to stand when ye should sleep! 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH. 
 
 But time and brawn their changes many wrought, 
 
 Retiring forest waves, the somber hill tops sought; 
 
 They who believed the way their souls to save 
 
 Was thro' the watery grave of Jordan's wave, 
 
 A feeble band, first reared their altar high 
 
 Upon the village green, beneath a favoring sky. 
 
 Ambitious not of beauteous lines ornate 
 
 It stood alone, in plain unvarnished state. 
 
 A wooden structure, all innocent of paint. 
 
 In garb of drab, like Puritanic saint. 
 
 With lofty pulpit, pews built on the square 
 
 And modest triangle to summon people there. 
 
 The square built pews held all the family kin. 
 
 Father and wife and children by the score. 
 
 Who never held the preacher's work a bore. 
 
 And sat up close to take the stranger in. 
 
 The preacher warmed the heart, the foot stove warmed the 
 
 feet. 
 And carnel baskets furnished wherewithal to eat; 
 No baptistry of water warm beneath the preacher stood, 
 But down in front of him a humble pail of wood. 
 Of wholesome water full, which furnished blest supply 
 When the preacher or the children grew too dry. 
 Upon the floor, unpainted, the saint and sinner, too. 
 The fragments of their surreptitious luncheon threw. 
 Apples and shucks, the secret quid they say, 
 And cakes all speckled with pungent caraway, 
 Till such debris put worshippers to rout, 
 
 37 
 
And then the sisters rose and cleaned the old church out. 
 Such blessed days! would they might now come back, 
 And when we base descendants grow too weak and slack, 
 Those worthy women, v/ith Godly zeal and shout. 
 With dustpan and with soap, might come and clean us out. 
 Against this wish one argument has "heft," 
 Were they to do it, there'd be nothing left. 
 
 THE NEW CHURCH. 
 
 But time rolled on, by Swan's and Randall's calls 
 
 The church out grew its well worn wooden v/alls. 
 
 They chose to fly into another home, 
 
 Where future generations might to worship come. 
 
 The old church sensitive of its neglected fame 
 
 Wrapped round itself one night a sheet of flame, 
 
 And 'neath an August moon, John Rogers like expired. 
 
 And left but smouldering ashes, where its altars had been 
 
 fired. 
 Within the home then new the church has since remained 
 Tho' changes many have its walls and floors sustained. 
 The old oil lamps that hung 'round here and there. 
 First fled before the gas jets flickering flare; 
 With Pope's advent we pulled the galleries out. 
 And former sleepers there were put to rout; 
 And built a hole for organ, choir and blov.^er. 
 Back of the preacher and the audience before; 
 And ever since the choir must criticize 
 And pass their whispered comments 'fore all eyes. 
 With Haynes the "basement" far too short was found, 
 We dropped its floors until they touched the ground. 
 And having spent upon it many dollars 
 We dignifled the rooms into our "church parlors." 
 And then Delano came — we took our steeple down; 
 Put up a sharper one, with hatrack for its crown; 
 We changed the entrance doors and slated up the sides. 
 And had a high old time and many things besides, 
 Until in architecture, our church doth head the row 
 
 38 
 
With not its like in heaven or on the earth below. 
 
 Then all tired out we took a needed rest, 
 
 And put a restless Partridge on our nest. 
 
 Still he is sitting there, and time alone will show, 
 
 What changes he will hatch ere he plumes his wings to go. 
 
 OUR PASTORS. 
 
 Of pastors we have had three quarter score; 
 All good men, filled with burning zeal and love. 
 Tho' Randall spake of the "Isle of Patamouse," 
 'Twas "perfectlj^ evident" that glory filled the house. 
 And when he prayed to God with unction and emotion 
 "To dry up the liquid utensils of the ocean," 
 Kis followers believed, unless the ships made haste. 
 They'd find their course as dry as Sahara's sandy waste. 
 The next was like our last, a bird at least in name 
 And Svv^an like down Times 's stream doth sail his fame. 
 Eccentric in his speech, in looks and in his Vv^ays, 
 The sinner's scoff he turned to Godly praise. 
 As in the pulpit, like lofty oak he stood 
 And roused the flames that fired "God's kindling wood."' 
 He had no faith in creeds devised by sinful man; 
 Nor churches run upon the "fire insurance plan." 
 His axe's stroke was heard a mile, his prayers as far — 
 He's gone to glory now, thro' the gates that stand ajar, 
 And we have entered in, his great works we enjoy — 
 Thank God that Swan did live, the gold without alloy. 
 Then Spaulding, Wheelock and Howard came, 
 And memories pleasant cluster 'round each name. 
 Johnson and Duncan wrought their share and went 
 To other fields, on their Master's work intent. 
 Then followed Stone, a Peter to his flock — 
 His name and Peter's signify a rock — 
 How well he strove foundations deep to lay. 
 None know as we who in the old home stay. 
 Then labored Wright in his persuasive way 
 And many seeking souls from darkness led to day. 
 
 39 
 
Benedict inspired us when drum and snarling fife, 
 
 Told of the struggle of a nation for its life. 
 
 And Paterson and Pope, with truth's dividing sword. 
 
 Asunder drove the sinner's heart until he sought the Lord. 
 
 Then Haynes appeared in the days of General Grant, 
 
 And kindly told us all about the pitcher plant; 
 
 Enlarged our feeble stock of geographic goods 
 
 By preaching of the Twin Lakes and North Woods. 
 
 And next Delano rose and took by storm the town 
 
 And lectured glibly about the "four steps down"; 
 
 And smoked cigars by his good deacon bought — 
 
 "Six for a quarter — too dear, the deacon thought. 
 
 He helped us beautify and then reversed his star, 
 
 And sought the state where steady habits are; 
 
 Three years he taught the Yankees what is best. 
 
 Then took H. G.'s advice and hastened west, 
 
 If then he takes a rest and grows sedate and meek 
 
 In course of time he'll turn into an "old antique." 
 
 And now we've Partridge, perhaps he's not so shy 
 
 As are his feathered namesakes — still he's "fly." 
 
 PRESENT AND FUTURE. 
 
 The theme grows on us, subjects round us throng, 
 The deacons well deserve some mention in this song; 
 The boys who've left us to work and preach and pray; 
 And that heroic one, who sought Burmah far away 
 And found a grave, yet a crown of glory wears. 
 Which God has in reserve for those who are his heirs; 
 The sisters, noble women, who firm have ever stood. 
 Ready to talk and help in every way they could— 
 But these we put aside — and on some other day 
 Their praises shall be sung in a far more worthy lay. 
 The past is all secure, with all its glorious hours 
 Alone we have the present to call ours; 
 A golden milestone, now pass we on our way. 
 Prophetic may it be of an ever brightening day. 
 
 40 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 A weary man with life well run, 
 Lay dying with the summer sun; 
 The red rays on his bed were bent. 
 Day's crimson shaft with force full spent — 
 They roused the dying's failing sense. 
 He slowly raised, with power intense 
 His trembling hand — "Yes, not one jot 
 Has this hand writ, I'd wish to blot." 
 And so when years have passed away. 
 And this old church yields to decay — 
 Alone does memory paint the spot — 
 
 And we live again the pleasant days. 
 
 And we live again the nights of joy. 
 
 And we live again the vernal Mays, 
 
 And the summer's gold v/ithout alloy — 
 May no scene rise we'd wish to blot. 
 
 DEPRECATES THE NAME OF POET FOR HIMSELF 
 
 One of the amusing anomalies of my life is the pro- 
 duction of verses. In their collective capacity, some have 
 been so bold as to name them "a poem." Now I make no 
 pretentions to poetic talent. It is very limited in me. 
 When others go into raptures over the enchanting 
 beauties of an enchanting landscape, the royal magnifi- 
 cence of some grand sunset, or the solemn grandure of 
 a terrific thunder storm, I am exceedingly world minded 
 and common place. My thoughts turn to the value in 
 dollars and cents of the land and its productiveness, tho 
 probabilities indicated by the sun and its bed of golden 
 clouds, the chances of the lightning striking my unpro- 
 tected form and the possible nearness and desirable safety 
 of a feather bed. Knowing my weakness I have never 
 been guilty of the perpetration of any thoroughly Miltonic 
 effusions. 
 
 41 
 
NORWICH ACADEMY 
 
 READ AT ALUMNI SUPPER, AT EAGLE HOTEL, 
 NORWICH, N. Y., June 16, 1882 
 
 "non hue, ut aiiaca viderem 
 
 Tartara, descend!; nee uti villosa 
 Terra Medusae! vineirem guttura morstr!: 
 Causa viae conjux; in quern calcata verenum 
 Vipera diffudit; erescentesque abstulit annos." 
 
 (Ovid's Metamorphoses, Liber x; 20 to 24.) 
 
 When Orpheus went to that land. 
 
 All sunless, where nothing but shade is — " 
 Which the ancients, like the version called "new," 
 
 Are accustomed to mention as Hades; 
 And halted before the great throne 
 
 Of the queen of that region so dusky, 
 He sang out the reason he came. 
 
 In a voice, from the heat somewhat husky: 
 
 "O Queen" — and he twanged his guitar, — 
 
 "To me and my sorrov/ please turn ye, 
 "I'm here, not to see your vast realm. 
 
 But my wife is the cause of my journey; 
 She stepped on a frolicsome snake. 
 
 That bit her as would any adder. 
 She died — and now she knows more. 
 
 Though, at the same time she is sadder." 
 
 The rest of the story please read 
 
 In Ovid — it is the tenth liber. 
 How the daughter of Ceres succumbed 
 
 When he with his music did bribe her — 
 It is to the gist of his song 
 
 I ask — "Your attention please turn ye — 
 And note his chief excuse is but this — 
 
 My wife is the cause of my journey." 
 42 
 
I remember a primative pair. 
 
 In the days v/hen the world was quite youthful, 
 Who dwelt in an elegant place — 
 
 A garden, if I must be truthful. 
 A desirable home to enjoy. 
 
 But Eve must be eating an apple — 
 And that's why a journey they took, 
 
 Outside, with the world forced to grapple. 
 
 In the year of the world marked B. C, 
 
 I think it was over 1100, 
 In fair Greece lived a haughty brave prince. 
 
 Who considered that Paris had blundered. 
 For Ilium, which is called Troy, 
 
 He sailed with his fleets and his fighters; 
 And Helen for eleven long years 
 
 Made things worse than our own women's-righters. 
 
 And later in Tartarus deep — 
 
 Aeneas met with a vision — 
 A very uncomfortable shade — 
 
 His ears were slit in division — 
 A part of one leg — it was gone 
 
 And other nice pieces Vv^ere lacking; 
 Deip^ioebus, had she sent to hell. 
 
 Besides doing all of this hacking. 
 
 Turn now to the man of strong traits. 
 
 Whose locks vv^ere abundant and curly, 
 Who bore off a city's great gates, 
 
 Having arisen to do it quite early; 
 But Delilah in her lap took his head, 
 
 And his hair with the family shears fumbled. 
 And brought about premature death. 
 
 When the roof of the Philistines tumbled. 
 
 Of Caesar, I suppose you have read. 
 His friend, also, brave Marcus Antony — 
 43 
 
Whose pathway in the journey of life 
 Was hilly and rocky and stony — 
 
 Whose last was a rather long trip — 
 
 Whence, Prince Will says no return is — 
 
 The dusky skinned queen of the Nile, 
 
 Was the cause of the last of his journeys. 
 
 I've noticed, to banish the Past, 
 
 Some men are troubled and flurried; 
 'Twould relieve them, I hav'nt a doubt. 
 
 If their wives, like Orpheus' were buried; 
 They're driven from pillar to post. 
 
 You meet them wherever you travel. 
 And the legend is writ on their face; 
 
 Their wives make them dust o'er the gravel. 
 
 For instance then, here comes a man, 
 
 Of countenance haggard and weary. 
 He's shinning about on the street. 
 
 Or the day be pleasant or dreary; 
 He's intent on some business deep; 
 
 "Its a note that is due at the bank, sir"; 
 It paid for his wife's summer suit, 
 
 "For women will dress to their rank, sir." 
 
 Here's a minister just lost his place. 
 
 His sermons were good enough preaching; 
 His prayers were fervent and long. 
 
 And orthodox all of his teaching; 
 But his wife, she must run the machine, 
 
 From saints down to wickedest sinners — 
 And that's why they are tossed like a ball 
 
 And uncertain in reference to dinners. 
 
 Politicians have been known to fail. 
 Though backed by the best of supporters. 
 
 The only thing lacking to win 
 
 Was sufficient of qualified voters; 
 44 
 
The wives of the voters had said, 
 
 They should not support the attorney. 
 
 Up Salt River he sailed high and dry — 
 The wives were the cause of his journey. 
 
 So the past and the present both show. 
 
 How much wives can do in this matter; 
 The train of the future rolls in 
 
 With puffing and creaking and clatter. 
 And through all the windows that fill 
 
 The sides of the palace like coaches, 
 What a crowd of eager eyed youths 
 
 We behold as the long train approaches. 
 
 "And where are they bound" — you may ask, 
 
 "With faces so pensive and wistful; 
 Do they think to win a fair land 
 
 That also is fair sunned and blissful? 
 That's something I clearly can't tell; 
 
 But this fact impresses me sadly — 
 That most of them surely are bound 
 
 The road that used Orpheus so badly. 
 
 I f.mnot prolong DiV refrain — 
 
 'Tis stretched out now most unduly — 
 Dou't think I would charge to the wives 
 
 Anything either false or untruly; 
 But most of us careful observers. 
 
 Like Orpheus to Queen Proserphine — 
 Can say: "Most husbands, they walk 
 
 And the wife is the cause of the journey." 
 
 O women — v/ith lovely bright eyes. 
 And soft and long shining tresses, 
 
 With voices that ripple and laugh 
 And latest of style in your dresses, 
 
 Be a little more tolerant then; 
 
 Be loving as should all sweet ladies — 
 45 
 
And whatever the journey you cause, 
 Send not your dear husbands to Hades. 
 
 A SONG 
 
 Dedicated to the Busiest Gir! I Ever Knew 
 
 By "S. A. M." 
 
 Tune — "Hamlet, Prince of Denmark." 
 
 Norwich, N. Y. 
 
 From the Press — of Circumstances 
 
 1876. 
 
 I sing you of a girl 
 
 Whose name it wasn't Lizzie — 
 Who in this naughty world 
 
 Is always "pesky" busy; 
 Prom morn till late at night, 
 
 So constant is she going, 
 Time in his rapid flight 
 
 For ever finds her doing. 
 
 Chorus : — 
 
 Ri — tu — ral — lu — ral — lu ; 
 
 Ri — tu — ral — lu — ral — lu — ral ; 
 Ri — tu — ral — lu — ral — lu ; 
 
 Ri — tu — ral — lu — ral — lu — ral. 
 
 O wonder working girl, 
 
 Her hair a little frizzy. 
 Who sets you in a whirl, — 
 
 She's so confounded busy; 
 You call upon her now. 
 
 Or call upon her never — 
 She's alv/ays in a row. 
 
 Because she's busy ever. 
 
 Chorus : 
 
 She has some music fire, 
 And plays on the piano; 
 46 
 
And in the village choir 
 
 Most always sings soprano; 
 
 It takes up all her time. 
 Enough to make her dizzy, 
 
 Except — O, Where's my rhyme? 
 She must be ever busy. 
 
 Chorus : ■ 
 
 You'd like to know this girl? 
 
 I've tried from night till morning, 
 But failed because this whirl 
 
 Her pathway is adorning — 
 To despair I will not fly 
 
 As did Queen Mary's Rizzi — 
 Immortal — she'll not die, 
 
 She's too confounded busy. 
 
 Chorus: — 
 
 THE DISTRICT SCHOOL AND THE TEACHER 
 
 The little schoolhouse vmere v/e laid the foundation 
 of whatever knowledge we possess, stood at the intersec- 
 tion of two roads which ran at right angles to each other. 
 The north and south road was a v/ell traveled turnpike, 
 while the east and west road was only an accommodation 
 link connecting the turnpike with a plank road which led 
 into the town. The two roads intersected on the summit 
 of a small hill, upon the site of which stood the school- 
 house. The result of its peculiar position was that while 
 the side toward the road had no cellar v/all under it, the 
 side away from the road was sustained by a high, loosely 
 constructed foundation; so that our schoolhouse looked to 
 those coming from the north as though it had run its nose 
 into the hillside; and to those coming from the south as 
 though it were lifted up exceeding high, like a man on 
 stilts. Nevertheless the position was desirable. In sum.- 
 mer we had a fine breeze, v/henever there was the least 
 
 47 
 
stir in the air; and in the winter the hill furnished a fine 
 coasting place; and being sunk into the side of the hill as 
 it was, it was perfectly shielded from the rude blasts rush- 
 ing from the northwest. 
 
 In externals our education shop, as one has irrev- 
 erently called those places where the young idea is taught 
 how to shoot, did not differ from those which a few years 
 ago, and even yet in some localities, were to be met in 
 every school district through the land. A small unpainted 
 building, clapboarded, but in so remote a time that many 
 of them hung by a single nail; and so whenever a severe 
 wind blew, kept up a continual flop, flop, very much, as it 
 was said, to rap out their woes. They might perhaps be 
 conceived to be bewailing in a mournful way, the sad 
 condition into which they had fallen, as contrasted with 
 the glories of youth. The entrance was by a large side 
 door, made of pieces of matched boards nailed crosswise. 
 Its fastening, a staple and hasp, through which was thrust 
 a padlock. Inside was a room the full size of the building, 
 lighted on three sides by dusty windows up to which some 
 tasty teacher had fixed curtains of sf alloped newspaper. 
 A desk there was running around three sides of the room, 
 in front of which was placed a bench, made of a slab, the 
 flat side up, with holes bored in and pegs thrust through 
 for legs. A pine table wholly unpainted and a single chair 
 stood in one corner for the use of the master; and a long 
 unreliable blackboard. These, together with the stove and 
 its necessary pipe and the relics of some Olney's maps, 
 once brilliant with red and yellow and green states and 
 principalities, but now sadly tattered and torn by ruthless 
 hands of the rising generations, or ignorant older folk — a 
 fate some of the states represented have not missed — 
 made up all the furniture of the room. 
 
 In such unpretentious places as this did the fathers 
 and mothers of the present rising generation, learn "the 
 three R's — reading, 'riting and 'rithmetic"; and happy was 
 he who could sit on the tall benches and not swing his 
 
 48 
 
tired feet; or if he swung them, to do it in such a way as 
 not to bring the wrath of the master upon his devoted 
 head. And thrice happy was he who found a master who 
 was competent to teach him acceptably or lead him in 
 such a way that the path of learning was one of flowers, 
 and could inspire him with such a zeal to drink deep at 
 the Pierien spring that it became the divine enthusiasm 
 of his life. 
 
 Such a teacher had that old red schoolhouse, in the 
 person of Charles Martin, strange as it may appear. It 
 would seem that he was in no way fitted, by his past life, 
 to be a teacher; and yet he did possess two elements. 
 Well educated and destined for one of the learned pro- 
 fessions, he nevertheless, when young, had been carried 
 away by the gilt and tinsel, music and excitement of 
 military life, and had enlisted in one of "Her Most Gracious 
 Majesty's Regiments" of the line. He arose to the position 
 of drill sergeant. The period of his enlistment having 
 expired he was discharged. Tired of the monotony of 
 army life, he did not re-enlist, but came to the United 
 States. He traveled from place to place and finally drifted 
 into our district where he was engaged to teach our 
 school. 
 
 As might be expected of one who had been connected 
 with and, "quoram magna pars fuit," the mechanical 
 routine of camp life, and the clock-like discipline of a 
 thoroughly organized and well officered army, he retained 
 some of the military ideas and many of his army habits, 
 even when the tonca of the soldier had been displaced by 
 the alba toga of the civilian. And it was even so. We 
 marched to our seats at the word of command. We left 
 the school room with the stately dignity of an army on 
 grand review. We wheeled and re-wheeled. We turned 
 sharp and perfect corners till it became such a second 
 nature, that we quit going home across lots. We saluted 
 each other with formal dignity and the graceful simplicity 
 of the military movement. There was an immense amount 
 
 49 
 
of luggage for a district school to carry in all this, yet 
 somehow we came to like it and to accomplish infinitely 
 more than in the free and easy days of former teachers. 
 We didn't understand it then and didn't know that it was 
 the system with which everything was done which made 
 it easy and withal so pleasant. It took us the longest, 
 however, to get accustomed to the air of command with 
 which he uttered all his requests, and the suddenness of 
 his tones. It made us start at first as though we were 
 scared, while the timid ones would violently blush as 
 though we had been discovered committing some heninious 
 crime; but in due time we came to understand that, just 
 as I have come to the incident I am about to narrate. 
 
 It was a clear sunny September day like the one that 
 is smiling on all nature as I write. One of those days 
 which come in September's golden time, which have all 
 the bewitchment of those "rare days in June," of which 
 Lowell sings so tunefully. "All nature seems in tune." 
 The sunlight falls in a golden shower down upon the will- 
 ing earth. Not a cloud flecks the azure vault of the 
 heavens. A gentle breeze gracefully waves the long 
 slender limbs of the shade maples and flutters their 
 abundant foliage with ever varying sheen; and the air — 
 clear, cool and pure — so refreshing after the close heat of 
 the dog days, exhilarates one breathing it, as though he 
 were drinking in great draughts of amber wine, and that 
 he had but one wish in the ecstasy it creates, to drink and 
 die! 
 
 On such a day I sat in the old schoolhouse, wearily 
 swinging my feet, for the bench was too high for my short 
 legs; furtively glancing out of the windows and taking in 
 the long stretch of green meadows over which it would 
 have been such a delight to jump and skip and run till 
 weary; then in utter abandon of boyish pleasure, fling 
 myself down on the bosom of mother earth, and let the 
 sunlight pour down upon me, the breeze fan me and the 
 birds sing to me and great mother nature just rock her 
 
 50 
 
tired boy in her great warm arms till he was at rest. My 
 musing was abruptly terminated by a grand "No!" from 
 the teacher. We looked up. It was a class in geometry, 
 composed of the older scholars in the school. Charles 
 Balcom, the most brilliant scholar of us all — there had been 
 no interruption — demonstrated to the end and took his 
 seat. 
 
 "That was right," said the master. 
 
 "But," asserted Charles, "I demonstrated it word for 
 word as James did, so far as I went, and so wasn't I 
 right?" "Yes," said the master. 
 
 "Then why did you stop me?" 
 
 "I didn't stop you. You stopped yourself, by lack of 
 confidence. I only said "no," for this purpose — to impress 
 upon your mind the importance of not only knowing a 
 thing, but also knowing that you know it. You did know 
 the proposition, but you did not know that you knew it. 
 So when I said "no," you were all adrift and gave up. 
 James, on the other hand, knew not only the proposition, 
 but also knew ^that he knew it; so when I said "no," it 
 made no difference to him. He knew he had made no 
 mistake, and that if any one had erred it was I; so he 
 went on to the end and demonstrated that he was correct. 
 Charles, whatever you learn — learn this also — to know 
 that you know it." I never forgot that lesson. It has gone 
 with me through life. In whatever position I have been 
 placed I have tried to make use of it, and it has saved me 
 an immense amount of time. While others have spent 
 hours in looking up proof to sustain their impressions, I 
 have ever aimed never to have impressions, but to know 
 the fact; so while they were learning over what they had 
 already once learned, I have been enabled to push my in- 
 vestigations into new and profitable fields. 
 
 Today I have been up to the place where the old 
 schoolhouse stood. Not a trace of it is to be found. The 
 
 51 
 
knoll it once graced is now as green and beautiful as the 
 rest of the meadow. As the schoolhouse has disappeared 
 so other changes have come. The brilliant scholar is 
 known as the brilliant preacher of the city of churches. 
 The quiet, reliable boy who knew that he knew his lesson, 
 has been true to the prophesy of his boyhood and graces 
 the nation's hall of legislation; perfectly reliable and im- 
 plicitly trusted in these days of instability among public 
 men. 
 
 But as I stood and gazed over that scene so familiar 
 to my boyhood, the great fact that was impressed upon 
 me was, how much a single pertinent lesson of a successful 
 teacher can accomplish. For what would I part with the 
 impression I received that day and be compelled to wander 
 through the world, only to find out the truth by actual 
 experience, and perhaps never at all — to an halting, hesi- 
 tating, unreliant soul, simply because I had never been 
 taught to teach myself to know thoroughly whatever I do 
 know, but still more to know that I know it. 
 
 Sept. 10, 1872. 
 
 FARMER JOHN 
 
 Down in Connecticut but just about where, 
 I've no recollection, I'm forced to declare — 
 Since I've no means of knowing, I never was there, 
 Once lived farmer John, a jolly good fellow. 
 With plenty of money and lands rich and mellow — 
 If the statement's too broad for the truth to you seem — 
 "Mellow" for that region of country, I mean; 
 Who one autumn morning when squirrels were leaping. 
 And chestnuts were dropping as the breezes went sweep- 
 ing 
 O'er forests, whose garments of crimson and gold, 
 Were ripe for their falling to lie with the mold, 
 And all the fair world so calmly lay sleeping 
 Like a babe, thro' the rafters of morning, came creeping 
 
 52 
 
In the arms of a mother, that glad welcomes the comer — 
 So earth in the smoke of an Indian summer — 
 To dispose of some corn, a generous load. 
 To a neighboring town in the early morn rode. 
 The times, they were hard and prices were high, 
 Not less than ten dimes could one bushel buy; 
 "And I'll have that ere price," he said with a smile, 
 "Or that corn will lie there in that wagon a while." 
 
 With this thought in his head of the money he'd make, 
 The bargains he'd close and the cash he would take, 
 He whistled and sang and chirruped to his team. 
 
 And his broad face beamed in the autumn's wind, red, 
 
 And his hat was set tippingly on the back of his head, 
 
 And his small eyes twinkled with the cunning man's gleam. 
 
 But, alas for humanity with all its inventions, 
 The devil will often upset its intentions; 
 And greater's the trouble, we not always surmise 
 Just when he is present and what's his disguise. 
 And so our good farmer rode on to his fate. 
 Ne'er thinking he'd meet him on that day and date. 
 The enemy wicked, that lurks silent and snug, 
 Sometimes in a glass, sometimes in a jug. 
 
 Arrived at the village he put out his team, 
 
 Then sauntered 'round town, thro' the streets, o'er the 
 
 "green"; 
 But the time hastened on and the sun rose up high. 
 He ne'er found a purchaser wishing to buy. 
 For corn was a drug in the market just then. 
 To honest, reliable, business men. 
 
 So back to the tavern quite v/eary he came. 
 His mind in a fluster, his face in a flame. 
 And a vow in his heart he'd take the corn home, 
 "And then when they want it, I'll be blamed if I'll come." 
 
 53 
 
Even than that one the word was much stronger, 
 And one that the printers with wonderful ease, 
 Spell with a dash and a couple of d's. 
 But I've chosen "blamed," tho' it be longer, 
 For a church member was he and I never would dare, 
 With poet's license to say that church members swear. 
 
 At the tavern he met a fellow quite nice, 
 
 A pleasant dark eye, a hand like a vice — 
 
 Whose words were as smooth as oil upon water. 
 
 Or a streak of greased lightning, or a shop keeper's 
 
 daughter; 
 Who talked about this thing and then about that, 
 "And then take a drink," with a tip of his hat, — 
 And who could resist such a nice pleasant fellow, 
 Not farmer John, with lands rich and mellow. 
 And so he drank once and twice and smacked his lips 
 
 often. 
 Said — "liquor's the thing one's hardness to soften," 
 And sang oft its praises and drank once again, 
 Till the brick was quite heavy on top if his brain. 
 
 Then the new friends began, "The fact it was this, 
 
 A speculation he had he'd not like to miss. 
 
 But he was unknown, just come to the town — 
 
 So the parties demanded the ready cash down. 
 
 Now he had a draft on the bank in the place. 
 
 But being a stranger, to the bank's great disgrace, 
 
 It refused sharp to cash it, tho' he wanted the money, 
 
 Had he heard of a thing so ridiculously funny! 
 
 Yet disagreeable too, for he had you know. 
 
 No friends to the banker for surety to show 
 
 So the cash he could get and make a "good throw." 
 
 "No friend?" quoth farmer John," how shay you that! 
 I'm yer friend! Don't believe it? — then take yer my hat." 
 And he extended his hand to his friend with a leer, 
 Which shov/ed on that subject his mind was quite clear, 
 
 54 
 
Tho' his voice, it was not I am sorry to say 
 
 Quite so distinct as usual at that time of day; 
 
 But husky and thick and much more inclined. 
 
 To sound like a noise in a barrel confined. 
 
 "No friend?" he continued," just lend me your pen!" 
 
 And he signed a receipt for the corn there and then. 
 
 Next morning our farmer awoke with a pain, 
 
 All round and all thro' and all over his brain; 
 
 He crav/led down the stairs with his poor trembling body, 
 
 To the bar room he went and called for some toddy; 
 
 Some breakfast he had with the landlord polite. 
 
 Who no reference made to the scenes of last night; 
 
 Inquired for his friend so genial and witty — 
 
 Was told he'd departed that morn from the city. 
 
 Was sorry he'd gone, was such a jolly good fellow" 
 
 So spake farmer John, of lands rich and mellow. 
 
 Then he rose and proceeded to look 'bout the place. 
 
 With an air not so grand as perhaps yesterday's, 
 
 iSomehow getting drunk disturbs a man's ways; 
 
 And at last found a man whom he'd not seen yester morn. 
 
 And sold quite quickly his whole load of corn. 
 
 Then back to the' tavern he came for his team; — 
 
 When it drove 'round in front an empty wagon was seen; 
 
 "How is that!" cried our farmer with stupendous surprise; 
 
 My corn it is gone — am I deceived by my eyes?" 
 
 "O no!" said the landlord, "to your friend it was sold. 
 
 Last night, dost remember, if I'm not too bold!" 
 
 Then good farmer John, just like any one beat, 
 Felt down in his pocket and found the receipt. 
 
 Dumfounded he mounted and rode to his home. 
 'Twasn't the loss of the corn, that on him had com* 
 That troubled him most; but thought of the stain 
 He'd brought on himself by overloading his brain 
 With whiskey and gin and in a way very cool, 
 He said to the wind, "You cursed old fool!" 
 
 55 
 
And this ends the ride, and I've only to say, 
 Look out for fine friends as you travel life s way; 
 Or like farmer John in the end you are shorn. 
 By taking its juice in the place of the corn. 
 Nov. 11, 1875. 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 When I was asked to write in a strain 
 
 Poetic in measure, if not in refrain — 
 
 The committee ne'er said what my subject should be, 
 
 They trusted that matter, I suppose unto me; 
 
 But they spoke a few words that account for my flight — 
 
 They wanted, they claimed, some thoughts that were light; 
 
 The heavy, the sound ones, the hard ones, they said — 
 
 That should fall in the pool of your minds like cold lead—' 
 
 Another should furnish, who is well known to fame — 
 
 With the weight of a "Ful-ton" in half of his name. 
 
 But did you e'er think, a pound is a pound, 
 
 Whether in lead or in feathers 'tis found? 
 
 And on a cold night, you'll confess, in a bed 
 
 A few pounds of feathers are worth tons of lead; 
 
 'Tis the time and the place that adds value to things; 
 
 And the thoughts may be golden, tho the utterer sings. 
 
 'Tis no crime to a man to have kinks in his head — 
 
 To throw into rhymes the thoughts to be said. 
 
 The dullest of dolts can write essays profound — 
 
 Prolific in words, and sentences round. 
 
 And so deep that no s^oul under God s firmament 
 
 €an tell what the writer, or essayest iheant. 
 
 But genius alone with the muses is found; 
 
 And the goodies she brings seldom fail to go round. 
 
 THE JOKE IS ON ADAM 
 
 Adam laid down and slept — and from his side 
 
 A woman in her magic beauty 'rose; 
 Dazzled and charmed he called that woman bride, 
 And his first sleep became his last repose. 
 
 56 
 
THE ELOQUENCE OF ACTION 
 
 When the morning stars sang together the eloquence 
 of their song consisted not in words ringing through a 
 universe, but in the grand, majestic sweep of their di- 
 vinely formed bodies, out into space. The very silence 
 of their bold flight in the darkness of eternity was the 
 very eloquence of song. A more fitting anthem of praise 
 to the creator of the universe, a grander symphony could 
 not be conceived of, than this arising from the eloquence 
 of action. 
 
 The voice of Demosthenes has sunk into silence. The 
 multitude which he stirred till they cried with one accord, 
 "Let us march against Phillip, let us conquer or die," are 
 dust. The very lips which spoke are mingling ashes; 
 while even the city he longed so eagerly to defend and 
 save from the ravages of the destroyer, is the ruins of 
 former magnificence, but the action of Demosthenes stirs 
 the hearts of men today. It was not so much the death 
 of Winkleried, for thousands died for Switzerland — as the 
 action that made his death eloquent. 
 
 The eloquence of action consists not in dying for an 
 espoused cause, not in driving from our shores an enemy 
 like Phillip of Mace^on; or receiving into our breasts the 
 spears of an enemy, entirely; but it is to be witnessed and 
 to be felt stirring the very heart strings, moving the soul 
 life in the common actions of everyday experience. The 
 destitute widow denying her own body proper food that 
 her offspring may not suffer, speaks more eloquently 
 through her actions of self-denial and love than the divine 
 ever can. Her action speaks more to the heart than the 
 choicest rhetoric or figurative simile ever can hope to do. 
 Man is inclined to seek after results. He may see the 
 cause and understand what the results should be, but he 
 is only satisfied when he can grasp within his power the 
 results themselves as actually existing. "Practice what 
 you preach," says common sense and so does mankind in 
 
 57 
 
its own defense. The speaker and declaimer may harangue 
 in lengthy speech of the duty of man toward some par- 
 ticular object, but if they do not perform on their own 
 part what they excite the v^orld to do, "their actions do 
 belie their tongues," and their words are but as empty 
 chaff. Men are praised with no greater eloquence than 
 the eloquence uttered forth by their actions. The mis- 
 sionary, the philanthropist, — the Judsons and the Howards 
 — inventors, warriors, pioneers in any noble object receive 
 no higher praise than the eloquence which speaks from 
 their actions. The glowing eloquence of a Wayland can 
 never move the heart in praise of Judson like the im- 
 personation — almost — of his life, the Burmese Bible! No 
 monument which England can raise, no orations of its 
 orators, can have the eloquent effect upon the world which 
 a single action of John Howard's possesses. The moving 
 palaces which float the rivers of our mighty land, are 
 more eloquent of Fulton than storied urn, lengthy epitaph 
 or animated bust." The dripping of the waters from the 
 paddlewheel, the frothing wake, the clanging of machinery 
 as the huge boats move upon their majestic course, utter 
 a more eloquent tribute to Pulton's worth than volumes of 
 written lore. 
 
 The great power of eloquence in action consists in tha 
 fact that words move the intellect while actions move the 
 heart. The ringing words of a Demosthenes may influence 
 the intellect, may move the patriotic feelings, but it takes 
 the noble action of a Miltiades to earn the crown. The 
 syllogisms and enthymemes, the ponderous arguments and 
 eloquent words of the preacher may convince the intellect 
 of the lost, but only the martyrdom of the saint breaks 
 their hearts. When the Saviour walked upon earth his 
 simple preaching was the very height of the eloquence of 
 words, but it spoke only to the mind and they called him 
 Master; but when he was raised upon the cross the 
 eloquence of action was added — it spoke to the heart and 
 they called him Saviour. 
 
 58 
 
The greatness of the action makes it not the more 
 eloquent. As the short string of the violin under the hand 
 of the skillful player vibrates the very cords of music in 
 our hearts, so a small action may swell the soul strings 
 most eloquently. Napoleon overran Europe and the great- 
 ness of his action comes to us connected with the roar of 
 cannon, the rattle of musketry and the grand rush of the 
 battlefield. Our proud manhood swells within; but a 
 simple action of a follower of Christ saved our soul and 
 our heart melts in tears. 
 
 Action governs the world. The sluggish calm of the 
 tropical sea is tame, but the roar and dash of the infuriate 
 ocean 'neath the lashings of the storm king is soul ex- 
 citing. The spirit of man rises, the seeds of action 
 germinate within his breast, the cords of eloquence vibrate 
 within his soul, and the grand roll of the measureless deep 
 fascinates his whole being. Unworthy of existence is he 
 whom such an eloquent personification of the action of the 
 forces of the universe could not move. Unworthy even to 
 be tossed in the restless wandering of its tireless waves. 
 
 The dashing of the huge waives of human action have 
 within them more eloquence to wake the soul strings into 
 action than even dashings of the storm raised waves upon 
 the earth absorbing ocean. In the dashing together of the 
 waves of error and truth the spray is sent higher toward 
 heaven. Man then must combat with action. Man is 
 made for action. The eternal struggle of right and wrong 
 must cause eternal action. The blood of ages can never 
 be dry, for fresh streams must flow continually. The 
 sluggish elements of man's nature must be banished. The 
 eloquence of action must raise an eternal song upon his 
 lips. Song and action must be united. — Then dashing 
 aside error, striving for the right, gradually will he rise 
 above the tempest, towards the Infinite; — and his soul-life 
 will be begun even upon earth. 
 
 Mad. Uni., 1867. 
 
 59 
 
GIVEN BEFORE DELTA UPSILON, HAMILTON, N. 
 JUNE 12, 1872— EVENING. 
 
 There's a cartoon of Horace, 
 
 Whose surname is Greeley, — 
 Whose toga — if not classic 
 Is said to look mealy — 
 In which he is shown — you'll find it in Harper's — 
 'Tis drawn by T. Nast prince artist of sharpers — 
 Who writes out his name as plainly you'll see, 
 With a colon put in right after the "T:" — 
 Going through the broad land 
 With lantern in hand, — 
 Like Diogones bold 
 In Athens of old — 
 To see if he can 
 Find a true, honest man. "^ 
 
 His search at first fruitless and seemingly vain, 
 
 To return to his tub — the Tribune sanctum he'd fain 
 
 Make an effort; and so 
 
 With lantern uplifted he thinks he will go. 
 
 And turning there meets him a form that he knows. 
 
 In all of its outlines an honest man shows; 
 
 Honest in thought and honest in word; 
 
 Honest in action and honest in deal; 
 
 Honest for right with the pen and the sword; 
 
 Honest in all that we think, do or feel. 
 
 With feelings of joy that ill he could smother. 
 
 He extends his right hand to grasp that of his brother- 
 
 When he finds with dismay and chagrin that alas — 
 
 'Tis only himself 'fore a broad looking glass — 
 
 And the jolly old fellow, whom with joy he detected. 
 
 Is only himself in a pier glass reflected. 
 
 And so had I searched through Delta U's band. 
 For a poet to sing on this reunion day; 
 As little had dreamed I of all in the land 
 
 60 
 
To have chosen myself the singer to play — 
 
 As Horace to find of all who would pass 
 
 For honest was only himself in a glass. 
 
 But I looked at your letter — I never dared show it — 
 
 And found the strange news — I was Delta U's poet. 
 
 We're all of us travelers, on one journey we go — 
 It begins with the cradle and ends with the grave; 
 
 No return pass is given, nor to high nor to low. 
 And we halt on the shore, that Time's waters lave. 
 
 Some travel with speed of the wind on their way. 
 And accomplish their journey e're we are half through; 
 
 While others toil slowly on day after day, 
 And late in life's evening they bid us adieu. 
 
 The paths that we trace are many and queer, 
 And the guides that direct are as many as men; 
 
 But ambition supreme that swallows up fear 
 Works the deeds of the present and those that have been. 
 
 Ambition — but other, the names it may take — 
 'Tis called in some pride, in others sweet love; 
 
 'Tis virtue in Christian, but vice in the rake — 
 
 As its force tendeth downward or exalts one above. 
 
 Ambition to rise in wealth and esteem, 
 
 Which shallow heads give to riches and gold, 
 
 Drives many a traveler to bargain and dream 
 And sink in his grave ere his years are half told. 
 
 Ambition to know what the wise men have learned. 
 And in his own day to be counted one wise — 
 
 For the student calm night into daylight has turned 
 To aid him in sweeping o'er learning's fair skies. 
 
 Ambition to be counted one book learned and good. 
 Who has slaked his great thirst at the fountain of 
 knowledge ; 
 Takes many a muscle from sawing of wood 
 
 And sends him to pony through a second rate college. 
 61 
 
Ambition to write out a name that shall glow 
 In letters of blood on the page of the world; 
 
 Like that of the tyrant who lived long ago 
 
 The nations at peace into slaughter has hurled. 
 
 Whither to save the lost ones of a race 
 
 Full Three score has led from old Madison's band 
 
 To proclaim the "glad tidings" in Heathendom's place 
 From Greenland's cold mountains to India's strand. 
 
 But ambition to live a life that shall stand 
 
 The test of all time, when the great day shall come, 
 
 Is the ambition that burns of all the most grand, 
 And strikes all the caviling doubting ones dumb. 
 
 Ambition to guide, to sustain, to direct; 
 
 To lead us on upward to the plaiirof the sky; 
 Till we feel we shall hear, mid the world and its wreck, 
 
 The voice of the Master: "Fear not it is I." 
 
 O burn in each soul, O burn in each heart. 
 While sweet life and strength to us may be given; 
 
 That each of our brothers may act the true part, 
 
 And attain that blest hope, whose fruition is heaven. 
 
 In this journey mingling with those 
 
 Who are traveling on our way. 
 Sometimes meeting, sometimes parting. 
 
 As we journey day by day — 
 Strange companions oft surround us — 
 
 Like some troup of wild wood elves, 
 But the strangest of our meetings 
 
 Is it when we meet ourselves. 
 
 Most of men are quite familiar 
 
 With our points of good or bad; 
 They have had the chance to know us 
 
 Which, perchance we never had; 
 62 
 
They can tell our guide of action. 
 Analyze our hope and plan, 
 
 Hold them up and point the error, 
 Till we think the lesson proveth 
 Good advice to those it moveth 
 
 And to evil ones a terror — 
 
 But we think not — we're the man! 
 
 Thus we live on never knowing 
 
 What results our work is showing, 
 Like to him in mine who delves: 
 
 All around is dark and gloomy 
 Where the diamond coal dust lies; 
 
 And the faint light of his lantern. 
 Struggling 'mid the darkness dies; 
 And he sees not that his forehead 
 And his form with dust are black, 
 
 Till he meets another worker 
 Whom he knows reflecteth back 
 
 His own self in form and figure. 
 
 With the rags of work begirt; 
 And his face within the dim light 
 
 Wan with squaliji want and dirt. 
 So we know not our condition 
 
 Till in life we meet ourselves. 
 
 You have read the wayside story 
 Of the man who in his youth. 
 
 Beautiful and fair of feature. 
 
 Eyes that looked the living truth, 
 
 Pictured forth the incarnation 
 Of all innocence and ruth. 
 
 How an artist in his rambles. 
 Met with him in glad surprise; 
 
 He was what he long had sought for 
 Come to greet his gladdened eyes. 
 
 Ideal form of all the virtues 
 
 And he eager sketched his prize. 
 63 
 
Long years passed. Through all the nations 
 There had gone the limner's name; 
 
 But he needed one more picture 
 That should add still to his fame, 
 
 And should show the very reverse 
 Of the first — and every stain. 
 
 Then he heard a noted outlaw 
 
 Soon would meet the death his due; 
 
 And for all of crimes the deepest, 
 Each one this vile dastard knew — 
 
 And his countenance reflected 
 Every crime as base he grew. 
 
 So he sketched the malefactor, 
 
 Personate of every bad; 
 Two extremes of life in pictures 
 
 On the canvas drawn he had — 
 One the symbol of the better, 
 
 The other type of all that's sad. 
 
 Then was placed before the doomed one 
 Picture first that had been wrought; 
 
 Up he started, staring wildly, 
 Cried in agony of thought — 
 
 'Twas the picture of his boy face — 
 Ere the paths of crime he sought. 
 
 Now he met himself — the baseness 
 Of his course he could not hide — 
 
 All the wicked deeds he cherished 
 While the good went by the tide. 
 
 And with moans and cries of remorse 
 In his cell he sank and died. 
 
 Here's Johnnie La Mode, he's a broth of a boy. 
 The pride of his father, his mother's own joy; 
 He grows from his cradle to be petted, caressed; 
 To be fostered with care, to be fashionably dressed: 
 
 64 
 
His poor father slaves and cares mark his brow, 
 
 But his son must be kept in his pleasures somehow; 
 
 He can smoke his cigar and chew Queen's tobacco, 
 
 Can sing just a little, but 'tis always staccato; 
 
 He spends all his time in bar room and street; 
 
 Will take with you either a walk or a treat; 
 
 Unblushingly boasts he has nothing to do; 
 
 If you've any spare money will borrow that too; 
 
 Has no aim in life, no project to seek; 
 
 And continually praises the bold man of cheek; 
 
 And recites with a gesture of insolent ease. 
 
 His views on the subject, if you like or don't please: 
 
 Upon the world's grand battlefield, 
 
 Amid its war and strife; 
 Where men their weapons bravely wield 
 
 To gain the prize of life; 
 If any fail — and some do fail — 
 
 To win the goal they seek, 
 Be sure it is the coward pale. 
 
 And not the man with cheek. 
 
 If there's a place needs to be filled, 
 
 Of all the men that seek, 
 'Tis surely won, however skilled, 
 
 By him who has the "cheek"; 
 He gains the place and none may fear. 
 
 His fitness may be small. 
 Deficiencies will ne'er appear 
 
 For cheek — conceals them all. 
 
 The ladies — bless their gentle hearts, 
 
 For him have special smiles; 
 And though by him they suffer smarts 
 
 He all their fears beguiles, — 
 They think he is so very good 
 
 And then at times so meek — 
 It seems they never understood 
 
 He did it all by cheek. 
 
 65 
 
The man of cheek — he is the chap 
 
 Whose pr«ftses ^ow I sing; 
 Though he may hit your head a tap. 
 
 You think 'tis quite "the thing"; 
 Let others praise the modest man, 
 
 Whose soul is mild and meek, 
 But I shall ever lead the van 
 
 That lauds the man of "cheek." 
 
 You think — what a dastard, what a consummate fool; 
 His life will J^e folly, of some crime the tool; 
 You despise his attractions^ his unabashed ease; 
 You lecture yourself, to think he could please 
 Or call your attention; that you should depart 
 In thought for a moment, much less in your heart. 
 From the schemes of your life and its grand battle shocks. 
 To list to his prattle, that flows — like a stream without 
 rocks. 
 
 When you wake some fine morning, to see him at work; 
 Doing all of life's duties, never playing the shirk, 
 His hands are all brown with the sunburn of labor. 
 His face is aglow with good deeds done his neighbor; 
 He walks Avith a step elastic and able 
 And treads the brown earth, like the King in the fable; 
 No toil e're so arduous with its burdens now daunts him; 
 He is filled with the fervor of the nerve power that haunts 
 
 him; 
 You astonished may cry: "Now how was this done?" 
 And affirm there is something new under the sun; 
 When his answer is simple and pure as the delf — 
 "Why somehow or other I just met myself." 
 "I saw in a vision, as it were, all the past; 
 "How useless my life, how it must end at last; 
 
 "Like Scrooge, in the carol, 'fore myself I was brought, 
 "Saw the evil I'd followed, the good never sought; 
 "Saw the past with its waste and its follies grow dim; 
 
 66 
 
"Saw the Future, avenger of Present, stalk in, 
 "With never a "God bless you'Vof a%ear Tiny Tim; 
 "Till I said in my heart, with His aid from above, 
 "The man that is in me to the broad world shall prove, 
 " "Its lesson can be learned, when its lesson is love." 
 
 You catch now my meaning — I think it is plain, 
 
 When I sing of our meeting ourselves on the plain 
 
 Of our conscience, as we each march along, 
 
 One traveler only in the world's mighty throng. 
 
 And noble that man whose conscience shall gay 
 
 "I have nothing to add, nor yet take away," 
 
 When he stands 'fore himself on some great review day. 
 
 What the elements are that make such a man. 
 
 One traveler has shown, and he alone can; 
 
 He traversed the earth in the years long gone by, 
 
 To make the path easier, that you and that I 
 
 Might be helped on our journey and sustained from above, 
 
 By the infinite power of his measureless love. 
 
 A man with such model and pattern in view, 
 Will be honest and faithful, forgiving and true; 
 Will shirk not the duties which life may demand; 
 But march to the music of the brave of the land; 
 No "reform" will be shouted as he moves along; 
 No "whitewash" be needed to cover up wrong; 
 Committees will vanish from senates' attention, 
 To investigate frauds, beyond apprehension; 
 And no one will call a Cincinnati convention. 
 And frauds be unknown, and rings will be few. 
 And we'll catch of the rogues — a dissolving view. 
 Of such men as Conolly — Boss Tweed and all, 
 Sing Sing with its irons will sure make "a haul," 
 And political shysters will learn that their place. 
 In the view of the people is one of disgrace: 
 And the true reform movement which this nation needs 
 Will be felt in the hearts of the people and seeds 
 Of truth will each grow to a beautiful tree, 
 
 67 
 
To o'er branch a broad nation, pure, Spartan and free. 
 Will fructify daily in you and in me. 
 
 Today we come, as oft before; 
 
 Three years have gone upon their way, 
 Since last we met, — an August day 
 
 We met to part — forevermore. 
 
 I look around upon our hall — 
 The same old walls that they were then; 
 But when I look among the men. 
 
 Some ears are silent to my call. 
 
 Their pictures hang along the side. 
 
 Fair counterfeits for us to keep; 
 
 But when we gaze our sad hearts weep. 
 For souls gone out upon the tide. 
 
 I look amid the chairs — by chance, 
 Where sit the sweetest of the girls — 
 For there he'd been, but eye of Searls 
 
 Gives back no merry, playful glance. 
 
 And then forgetful, think I saw 
 
 The face of one we ever knew 
 
 In every place as always true — 
 But no! it is not Tincklepaugh. 
 
 O weary years! your story tell. 
 
 Have others dropped too, by the way? 
 And this is what their voices say: 
 
 He sleepeth too — the kind Cottrell. 
 
 And yet one more has passed and gone — 
 A sad-eyed boy — upon whose brow 
 Had Genius wreathed her chaplet bough — 
 
 Brave Sackett, missed by every one. 
 
 They sleep so calm and stately. 
 Within their narrow bed; 
 68 
 
I could not make that lately 
 Their soul their body fled — 
 And they were dead. 
 
 The words that they would utter 
 
 Seem falling on my ears; 
 Like dropping leaves that flutter 
 
 In the autumn of the years, 
 
 Whose green the Frost king seers. 
 
 The places they had entered, 
 
 In study, work and play, 
 Round which their love had centered. 
 
 To us still seem to say: 
 They will be back today. 
 
 So I could not make them lying, 
 Hid in the graveyard mould; 
 
 While all the world is dying 
 For deeds they did of old. 
 
 Ere that their hands were cold. 
 
 And I said "Why were they taken, 
 
 And others left to rust. 
 Whom good had auite forsaken. 
 
 Whose lives were useless dust 
 Tossed by each whirl-wind gust." 
 
 Then o'er my mind there floated, 
 
 A vision of the night; 
 And I saw their forms promoted, 
 
 To stand within the light 
 Of God's eternal might. 
 
 And I knew that though we counted 
 
 Their lives as incomplete 
 On joyous wings they mounted, 
 To sit at his dear feet 
 And knew it was replete. 
 69 
 
The fragrance of their going, 
 
 Sweet lingers with us still; 
 The flowers that tell their doing 
 
 No blasts of time can chill. 
 Though blow they as they will — 
 
 For in our hearts they're resting, 
 
 As years go rolling by — 
 Sweet flowery deeds attesting. 
 
 Their names no more can die. 
 Than stars that dot the sky. 
 
 Sleep on then dear departed. 
 
 Till time shall be no more. 
 And we end the way we've started, 
 
 And reach the heavenly shore. 
 To dwell forever more. 
 
 THE DOVES— 1877 
 
 Like Longfellow's snow flake he came "out of the 
 bosom of the air." Where Dick came from we know not. 
 His advent is shrouded in mystery. He was full grown, 
 when he arrived. He undoubtedly had a period of baby- 
 hood, when he was a sauab, but of that we, his intimate 
 friends, were ignorant. To us he will ever be clothed 
 with the full panoply of mature age. This thought of 
 youthful weakness, as connected with him, will be with- 
 out a dwelling place in our minds. His origin is thus, 
 like his advent, shrouded in mystery. As much so as 
 though he had dropped "out of the everywhere into here." 
 One pleasant spring morning he came. 
 
 The first we knew of him, he had seized on one of 
 the broad window sills of the surrogate's office of 
 Chenango county, and with his mate was engaged in build- 
 ing a nest. O, very busy were they until their house was 
 completed. A respectable home it was, too; though noth- 
 ing more elegant than sticks and stray straws had entered 
 into its construction. 
 
 70 
 
We first formed the acquaintance of the "old fellow" 
 four years ago. Now "old fellow" is the name given to 
 him by his familiars, but, I ask the candid reader, is it 
 not somewhat cumbersome and withal indefinite? There 
 are a great many "old fellows" in the world and good ones, 
 too — jolly, fat, comfortable. None but good ones exist. 
 The very name implies goodness, jollity and a soul full of 
 human juice. You would never call a miser an "old 
 fellow." It is the man you can slap on the back, whose 
 presence is like sunshine and who beams on you with 
 benignity in return for your salutation, and hands you a 
 cigar that merits the apellation. Such a kind of "old 
 fellow" is our hero in the dove world. 
 
 But to return from our digression; "old fellow" is a 
 little cumbersome and so for the purposes of this history 
 we shall call him "Dick." As near as we can recollect it 
 was four years ago in the spring (1873), when, according 
 to Mr. Tennyson, "a lovelier iris shines upon the burnished 
 dove," Dick — whjich stands for "old fellow" — appeared 
 upon the sill of the southeast window, of the surrogate's 
 office. How old he was, where he was born, who was his 
 father, who was his mother; had he a sister, had he a 
 brother we do not know and never shall. Subsequent 
 events have proved that he sprung from no ignoble stock. 
 Kingly blood without doubt courses through his veins 
 and his lineage is traceable beyond question to that hon- 
 ored bird of holy writ, that was the companion of Noah 
 and his worthy minister plenipotentiary to a drowned 
 world. 
 
 His first appearance was lordly and consequential in 
 the extreme. He marched around like a new fledged 
 militia corporal on review. He spread his wings and 
 dragged them upon the rough stones making a peculiar 
 noise that is indescribable and then he cooed. We did not 
 know what it all meant, but we certainly were impressed 
 in his favor. We have no doubt that all his subsequent 
 good fortune is directly due to those first impressions, 
 
 71 
 
which of course goes to show, that not only human life 
 but even in dove life, first impressions play not a little 
 part in the working out of a lucky fo'rtune. But Dick was 
 not manoeuvering for us, his observers; he had another 
 and an entirely foreign purpose in view. Therein he 
 showed his wisdom again. He didn't try to make an im- 
 pression and thereby succeeded; had he tried how miser- 
 ably he would have failed. His object soon made its appear- 
 ance; she was his mate; and a most worthy example ^t 
 wifely faithfulness she proved to be too. Poor thing, she 
 is gone now; peace to her ashes and an eternal stomach 
 ache to the man who ate her. 
 
 Having been joined by his mate, it became evident 
 that he was house hunting. It is my impression that this 
 was their first experience in that line. But they were not 
 hard to suit, and quickly came to the conclusion that the 
 window was an eligible site, with good air, delightful 
 neighborhood, low rent and all the other little requisites, 
 that go to make up the desirable things in a first class 
 house for young, inexperienced and impecunious young 
 folks. Having settled the point and announced to each 
 other that it was just the thing, Dick immediately dis- 
 played that rare industry and that rapidity of decision, 
 which has ever made his life a success. He set about 
 furnishing his house! He flew to the ground and soon 
 returned with a straw; his mate was no whit behind him. 
 Away she flew and returned with her straw. So it went on. 
 By night quite a respectable nest occupied the window. 
 Darwin msiy be right after all. Our observation of men 
 and things, has not been the most extensive of any in the 
 world, but it has been quite thorough of dove life. From 
 our knowledge of the latter we are inclined to the opinion 
 that either dove life is a parody on human life, or that 
 human life is but a fuller development of dove life. Hu- 
 man life has its birth, so even does dove life; the former 
 has its wooing, its love life and its marital felicities; so 
 does the latter; humanity is weak and husbands are frail 
 
 72 
 
and untrue; even so with the male portion of the dove 
 kind; human life has its bereavements, so even does dove 
 life; human life is snuffed out by old age, by misfortunes, 
 by accidents, by poverty and by the inclemency of the 
 seasons, so does dove life find its end; human life has its 
 wanton destroyers, its enemies, its ''women that lead 
 down to hell," its devils, its bowie knives and pistols; so 
 does dove life find in foolish men, in supervisors, in 
 wicked boys, in screech owls and enemies of like destruc- 
 tiveness. But then dove life is happy, so may human life 
 be happy; dove life is busy, so should human life be busy; 
 dove life is fruitful, so may human life be fruitful; dove 
 life answers its end and mission, so should human life; 
 dove life ends with this transient world, but human life — 
 there's the difference, it shall continue world without end: 
 
 "When on joyful wing. 
 Cleaving the sky. 
 Sun, moon and stars forgot. 
 Upward I fly." 
 
 And so after all Darwin may not be right, for the human 
 life is but the soul life, and the soul life is the gift of 
 God, and is God and shall be eternal as God. 
 
 Not many days after the completion of the nest, two 
 tiny eggs lay in its capacious hollov/. And now began our 
 first study of dove life. We found that the setting was 
 not all done by the female bird, but that both performed 
 their share. At precisely five minutes to eleven o'clock, 
 each morning, Dick would appear and relieve her of her 
 incubating duties. Nothing more of her would be seen 
 until five in the afternoon, when v/ith a flurry of wings 
 she would re-appear. Then Dick in a most dignified man- 
 ner, would rise from the nest and she would take his 
 place. Then he would spread his wings and disappear, to 
 come back again at 10:55 the next day. That they had a 
 notion of time, this alternate relief of each other would 
 seem to indicate. We carefully watched the clock and 
 
 73 
 
when 10:55, or 5:00 would be indicated by the hands we 
 would say — "It is time for the change," and many was 
 the time that we would not more than get the words 
 littered when the absent mate v/ould light upon the window 
 and the change be made. 
 
 Once the female dove for some reason ceased to lay. 
 Month after month passed without the usual addition to 
 the dove world. Dick was evidently disgusted and per- 
 plexed. He could not understand. His occupation was 
 gone. He was in a strange world, like a treasury clerk 
 dismissed under the civil service reform, because he had 
 an hitherto undiscovered cousin in the department. He 
 fleAV disconsolately from place to place. He walked into 
 the nest and surveyed it. There was nothing there. The 
 doctor (Prindle) took pity upon him. Obtaining a small 
 hen's egg he deposited it in the nest. It was adopted at 
 once. The female dove seemed to have no question of its 
 origin. In some way, too intricate for female dove 
 wisdom to solve, she had layed it. The egg was there — 
 that was proof positive. So they began setting upon it. 
 Nineteen days later, at 1:20 p. m., of a Sunday, a faint 
 peep was heard and at three o'clock, a downy young 
 chicken was actively engaged in taking up the thread of 
 life in the dove cote. Such vigorous life at so early a 
 period of youth was an anomaly and a startling revelation 
 to the dove "pere and mere." They could not understand 
 it. Had they hatched a monster! Here was a creature 
 which should have lain in helpless squabness at least 
 three weeks, manifesting the most independent and 
 vigorous life. Dick assumed the maternal functions, but 
 the young savage would not be nursed. He tried every 
 way imaginable to get the mouth of his strange offspring 
 into his own that he might feed him, but without success. 
 Dick was bewildered. Here was a dove imbued with the 
 spirit of Young America and bound to get its own living 
 on the verv day of its advent to bird-dom. But Dick was 
 equal to the occasion. He came to the rational conclusion 
 
 74 
 
that if this young stranger would not or could not adopt 
 the ways of dove life, he would adopt the ways of chicken 
 life; and to the astonishment of all beholders, Dick 
 changed his mode of feeding and began picking up bits 
 of dough, and would chirp for the young chicken and feed 
 him for all the world as would have done any experienced 
 old hen. He submitted with the best of grace to an oc- 
 casional picking at his eyes; the chicken would mistake 
 those shining orbs for some new and brilliant species of 
 corn. He sat with statuette stiffness and immovable re- 
 pose when the rooster chicken would unceremoniously 
 hop upon his back. He would spread his wings and brood 
 as well as he knew how, when his strange progeny would 
 scud from impending danger and hide beneath his 
 feathers. In fact, he became a very fatherly hen. Still 
 could he have spoken, I doubt not he would have an- 
 nounced his relief, when the chicken was removed by the 
 pov/ers that be, they fearing he would die from the con- 
 finement of the unwholesome dove cote. So the nest was 
 left deserted. 
 
 On one of those occasions three years ago, another 
 pair of doves exercised the right of squatter sovereignty, 
 by seizing the deserted nest. The intruders were soon 
 discovered by the "old fellow" and immediately began one 
 of the severest battles ever fought in Chenango's bound- 
 aries. While the two females looked on, and encouraged 
 by their presence, the two males fought. This iliad of 
 the surrogate's window continued through the forenoon, 
 and then one of the clerks interposed his Jove-like pre- 
 rogatives and turned the scale of victory in the favor of 
 the "old fellow's" opponent. He recognized his defeat, 
 and never since that time has ever alighted in that win- 
 dow, or offered to 20 near it. He had been completely 
 whipped and he fully acknowledged his defeat. 
 
 A TRUEISM 
 
 Many a man would have more influence in a com- 
 munity and in the church if he talked less and paid more. 
 
 75 
 
HOW WE KEPT OUR APPOINTMENT 
 An Incident of the War 
 
 "When you are away in camp, you must think of us 
 sometimes; and sing the songs we have learned to sing 
 together." 
 
 In the early spring of 1862, four of us young people 
 of Morris formed a quartette. It was for our own 
 pleasure and also for the cultivation of our love of music; 
 and we passed many a delightful evening in pleasant 
 song; but when the autumn frosts had come, and the 
 trees were flinging down their golden and crimson foliage 
 to cover the earth with a carpet of rare beauty, we were 
 singing together perhaps for the last time; for on the 
 morrow Harry and I were to leave for our regiments. We 
 had volunteered under the call of the president for "three 
 hundred thousand more," and had just finished that song, 
 when Ida made the remark which begins this tale. 
 
 "Most certainly," I replied, "it would be very strange if 
 we did not think of you and of the songs we have so often 
 sung together. You may be assured that never will the 
 sweet strains be bourne to my ears, or float across my 
 memory, but that the scenes and joys of the happy sum- 
 mer just past, and the forms of those who have contributed 
 so much to make it joyous, will be often remembered.' 
 But Harry broke in on my oration — 
 
 "I have a plan which will be novel and pleasing, I 
 think; do you want to hear it?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, we want to hear it." 
 
 "When we are down there we will write you appoint- 
 ing an hour at which you may sing here and know that 
 we are singing at the same time in camp. Though we 
 may not hear your voices with our ears, and you may not 
 hear ours yet we shall hear them in mind and the harmony 
 will be complete." 
 
 "All right," said the girls, "send us the appointment 
 and we will do it." After some more songs, we departed. 
 
 76 
 
Our regiment was ordered to the gulf; and amid the 
 swamps and bayous of Louisiana, we were soon marching 
 and fighting. One night as we sat by the campfire, Harry 
 said, "Al, do you remember the appointment we made 
 with Ida and May? 
 
 "Yes, I have thought of it often." 
 
 "Well, suppose we write and appoint a time. When 
 shall it be?" 
 
 "Make it any time you choose." The next day he 
 wrote. During the intervening time we had many weary 
 marches; and upon the day itself a severe skirmish oc- 
 curred. Harry was wounded; fatally I feared. I nursed 
 him as best I could. While the afternoon glided away 
 and the darkness came on, he was fast sinking I saw, 
 and he lay for a long time with his head on my arm. He 
 evidently felt that his wound was mortal, but he spoke 
 not of it. Suddenly he opened his eyes and asked: "AI, 
 what time is it?" 
 
 I told him; and with an effort he murmured — "It is 
 time, it is time; sing, Al, sing." While the groans of the 
 wounded filled the air, I choked back the lump in my 
 throat and sang. Harry tried to join in the chorus, but 
 he only gasped and died.' 
 
 In their far off northern home the girls, all joy, were 
 singing; and amid the swamps of Louisiana, I was sing- 
 ing; but Harry was dying. 
 
 Thus the appointment was kept. 
 Dec. 26, 1867. 
 
 Father — loquitur: "Now, my boy, I've been making 
 my will, and I've left a very large property in trust for 
 you. I merely wish to ask you if you have any suggestions 
 to offer?" 
 
 Son — "Well, I don't know that I have, sir, unless — 
 hum — ques'n is — as things go nowadays, wouldn't it be 
 better to leave the property to the other fellow — and — 
 ah — 'point me trustee?" 
 
 77 
 
JIMMIE HOGAN 
 
 In front of a hotel in a small country village, which 
 was really more a saloon than a hotel, hung a sign — 
 obliterated now, but once decorated with a fierce bear, 
 which, however, one tempestuous night disappeared. The 
 artist of the sign undertook to explain that the bear, be- 
 coming weary with the pelting of the storm, had betaken 
 himself to the woods because he was not chained; but 
 the villagers strongly suspected that the bear had only 
 been painted in water colors, which would not stand many 
 tempests. 
 
 The day in v»^hich we are introduced to this hotel and 
 sign was a most dismal, dreary one in November. Al- 
 ready had the high winds of the autumn torn the verdure 
 from the trees and tossed them along the muddy highway 
 — poor, wet leaves, with their glorious coloring gone; and 
 so today the trees had only naked branches to toss to 
 and fro. Hard were they tossed on that day as the wind 
 came roistering up the long streets, banging shutters, 
 creaking the signs and pushing a flock of wet, draggled 
 leaves before it, like so many belated birds. The 
 heavens were black and leadened with dense clouds that 
 sent down now and then great, huge drops of. rain. The 
 day wore on till dusk; then the rain set steadily in. A 
 dark, dismal night. One to make wives fear for sailor 
 husbands; mothers for sailor sons; and the loved ones of 
 all who were sailing the seas. 
 
 The hotel bar room was brilliant with lights which 
 flashed out into the street very bright and cheerful. In- 
 side near the stove, ruddy with beams, lay Jimmie Hogan, 
 half asleep, half awake, knowing he must go home — or 
 rather, shanty he called home — for soon the proprietor 
 would turn him out; yet all the while dreading it. It 
 made him shiver there by the stove to think of the long 
 tedious walk home, and then the cold, dreary, half pro- 
 tected place it was, when he arrived there. It sort of half 
 occurred to him that perhaps he was part to blame — in 
 
 78 
 
fact all to blame — when his musing was stopped by the 
 voices of the bar tender: — "Hello, ostler, hustle that 
 drunken Jimmie out of the house, we must close up." 
 
 "But its a powerful bad night; why not let him stay?" 
 
 "I don't want such chaff around; much less would it 
 be safe to have him here over night." 
 
 "But I doubt if he has a shingle to put his head 
 under." 
 
 "O well. Bill, if he is fool enough to pull the shingles 
 off his own house to put them on mine, why, who's to 
 suffer? — I'm not, you know. Out with him." 
 
 Jimmie heard it all and was prepared for the rough 
 shake administered by the ostler to wake him. He 
 opened his eyes and gazing around as if in a half drunken 
 stupor, finally sat up. 
 
 "Come, get off home; we'er going to shut up!" 
 
 Jimmie rose to his feet and shuffled towards the 
 door. The bar tender was all smiles now in the hope of 
 getting a dime — "You are not going off without a night 
 cap are you, Jimmie?" 
 
 Jimmie turned back and answered with a half 
 drunken leer while he held the door: "I guess I'll take 
 the job of shingling my own house" — and went out. 
 
 The ostler looked at the bar keeper — then smiled and 
 tapped his forehead significantly — "Snakes — 'fore morning 
 — I fear," then laughed. 
 
 Out into the night went Jimmie — the dark, boisterous, 
 pitiless night. The rain had stopped, but up above the 
 great clouds went piling, driving on. Up the street sucked 
 the heavy, boisterous wind, twisting the strong limbs of 
 the trees and dashing recklessly, as in mad frolic against 
 his rags. But Jimmie heard not the soughing of the wind, 
 nor the rushing of the waters; nor did he see the great 
 spectral clouds, white in the rays of the rising moon, nor 
 feel the biting of the chill atmosphere; for an idea was 
 struggling in his brain to express itself. There was a 
 
 79 
 
wilder night there than in the outer world. There was a 
 greater, a more desperate contest than nature ever pre- 
 sents; for the two spirits of the man were struggling for 
 the mastery over his soul. 
 
 "And so I've been pulling shingles off my roof to put 
 'em on his. So that is why my home is dark and bare and 
 cold and damp, and his, light and pleasant and comfortable. 
 And so I have been helping him, have I? The bigger 
 fool, I! But that's my luck! What! — to give him my 
 coat when I could have kept it? — To pull down my house 
 to build up his? Lret's see how it is! I wonder if I should 
 stop drinking and spending my money now, it would do 
 any good — would anybody help me? There's Emma, God 
 bless her — she would — and the children — how they would 
 rejoice! There's Deacon Sheldon! he said he would give 
 me work if I would be sober — I will! so help me God! 
 "Daddy McCay" — and he turned around in the road, 
 facing the storm of wind and rain which had begun to fall 
 again, and shook his clenched hands at the hotel — "I've 
 put the last shingle on your roof — so help me God!" 
 Then on he tramped. The good spirit had won. But 
 sleep by the bar room fire, the walk, the mental strife, 
 had dissipated the fumes of the liquor and he entered tha 
 door of his home a sober man. And what a dreary, dismal 
 room it was he entered. The windows were shutterless 
 and wanting many a pane of glass, were stuffed with old 
 hats and rags. There was very little furniture about the room 
 and that was badly broken. Over head great patches of 
 plastering had fallen or were ready to fall, from the tslia 
 which had leaked through the roof. Near the center of 
 the room sat his wife — vainly trying to get what little 
 warmth she could out of a worn out stove, in which a 
 faint fire was struggling with the wet wood. As the door 
 opened she looked up, and as Jimmie entered, apparently 
 sober, her countenance lighted up with a look of surprise. 
 A long time had it been since the Saturday night Jimmie 
 had come home sober. Jimmie caught her look. 
 
 80 
 
"Well, wife" — not seeming to notice her surprise — 
 "sitting up for me?" She looked at him with wonder — 
 "Well, partly, and partly because it is dry here. 
 
 "We'll see to that later — but first get the Bible and the 
 children's paper and pen and ink." Still more astonished 
 she mechanically obeyed him. Now get ready to write." 
 She was ready. 
 
 "Now write — I'll never put another shingle on Daddy 
 McCay's house — so help me God. Now let me sign it." 
 He did so — she looking on in increasing bewilderment. 
 What did it all mean? Jimmie saw the question in her 
 eyes. "It means," said he, as though she had asked the 
 question, "that I'm not going to drink any more." And 
 then the woman showed itself. She was up and with 
 arms around his neck sealed his temperance pledge with 
 as pure and as joyful a kiss as when she became his bride. 
 Long did the light burn in that little cabin that night, 
 while all the plans for the future were as earnestly dis- 
 cussed as ever by a married couple and the mistress was 
 as happy as happy could be, for the head had returned, 
 clothed in his right mind. 
 
 Jimmie was true to his pledge. He shingled his own 
 house; and a few years after that night, if you had passed 
 by his home you would have seen a pleasant cottage, with 
 nicely cultivated fields around it; a pleasant, comely 
 smiling woman at the door; and in the yard, or some- 
 where on the farm, a jovial, strong, healthy man whom 
 you would have had some difficulty in recognizing, unless 
 you had asked him his business, when he would have 
 answered, with a queer look toward his wife — 
 
 "I am engaged just now in shingling my house." 
 Feb, 15, 1871. 
 
 PLATO'S VISIONS 
 Into Plato's mind there flitted 
 
 Haunting visions dim and strange, 
 That his master powers could never 
 Into just their place arrange. 
 81 
 
JOHNNY TUBES 
 
 Oh Hats and Caps of Norwich town, 
 
 Had never in his life 
 Met with that fair and winning one 
 
 That he would call his wife; 
 So Hats and Caps of Norwich town, 
 
 For such delay so rash, 
 At hotel board or restaurant 
 
 Was forced to eat his hash. 
 
 One pleasant day when hunger's pangs 
 
 Gnawed in him like a fate, 
 Into a restaurant he dropped 
 
 And there began to "ate." 
 Substantial food he stowed away 
 
 So long as he was able; 
 Then turning to the maid he asked: 
 
 "The dessert for this table?" 
 
 Some pie she brought. The flakey crust 
 
 Was baked just to a brown; 
 But seeing it he had no doubt 
 
 That he could put it down 
 Although it seemed on top of that 
 
 Already he had eaten 
 To be a rather doubtful job 
 
 At which he might be beaten. 
 
 But undismayed with skillful fork 
 
 He 'gan the piece to sever 
 But ne'er before had he e'er met 
 
 Such pie to hang together. 
 Like dog that scents afar the hare, 
 
 He keenly scanned his ration; 
 And soon discovered there the hair 
 
 That bound it to its station. 
 82 
 
With accents mild and smile as bland. 
 
 As lover gives to lover. 
 He calls the maid: "Now won't you please 
 
 Just take and comb it over?" 
 The piece she took with angry eye 
 
 And pout and nose upturning; 
 And quickly brought another piece 
 
 For Hats' and Caps' discerning. 
 
 At this he went with valiant fork, 
 
 His mouth began to water; 
 He smacked his lips — O ears polite! 
 
 I know he hadn't ought to — 
 When two red hairs most Quickly caused 
 
 His pleasing hope to cease — 
 "I say," gasped he — "just get me now 
 
 A nice bald-headed piece." 
 
 The moral you can quickly see 
 
 If to read this you have tarried. 
 Or cooks should have firm rooted hair 
 
 Or young men should get married. 
 And now, my friends, you have the tale 
 
 As it was told to writer. 
 And whether it is true or false. 
 
 To swear non vi politur. 
 
 LOVE 
 
 A curious thing is love. 
 Which cometh from above. 
 And lightens like a dove 
 On some. 
 
 But some it never hits. 
 Without it gives them fits, 
 And scatters all their wits — 
 Oh — hu — m — m — m — 
 83 
 
SUCCESS 
 
 Show to men the poor artist nurse struggling and 
 straining — the author Goldsmith, his last dollar given to 
 some one poorer than he; or Chatterton, the inspired, 
 dead with starvation, used suicide in his barren chamber, 
 — but whose souls have been wedded to it, to literature 
 and song, and the idea that success was a part of their 
 lives, they would scoff at and deny. If these men at- 
 tained the goal of their desire they are successful. They 
 are but performing their duty in this life. Such men 
 must exist. Such men must be a part of the world's 
 citizens. The plans of God's economy; the great interest 
 of mankind — the high and holy aims of human life, could 
 not exist did they not plan and strive and succeed. 
 
 But we wish to speak of another class that the world 
 denominates unsuccessful: 
 
 Unsuccessful 
 
 'Tis ten by the clock and the office is gloomy — 
 
 The books are a bore, 'tis plain to be seen — 
 For the clients that are not the place is too roomy. 
 
 And how bright the sun shines out there on the green. 
 What's the use of this study? — 'tis a wearisome goading. 
 
 To make a chap smart v/hose brains are not large; 
 As for me, why I feel that I must be unloading 
 
 Or like a gun I shall go off, premature in discharge. 
 So up he arises, ambition all floated 
 
 Away on a sea where many do camp; 
 And with plans of the morning uncared for, un-noted, 
 
 His legs take him off on this purposeless tramp. 
 
 And so whatever plan he thinks 
 
 He'll put through in this life. 
 He's sure to fail, the legs come out 
 
 Victorious in the strife. 
 They've scared him from the rich man's fate, 
 
 But hardly from a fool; 
 84 
 
For though they've led in many ways, 
 They never led to school. 
 
 And now whatever fate may be 
 
 Wrapped up for us in time; 
 Whether a noble destiny 
 
 Or one that is sublime; 
 This boon I ask,^ that heaven may give, 
 
 To me who truly begs — 
 That I may never be a soul 
 
 That's governed by his legs. 
 
 Into his office bold he goes 
 
 And takes down from the shelf 
 A handsome tome with maxims full. 
 
 But dull as wisdom's self; 
 He reads — but brightly comes the sun 
 
 And dear me, how it begs; 
 He yields unto the siren then 
 
 And goes off — on his legs. 
 
 The maxims are forgotten all; 
 
 Ambitions flee away — 
 It's time enough to study hard 
 
 When comes a stormy daj^ 
 So off he goes, marched right along 
 
 By those resistless pegs; 
 And that's the reason why I say 
 
 He's governed by his legs. 
 
 Twelve by the clock — the whistles are blowing, 
 
 On factory and furnace and where the fires glowing. 
 
 Show the smith's sturdy arm, a power that is regal. 
 And fears not the baying of Tyranny's beagle; 
 
 Where the hot iron is flowing, like a broad gentle river, 
 Seeks a trench that shall mould it in a form that shall 
 shiver 
 
 85 
 
The rock that opposes the advance of the nation. 
 Or a barrier prove that shall hold its salvation. 
 
 Into the streets have poured the crowds 
 
 From office, shop and store; 
 A motley mass of pilgrim folk 
 
 Left on the hither shore. 
 With lives of want and lives of care 
 
 And lives of jolly ease; 
 But very few with paths that seem 
 
 The paths of perfect peace. 
 
 Here comes a youth who greets our nod 
 
 With smile and gentle speech; 
 You would not dream his pointless life 
 
 A lesson wise could teach; 
 A warning prove to you and me 
 
 And keep us from the dregs, 
 For that young man — now mark it well — 
 
 Is governed by his legs. 
 
 His brain is large, his frame is strong, 
 
 His heart is good and kind; 
 His blood is plus — as Emerson 
 
 E'er dreamed of in his mind; 
 And yet, for all, a useless life 
 
 He lives from day to day, 
 Because he lets his legs control 
 
 And o'er his life bear sway. 
 
 Now mark him when the morning sun 
 
 Drives darkness from the hills; 
 He feels the ecstasy of life 
 
 That through his bosom thrills; 
 High hopes are born — ambition burns. 
 
 He'll prove himself the man, 
 To live a life so grand, so full. 
 
 To emulate! who can? 
 86 
 
''CHIPS" 
 
 "Be you the school teacher, mister?" 
 
 "Yes, my little man; who are you?" 
 
 "Chips." 
 
 I looked with astonishment at the slight form before 
 me. There was something so peculiar about him. Scarce- 
 ly did his head reach to my breast as I sat in my chair. 
 Yet there was a look in his little face — the sober, grave 
 face that it was, which told of thoughts far beyond his 
 years. His face was too old; too manly. It was turned 
 up toward mine, with the long, yellow hair, golden when 
 the sun shone upon it, falling back upon his slight 
 shoulders. He had crept in upon me unawares as I sat in 
 the old schoolhouse which was to be my home for the 
 time being. While waiting for my school to assemble, I 
 was dreaming and recalling the past. As I looked out of 
 the window I saw the long stretch of land that spread 
 away in the distance, until it was shut in by a mountain 
 that rose up in majesty, so far away that a blue haze 
 obscured its sharp outlines. All nature was smiling 
 under a warm autumn sun; the leaves were turning to 
 gold and crimson; the fields were yielding up their in- 
 crease of grain; while upon that morning everything 
 seemed under the shadow of some beautiful presence that 
 was scattering blessings everywhere. 
 
 Chips had broken off my musings of the past; how, 
 but one short year before, I was the son of an affluent 
 father, and the petted idol of society; but by a single 
 misfortune I had lost father and fortune. Thanks to that 
 father, I had started on an education, — that is — at his 
 death I was a junior in college. Two years more and I 
 should have graduated. His death took me from college, 
 but I determined to work my way through the remaining 
 two years. Others had done so, and why not I? That 
 was the reason that I was the teacher of this school. 
 
 One more scene had found a place in my recollections. 
 While I was rich I had formed the acquaintance of a 
 
 87 
 
young lady named Mary Lansing. I had thought her a 
 true and noble woman. I had won her love and we were 
 to have been married shortly after I should have com- 
 pleted my college course. But when the change came, she 
 had changed also. That was the bitterest blow of all. I 
 told her my circumstances and that I was about to take 
 up teaching. 
 
 "And you expect that I am to marry a poor school- 
 master?" 
 
 "Certainly, if you love me." 
 
 "No, sir! never, never!" she replied, as she swept 
 from the room. It was this that I was thinking about, 
 wholly unconscious of my surroundings, when little 
 "Chips" brought me to myself again. 
 
 "And so you'er Chips? Where did you pick up such 
 a name as that?" 
 
 "You see, sir," he began with all the dignity of a man, 
 while I with difficulty kept my countenance — "Mother U 
 poor, so they let me pick up the chips when they chop 
 wood. I did it, sir, and so they called me Chips; but, 
 please, sir, may I come to school?" 
 "Why, of course you may." 
 
 "But mother can't pay the tuition, sir; mayn't I sweep 
 the schoolhouse and pay it that way?" He had grasped 
 my knees in his eagerness. I was astonished that such a 
 wee bit of humanity, even though he had such an old head 
 upon his shoulders, should even think he could sweep the 
 school room, and I said: — "You sweep the school room? 
 Why, you are not big enough to hold the broom!" 
 
 "Then I can't come"; — His lip began to auiver, and I 
 saw that I had blasted his hope — I had wounded his feel- 
 ings by what I had said. But his face brightened — "May'nr. 
 I try?" he eagerly asked. 
 
 "Yes, you may try." He went for the broom. He 
 handled it very well, and with a little of my help he soon 
 swept the room satisfactorily. By this time the scholars 
 
 88 
 
began to come in, and I heard him whisper to one — "I'm 
 coming to school." 
 
 "You, Chips," answered the boy — "You haven't any 
 books." 
 
 , "I hadn't thought of that" — with a deep drawn sigh. 
 Soon after he was standing in front of me. His hands 
 were behind him, while the tears were struggling to flow 
 from his eyes. He resolutely held them back. There was 
 an earnestness in the little figure before me. A small, wee 
 thing struggling against dashed hopes with the courage 
 and self-determination of a man. In a moment he saiJ 
 somewhat disconsolately, though rather hopefully — *1 
 don't believe I can come to school after all — I haven't got 
 any book." To which I quickly answered — "O never 
 mind that; I've got a book which will be just the thing 
 for such a little fellow as you. I opened my desk and 
 held out the book to him; but he hesitated. "Why don't 
 you take it?" "I don't believe mother will be willing." 
 
 "O, yes she will," and I forced it into his hand. 
 
 The school went on successfully. The autumn months 
 had gone by and we were at the beginning of winter. 
 Chips had been on hand every morning from the first. He 
 was always there when I opened the schoolhouse door, 
 and with his broom, the handle of which reached far 
 above his head, he fell to sweeping the room. I had pro- 
 cured another broom and would often help him; but he 
 would always protest, until I had laid my broom by. 
 
 Chips had progressed in his studies in a most wonder- 
 ful way. He had waded through the first reader, after I 
 had guided him successfully through the book I gave him, 
 and now was about beginning the second. It was a wet, 
 disagreeable day, the first of December. The snow had 
 fallen during the night and now lay melting on the ground. 
 This with the mud had formed a wet, splashy mass. 
 When I came to the schoolhouse that morning I found 
 Chips waiting for me. He had walked through the mud 
 and wet with nothing but an old pair of shoes on his feet. 
 
 89 
 
I had helped him sweep the schoolhouse. That day he 
 was quiet — unusually quiet; and when he came to read, 
 I saw that he had a very bad cold. That night I went to 
 the town and procured a pair of boots for him. I had 
 taken a strong liking for him — almost love it really was. 
 
 It was still wet the following morning, but Chips was 
 on hand. I built a fire. "Now, Chips, you come here to 
 the fire and dry your feet; but he wanted to sweep the 
 room. I took the broom from him and made him go to 
 the stove; he sat there shivering. Then a flush came 
 upon his cheeks which I did not like the looks of. I 
 finished sweeping; then took from my desk the boots and 
 told him when his feet were dry to put them on. His 
 look of thankfulness more than paid me for the gift. I 
 fully realized that it was more blessed to give than to 
 receive. I realized then with what thankful hearts we 
 would receive the gift of Christ if we would not only be- 
 come as little children; but would receive as little chil- 
 dren. 
 
 Chips sat at the stove warming and drying his feet a 
 long time. I watched him as I called the school together. 
 I saw as he took his seat, that he did it with a languid 
 air, not in accord with his customary cheerful step. The 
 recitations went on. When it came Chips' turn to read, 
 he did not want to; but sat with his head bowed on his 
 hands on his desk. "Chips, are you sick?" I asked. "My 
 head aches, sir," he answered, and attempted to smile. 
 "Chips, you are sick and must go home." It was near 
 the noon hour, so I dismissed the scholars, wrapped Chips 
 in my large shawl, took him in my arms and carried him 
 home. The home showed poverty. From his mother T 
 found that his father had been a carpenter, and one day, 
 while working on a scaffold, it broke down and he had 
 been brought home dead. The mother had struggled on 
 with honest poverty until the present. 
 
 When the doctor came, he said Chips had the fever. 
 Promising to come again, I went back to the school. He 
 
 90 
 
grew rapidly worse. The third day after he was taken, 
 he became delirious. I called often to see him, and once 
 or twice had found there a third person — a young girl, 
 seemingly, for she kept her veil down when I was there. 
 There was something mysterious in her appearance, yet I 
 did not think much about it. Many little delicacies found 
 their way to the sufferer's bedside. When I asked about 
 them, the mother answered that Mary brought them; so 
 I came to the conclusion that Mary and the veiled young 
 lady were one. 
 
 One Friday I called on Chips, and was informed by 
 his mother that the doctor thought that that day would 
 be the crisis of the disease. If it was favorable, then he 
 would live; if it were not — 
 
 I went to my school, but my thoughts were with 
 'Chips. With thoughts of him filling my mind, I could not 
 teach; so I said to the children — "One of your number. 
 Chips, whom you all love, is today near unto death. 
 Knowing that, I cannot teach you; therefore I will dismiss 
 the school for today." With tearful eyes and solemn steps 
 they left the schoolroom, and I went and sat by the bed- 
 side of Chips. The little fellow was wild with delirium. 
 
 I took his hand in mine. It seemed to calm him 
 somewhat. In the afternoon he fell into a slight slumber; 
 which, after a little became more quiet and refreshing. 
 The good doctor came and said — "If he comes out of that 
 rational, he will get well." Again I took my place by his 
 bedside, as a mother. The night came on. The darkness 
 covered the hills and the valley. Another took her place 
 on the other side of the bed. It was the veiled lady. 
 
 The midnight came. The moon had risen and as 
 the distant clock tolled the hour of midnight, it shot a 
 beam through the little window at the head of the bed 
 full upon Chips, and he awoke. His eye was clear — and 
 his face was rational. Reason was again restored to its 
 throne. He smiled and whispered, "Mr. Stoepel, how good 
 you are." Then turning to the veiled lady he said, "And 
 
 91 
 
Mary — is she here too?" Turning to me again he asked: — 
 "Mr. Stoepel, do you know Mary?" "No Chips," I 
 answered. His eyes filled with wonder, while he took 
 my hand and placed it in Mary's. "There," he said, 
 "Chips' friends must be friends." I pressed her hand, 
 while Chips fell back into a quiet slumber again. His 
 mother came and we told her that Chips would recover. 
 
 "Now Mr. Stoepel, you must go home. You have 
 watched too long already. Mary must go home too. I 
 can stay with my boy until morning." 
 
 We acquiesced, and soon we were walking toward 
 Mary's home with her hand upon my arm. We walked 
 along deliberately until we reached her home. As I was 
 about to bid her good night, she turned so that the moon- 
 light shone full upon her; then lifting her veil, asked: — 
 
 "George, do you know me?" 
 
 "Mary Lansing!" I cried in great astonishment. 
 
 "Yes, it is Mary Lansing"; and she for some reason 
 burst into tears. All my old love returned. I reached out 
 my hand and she took it. 
 
 "Mary, I still love you; and may I not hope you will 
 sometime change your mind so that you can marry a 
 poor schoolmaster?" 
 
 "I have changed it already," she answered. I drew 
 her to my bosom, and while I kissed her, asked — "Do you 
 love me still, Mary?" 
 
 "Yes, I do. I was foolish in sending you away, 
 George." 
 
 Thus it was that Chips' sickness was a blessing to 
 both of us. 
 
 "Love conquereth all." 
 
 A STUDY 
 
 My heart is like a rusty lock; 
 
 Lord, oil it with thy grace; 
 And rub it with it now dear Lord 
 
 Till I can see thy face. 
 92 
 
CHRISTMAS 
 
 Hallowed associations cluster around the word 
 Christmas. It leads us back over the path of twenty 
 centuries and places us before the infant Christ. 
 We pause as the light from an half open stable- 
 door falls across our path and looking in behold 
 the family of Nazareth as they tarry in Bethlehem. 
 There is Mary "blessed among women," with the new born 
 babe in her arms; and Joseph, who receives the child as 
 sent from God. In the fields about the city are the shep- 
 herds keeping watch over their flocks. Suddenly they are 
 surrounded by the glory of the Lord and, as they, 
 startled, gaze in wonder at the heavenly host, a voice is 
 borne to their ears — "Glory to God in the highest; on 
 earth peace, good will to men, for to you this day is born 
 a Saviour who is Christ the Lord." 
 
 Off in Chaldea the astrologers eagerly gaze at the new 
 star which they see shining over Judea. They wonder 
 at its significance. Such a phenomenon to them betokens 
 the foundation of a new empire or the birth of a prince. 
 They had read of the expected deliverer of the Jews: 
 and this must be his natal star. Forthwith they bend 
 their steps to the capitol and ask: — "Where is he that is 
 born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the 
 east and have come to worship him." Passing out of 
 Jerusalem the star leads them to the place where the 
 infant lies. And now bowing in adoration before him they 
 yield to him the costliest treasures of the east: "Gold, 
 frankincense and myrrh!" These are some of the mem- 
 ories that come thronging back to us with each Christmas 
 day. They bring before our minds the infant Jesus in his 
 duality of character: at once the lowliest of men — born 
 in a manger, — the equal of God — worshipped by the wisest 
 of earth and the angels of heaven. Thus we see him the 
 recipient of gifts, yet himself the sublimest gift of all 
 time — the offering of God to save a sin ruined world. 
 
 93 
 
But along side of these are other memories that this 
 day freshens, which are full as sacred to us all as those 
 told in Holy Writ. From the time each one of us trust- 
 ingly received the holy story of the day, or drank with 
 childish credulity the beautiful myths and enticing legends 
 with which the imaginations of passing centuries has 
 surrounded it, Christmas has been like a spring day, in 
 the midst of a bleak winter. And as the years roll away 
 and the echoes of the pleasures grow fainter in our ears, 
 we would lose it entirely, did we not see the trust and 
 loyalty with which childhood receives those fables which 
 charmed our hearts when we were young. 
 
 Christmas belongs to all mankind. Its holy legend 
 was given to no one nation, no one sect, no one congrega- 
 tion. Wars still are fought to establish great principles; 
 in the Providence of God schisms still exist in religion, 
 undoubtedly to advance his cause; but Christmas belongs, 
 and speaks its holy benediction to each individual: peace 
 be with you on earth, with God in heaven. Marking as it 
 does the birthday of Christ, it is the birthday of Chris- 
 tianity; and as the birthday of Christianity, it is befitting 
 that it be remembered with gentle and generous acts by 
 all the Christian Church. No mock sentimentalities should 
 obscure its more sterling virtues. It should not be over- 
 laid with superstitious observances nor its simple story 
 lost in the unreal though delightful imaginations of a 
 Christmas carol — even if its words drop from the magic 
 pen of a Dickens, — nor the songs of the angels be for- 
 gotten in "Tiny Tim's" "God bless — Everyone." It 
 should be even more than the genius of Dickens por- 
 trayed it — a day of generous festivity — a day of noble 
 deeds; a day when penury smiles; a day that sees the 
 birth of Christ in our own soul, as the first Christmas saw 
 the birth of Christ in our world. In trust that Christmas 
 is such a day to each of you — for such a day would we 
 make it — we bid you welcome to our festivities. May 
 you here experience a pleasure which shall be a beautiful 
 
 94 
 
memory in all the years to come. And as the festivities 
 close and we separate, soon to enter upon another year, 
 what better words of cheer, than these, written for gen- 
 erous boys and generous men, by a hand guided by a noble 
 heart, which ceased its labors upon the day of which he 
 so beautifully sang: — 
 
 Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 
 
 Let young or old accept their part; 
 And bow before the Awful Will, 
 
 And bear it with an honest heart; 
 Who misses or who wins the prize? 
 
 Go, lose or conquer as you can; 
 But if you fail or if you rise 
 
 Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 
 A gentleman, or old or young! 
 
 (Bear kindly with my humble lays) 
 The sacred chorus first was sung 
 
 Upon the first of Christmas days; 
 The shepherds heard it overhead — 
 
 The joyful angels raised it then; 
 Glory to Heaven on high it said. 
 
 And peace on earth to gentlemen. 
 
 My song save this is little worth; 
 
 I lay my weary pen aside; 
 And wish you health, and love, and mirth. 
 
 As fits the solemn Christmastide. 
 As fits the holy Christmas birth, 
 
 Be this, good friends, our carol still, 
 Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. 
 
 To men of gentle will. 
 
 THE PARDON BUSINESS 
 
 Our Andy, who at the White House sits, 
 
 Was being shaved one day, 
 When the barber gave his nose a twitch 
 
 In Quite a paiiiful way. 
 95 
 
"Your pardon. Sir!" the barber cried, 
 
 "I do most humbly crave;" 
 "Without it, having twitched your nose, 
 
 I'd rather be a slave." 
 
 Good Andy said^ while on his face 
 
 There beamed a smile benign, 
 "Take one from out my pocket, friend, 
 I'll fix it when I've time." 
 May 9, 2866. 
 
 MARY WALSINGHAM 
 A Tale of New Orleans 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 On the outskirts of the city of New Orleans, in the 
 summer of 1849, stood a long, rambling house. It was of 
 but one story, still it covered so much ground that its one 
 story supplied all the room that was necessary for the 
 family that dwelt there, together with a few favored house 
 servants. On the north and at the back of the house, 
 stood a row of negro huts, prepared for the slaves, ex- 
 tending back from the house a considerable distance. 
 They were painted white which gave them a pleasing 
 appearance. On the west was a large and well cared for 
 garden. In it flourished not only all tlie flowers peculiar 
 to the latitude of New Orleans, but many which had been 
 transplanted from the tropics. Around this beautiful 
 garden was a high stone wall. It was so built as to be 
 impassible from the outside, but from the inside a person 
 could easily scale it. On beyond this garden and joining 
 it was the plantation of Col. Lascelles. His house could 
 be plainly seen from the one we have been describing, and 
 to all appearance was the same. 
 
 Col. Walsingham occupied the plantation just 
 described. He was a citizen of New Orleans, and though 
 he lived upon and carried on the plantation, still he was 
 a large ship owner. His manners, when he was in com- 
 
 96 
 
 / 
 
pany of those who had business with him, was that of a 
 high bred southern gentleman. Often he invited his busi- 
 ness friends home to his plantation at which his only- 
 daughter dispensed hospitalities with a gentle and free 
 hand. His wife had been dead for a number of years, so 
 Mary presided at his home and tried to fill his lost com- 
 panion's place. 
 
 Mary Walsingham! How shall I describe her? She 
 was peculiarly beautiful. Her form was faultless, her face 
 was lovely and refined while her manner was as graceful 
 as the gentle fawn. On the day our story opens Mary was 
 reclining on one of the sofas which stood in the parlor of 
 her father's palatial mansion. In her hand she held a 
 volume of her favorite author. She seemed to be reading, 
 yet there was a certain dreamy expression in her eyes 
 that showed that her mind was elsewhere than on the 
 printed page before her. It was a lovely afternoon. The 
 golden summer was just covering the earth with the 
 beauties of the season, and through the open window there 
 floated in upon her delightful odors that seemed to suffuse 
 her with their exquisiteness. The day was warming, 
 when Col. Walsingham appeared in the open door. He 
 gazed on the lovely vision before him, while a spasm of 
 pain crossed his features. Mary sprang up from her couch 
 and running to her father saluted him with a kiss and a 
 smile, which he returned with parental fondness. 
 
 "But father, you look weary; you are working too 
 hard to support me here in idleness. You should not." 
 
 "Yes, child, I am weary — weary of the world"; and he 
 heaved a sigh — "weary of the continual cares and mis- 
 fortunes that crowd upon us here." 
 
 "Why, father, what has happened?" 
 
 "My child, it breaks my heart to tell you, yet you must 
 know it. You know, Mary, that for long months I have 
 looked for the coming of my ships. I have heard nothing 
 from them, and I fear they are sunken even now in the 
 deep. With them was the greater portion of my wealth. 
 
 97 
 
and if they are gone I am almost penniless, even if there 
 was not another debt still, that will consume all that re- 
 mains. It is a note." 
 
 "Who holds it?" 
 
 "Col. Lascelles, Mary." 
 
 "What, that bad man — O, father, we are in trouble 
 indeed. If it were any one else they might wait awhile 
 until you recovered somewhat your other loss; but from 
 him we may expect no hope." 
 
 "But wait. Do not judge too harshly, Mary. He may 
 not be so bad a man as you think. But let me continue — 
 the note is due one week from tomorrow. Today he called 
 upon me and made me this proposition, that if you would 
 consent to become his wife, the note should be liquidated. 
 I gave my consent and promised to obtain yours." 
 
 "How could you — how could you?" exclaimed Mary, 
 as she Qank into a chair and covered her face with her 
 hands. "You knew I was a promised wife already" — and 
 the excited girl wept convulsively. 
 
 "Child" — and his face grew stern — would you sac- 
 rifice me and all my property to a foolish whim? Would 
 you have your father go down in poverty to his grave 
 because you had plighted your troth to a poor doctor, and 
 therefore would not break it? Think, child, if you marry 
 Col. Lascelles you will not only be bettering your own 
 condition, but also mine. Colonel will make a better hus- 
 band for you than a poor doctor. 
 
 "Col. Lascelles — a libertine and a gambler, better than 
 Ed. North, a high minded gentleman? Oh, father, how can 
 you say so?" — and the excited girl swayed backward and 
 forward in her grief. 
 
 "Girl, we have had words enough. I have promised 
 you shall marry Col. Lascelles and nothing in heaven or 
 earth shall make me break my word;" and he strode from 
 the room. 
 
 Ah, Col. Walsingham, there is a power greater than 
 man. We shall see, we shall see. 
 
 98 
 
After her father left the room, Mary, for a while 
 sobbed excitedly; then rising from the seat she said in an 
 undertone : 
 
 "Oh the curse of slavery! it hardens men, so that they 
 will even sacrifice their daughters on mammon's altar." 
 She drew herself up to a writing desk which she opened 
 and wrote a note. Having sealed it she rang a bell. A 
 short yet graceful octoroon girl appeared. 
 
 "Belle, will you see that this note is taken to Dr. 
 North's office and left there, and no one in the house shall 
 know it?" 
 
 "Yes, Missus, tomorrow when I go down to the city I 
 will take it there myself." 
 
 "Thank you, Belle, I think I can trust you; but let no 
 one know of it." 
 
 "Yes, Missus" — and with a courtesy she left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER 2. 
 
 Col. Lascelles was walking back and forth on the 
 piazza of his home. It was towards evening of the day 
 following the events of the last chapter. He was engaged 
 with thoughts, which at intervals, unconsciously to him- 
 self, he murmured aloud. He was a short, thick set man, 
 with full beard, and a dark, swarthy complexion, which 
 showed his French origin. His eyes were small, but 
 piercing, while the thin nostrils and the firm set under lip 
 showed the man of iron will. 
 
 He cast his eye toward the home of Col. Walsingham 
 and as he did so muttered in an undertone: "But the 
 beauty that lives there will make a gay wife for Lascelles. 
 Ha, Ha, my pretty bird, when I get you, you won't turn 
 up your pretty nose and sweep so hastily by "that liber- 
 tine. Col. Lascelles" — as you were pleased to call me. But 
 it must be a splendid affair; it must rival any marriage 
 festival ever in the city — but how is it to be done?" and 
 he tapped his forehead with his hand — "That is the great 
 question, how is it to be done?" and he paused in his walk. 
 "The note will be given up to Walsingham, so I cannot 
 
 99 
 
look for any money there — the bank won't advance me 
 any, for it is pressed on its own account. There! I 
 have it! I'll sell Sam. Sam's getting a little too forward. 
 He thinks he is my own son. It will take him down some 
 when he finds he has got to be sold as a slave, which he 
 is. We shall have a grand time; but these are what I 
 like — I can break them in — and most splendidly. Never 
 saw the slave yet that I could not conquer. Well, well, it 
 is a pressing case. Next week is the marriage; I shall 
 have to hurry matters. But I can sell Sam any day. Let's 
 see, tomorrow — take him down tomorrow — Guess 'twould 
 be better to tell him tonight. Make him sleep better. Ha, 
 Ha." He entered his home, and then went into his office. 
 
 Before a small table sat a tall, graceful youth. His 
 eyes were blue; brown locks curled round a fair white 
 brow and nothing would indicate but that that fair human 
 being was a man; but no, he was a slave. That person 
 was Samuel Lascelles. He had been educated as Col. 
 Lascelles' own son; and he was, but his mother was a 
 slave. He was now the confidential clerk and the private 
 secretary of his father. The fact that he was a slave had 
 never been told him by his father nor any one; and what 
 a blow it would be. The colonel had purposely kept him 
 in ignorance, and had intended to leave him all his prop- 
 erty, if he did not ever have any children by a proper wife. 
 
 The colonel entered the room and Samuel arose and 
 offered him a seat. 
 
 "No, I thank you," said the colonel, "I have a few 
 words to say to you." 
 
 "I am all attention," said Sam. 
 
 "You know, Samuel, that I intend to be married next 
 week to Col. Walsingham's daughter." 
 
 "I had heard such a report, sir." 
 
 "Yes, it is so; and I have got to raise money some 
 way to defray expenses of the marriage. So thought I 
 would tell you something, which may be unpleasant to you, 
 
 100 
 
but nevertheless it must be told. You know I never told 
 you who your mother was." 
 
 "No, sir; I have often wished to know." 
 
 "But when you hear, you will wish it had never been 
 told you. Your mother was not" — and his face had all the 
 malignity of a devil, as he thought how the manhood 
 would be all crushed out of the boy by the revelation — 
 "a wife, but a slave — and you are — 
 
 "A slave — Oh God!" cried Sam, and buried his face 
 in his hands. 
 
 "Yes, you have saved me the trouble of saying it — 
 you are a slave. And now I will tell you since these 
 things are so, I have concluded to sell you as a slave to 
 raise money for my marriage." 
 
 "Sell me as a slave!" — and Sam arose from his seat — 
 "Sell me as a slave!" — and he clenched his hands, and 
 the fire of frenzy burned in his eyes — ^"Sell me as a slave. 
 Col. Lascelles!" and he seemed about to jump, like a beast 
 of prey, at his persecutor. 
 
 "Yes, sir, sell you as a slave. Nov/, sir, be quiet" — 
 and he motioned him to a seat. Samuel sank down in his 
 seat, while his eye took on a dreamy expression. "Had 
 the blow shattered his brain?" was the question which 
 Col. Lascelles put to himself, but he ignored it and said: — 
 
 "I am going to the bank. You may order up the 
 horses." Samuel, moving like one in a dream, did as he 
 was commanded. The colonel wrapped himself in his 
 mantle and entering his carriage drove away. 
 
 "Sell me as a slave/' muttered Samuel as he re- 
 entered the office. "Sell me as a slave," and he drew a 
 long, glittering knife from its hiding place. "Sell me as a 
 slave," — and he hid the knife in his bosom. "Sell me as 
 a slave ! " he muttered as wrapping his cloak about him he 
 left the house. 
 
 Dr. Edward North sat in his office the day following 
 the events narrated in chapter I. It was a small room, but 
 as he was a doctor just starting out in his profession, the 
 
 101 
 
office was large enough for his purpose. Still, though it 
 was small, and perhaps meanly furnished, it was neat and 
 regular in all its arrangements and had an air of coziness, 
 seldom seen in a bachelor's apartment. He came from 
 the north, which was plainly shown by his appearance, for 
 he did not have that peculiar lankness of the southerner; 
 but his form was round and full. He stood full six feet 
 in his stockings — as the expression goes — and well pro- 
 portioned. His full open brow, around which clung massy- 
 curls of raven blackness; the clear, open blue eye, and 
 the stern dignity of manhood that sat upon his lip, im- 
 pressed the beholder that he was a true, truth loving, and 
 noble specimen of a man. 
 
 Yet Col. Walsingham would turn away such a man 
 from his daughter, and give her to a libertine, a low 
 minded, tyrannical man — and for what? Because mammon 
 and slavery had hardened his heart and had more influence 
 over him than the desire for the welfare of his daughter. 
 Oh Gold! what an influence thou hast over the minds of 
 
 men 
 
 Dr. North sat in his office that morning thinking of 
 his past life; how, a fatherless boy, he had struggled on 
 and fought his way through college; how he had become 
 a physician and bidding good bye to friends and kindred, 
 had come to New Orleans to seek his fortune ; how fortune 
 had smiled upon him there, so that now he was securing 
 practice that would soon make him independent; and 
 then "Mary will be mine — she will become my little wife. 
 Oh God, thou hast blest me more than I deserve — that I 
 should be loved by such an angel." 
 
 His meditations were cut short by a rap at his door. 
 Opening it he saw Belle, Mary's waitress, standing there. 
 He invited her in, divining that she was bringing some 
 message from Mary. She entered and said: 
 
 "Missus said she wanted me to bring you this note 
 and let nobody know about it. Oh, but she looked so 
 queer when she gave it to me. I really do believe some- 
 
 102 
 
thing dreadful has happened. I heard her and Massa 
 talking, and Massa he talked loud just as when he is 
 angry," and she stopped for want of breath. 
 
 "O I guess nothing serious is the matter. When did 
 she give you this?" 
 
 "Last night; and I promised to give it to you today, 
 when I came down to market. There, I must not be 
 idling here, and my marketing not done," and with a bob 
 and a flourish she was gone. North broke the delicate 
 seal and read the note: — 
 
 "Dear Edward: I am in trouble. I would see you and 
 tell you all. I would not have papa know you saw me, so 
 meet me at the summer house in our garden tomorrow 
 night. The back gate will be left open. I shall send this 
 by Belle. Yours in sorrow, Mary." 
 
 Dr. North read the note; and as he refolded it 
 soliloquized: — "Tomorrow night. It was written yesterday, 
 so it is tonight — I wonder what can be the poor girl's 
 sorrow? — and he fell to dreaming. 
 
 "Doctor, will you come and see my poor girl? She is 
 dying." — And the father, who had entered unbidden, shook 
 Dr. North by the shoulder, shattering his dreams and air 
 castles into fragments, bringing him from the future back 
 into the present. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he answered, and hurriedly threw aside his 
 dressing gown and donning his coat, he went out with his 
 caller. 
 
 CHAPTER 4. 
 
 Darkness had settled down upon New Orleans. The 
 dark clouds which obscured the rays of the moon, were 
 rolling in tumultuous masses across the sky. As they 
 broke into a rift at intervals, the light of the moon 
 streamed through, causing it to appear much darker when 
 the light was again hidden. Quietness had come down on 
 the city, and the busy sounds of traffic had ceased. Only 
 in the dens of infamy was any sound of revelry to be 
 
 103 
 
heard. Away in the suburbs, where Col. Walsingham 
 lived, nothing was to be heard but the occasional song of 
 the slave, or the dull piping of the nightingale. Dr. North 
 left his office at that time to meet the appointment made 
 by Mary Walsingham. As he went upon his way he 
 thought what could Mary want to tell him; and what could 
 her object be in having him come in by the back gate of 
 the garden. With these questions in his mind he drew 
 near the house. In the meantime Mary watched patiently 
 in the summer house. She had unlocked the gate at the 
 back of the garden, and while waiting for the expected 
 footsteps, thought with sorrow of her blighted hopes. 
 How instead of calling the man for whom she was waiting, 
 husband; instead of being his dear wife, she must be the 
 tool of a black-hearted villain, and a wife bought with a 
 price. As the thought crashed through her brain she was 
 softly crying before she was fully aware of it. "But these 
 tears will never do. I have vowed to be firm; and in 
 this our last meeting — O God, how it pains me to think of 
 it — I must be calm. I must tell Edward my duty and 
 must do it; and she waited for his footstep. 
 
 At length it came. She heard him softly open the 
 gate and quietly come up the graveled walk until he 
 reached the arbor; "Mary, are you there?" he whispered. 
 "Yes," and before she could resist she was clasped to his 
 bosom, and the warm kisses were falling upon her brow. 
 Unresisting she lay in his arms. Unresisting she allowed 
 him to kiss her and call her the pet names she loved to 
 hear him speak. God forgive her for doing it. She knew 
 it must be for the last time. She knew how she must 
 almost crush his heart by the revelations — it was a weak- 
 ness she could not overcome, so she lay in his arms. At 
 length he said: — 
 
 "What did my pet want of her liege lord? And why 
 did she send so mysteriously, and why did she want such 
 a romantic like meeting? Has my pet been reading some 
 of those peculiar novels that treat of such things? And 
 
 104 
 
have they turned her brain? Come, now, own up, why did 
 
 you do it?" 
 
 "Don't, don't ask me. And that makes me think, I 
 must not allow you to kiss me any more. Put me down; 
 I must not be held in your arms any more." 
 
 "And why not, pray? I would like to know why I, 
 your own promised husband, has not the right to kiss my 
 darling? Or why I have not a right to hold her in my 
 arms?" 
 
 "O don't, it hurts me. Don't call me by those names." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Because — because" — and she buried her face in her 
 hands, while the great sobs welled up convulsively — "be- 
 cause papa has promised that I shall be the wife of 
 another!" 
 
 "The wife of another!" cried Edward in astonishment. 
 "By what right? Has he not freely and cordially given 
 you to me? By what right does he give you to another? 
 Speak, girl!" 
 
 "O do not get in a passion. I have harsh words enough 
 from others without having them come from you," — and 
 again sobs overcame her. 
 
 "Dearest, forgive me." His voice became gentle — 
 "but tell me — answer my question." 
 
 "By the right that one man can sell another. O the 
 curse of slavery. It hardens the men, while it makes the 
 women the slaves of man's vilest nature." 
 
 'What? I don't understand," 
 
 "Well, I will explain. Father owes Col. Lascelles a 
 note. That note is due one week from yesterday. If fa- 
 ther pays it, it will take nearly all his property. Col. 
 Lascelles has made a proposition to him for my hand. If 
 I become his wife, he will cancel the note and deliver it 
 up to father. Father gave his consent and promised to 
 obtain mine. When I refused and told him I was the 
 affianced bride of another, he raved and told me to prepare 
 
 105 
 
for the marriage — as nothing in heaven or earth should 
 prevent it." 
 
 While Mary related this, Edward stood as one in a 
 dream. It had amazed him. "And can such a deed as this 
 be done in a civilized country, a deed worthy the dark 
 ages! And, Mary, can you consent to be thus bargained 
 away? Can you consent to be sold and become the slave 
 of such a man as Col. Lascelles? Rather, Mary, fly with 
 me. We will speed to the north, where there is freedom. 
 Where fathers do not sell their daughters. Once there, 
 and my wife, no one can claim you. Will you go?" — and 
 he convulsively seized her hand. 
 
 "No, Edward, I cannot. Though father is harsh, I 
 must obey him. Mother, when she died, bid me to always 
 obey my father, and I must even if it were to die." 
 
 "And do you suppose your mother would advise you to 
 obey him in a command so cruel as this? Do you suppose 
 that your mother would command you to sacrifice life, 
 happiness, all — to save your father from debt? No, she 
 would not. She would tell you to flee, if there was no 
 other alternative." 
 
 "Edward, she would not advise me thus — but to obey 
 my father in all particulars. She was — 
 
 "My God! what is that?" screamed Edward, as an 
 unearthly shriek broke upon his ear. It came from the 
 west of the garden — and Tiurriedly he bounded to the wall 
 and climbed to the top. What he saw there froze his blood 
 in his veins, while horror sealed his lips. It will be told 
 in chapter 5. 
 
 CHAPTER 5. 
 
 Col. Lascelles entered his carriage, after he had re- 
 vealed to Samuel the account of his (Samuel's) birth, and 
 drove to the bank. But finding that shut, he drove to the 
 president's house. Arriving there, Col. Lascelles ordered 
 the coachman to wait for him, and entered the house. 
 The evening came on and still he had not come out. The 
 horses were getting impatient. Presently a figure came 
 
 106 
 
out of the house in the darkness, groping its way to the 
 carriage, entered and ordered the driver to drive to the 
 levee. 
 
 The driver, mistaking the man who entered the car- 
 riage for his master, drove on as directed; but he had 
 driven but a few blocks when the man let himself down 
 from the carriage, and the driver went on not knowing 
 that his passenger was gone. When Samuel left his home 
 with the knife concealed in his dress, as related, he took 
 his way to the bank. Finding that Col. Lascelles had 
 driven to the president's house, he followed, and it was 
 he that entered the carriage and ordered it to drive off, 
 He now, after having left the carriage, returned to the 
 president's house. Hidden in the shadow of the house, 
 he remained for Col. Lascelles to appear. As he waited, 
 he muttered to himself, "Sell me as a slave will he?" and 
 he hugged the knife closer to his breast, and a fire shot 
 from his eyes, and his teeth became firm set. What 
 terrible determination was in his mind? Or had the 
 knowledge that he was a slave crazed him? 
 
 At length Col. Lascelles appeared. The banker follow- 
 ed him to the door. Through the light of the distant 
 street lamp, no carriage could be seen. 
 
 "What does this mean? Curses on the black rascal; 
 has he dared to drive off without me?" exclaimed Col. 
 Lascelles, as in a towering passion at the non-appearance 
 of his carriage, he strode toward the gate. 
 
 "What, are your horses gone?" asked the banker. "It 
 can't be they have run away." 
 
 "No, they never did such a thing. It is that lazy John, 
 the driver. I believe the fellov/ thought he would drive 
 home. Or else he's gone to some other part of the city, 
 to see some of his friends. But I'll teach him he can't do 
 such things. I'll learn him better. I have been too lenient 
 with my darkeys, Mr. Sweet," said Lascelles, calling the 
 banker by name, "I am determined to be more severe after 
 this; and tomorrow I'll give that John a good flogging." 
 
 107 
 
"And sell me as a slave, too?" Did you hear that 
 muttered curse. Colonel?" 
 
 "I will order up my carriage to take you home," said 
 the banker. "It will be ready in a few minutes." 
 
 "No, no; I will walk home," answered the colonel. 
 "But, by the way, do you not want to buy a likely young 
 negro? I am going to sell Sam." 
 
 "Sell Sam!" exclaimed the banker in astonishment. 
 "Sell your own son! He isn't a slave is he?" 
 
 "Well, he isn't anything else, and I have determined 
 to sell him." 
 
 "Well I think he would make a good one for the bank. 
 I don't know but we could strike a bargain"; and the two 
 men fell into a confidential talk. The dim darkness of the 
 evening concealed the figure that crept close to their side 
 and lay there drinking in every word of their conversation. 
 
 At length Col. Lascelles departed on his way home. 
 He walked on in a quiet way, thinking of the sale of Sam 
 on the morrow. "It will be a good place for the boy in 
 the bank," he muttered aloud. The figure that was fol- 
 lowing behind, followed Lascelles like a shadow and all 
 the time was clutching that savage knife, heard the words, 
 and itself muttered, "When you sell me as a slave, Col. 
 Lascelles, then I'll be in that bank." 
 
 Lascelles walked on entirely unconscious of being fol- 
 lowed. He passed Col. Walsingham's place, and now came 
 to the long dark garden wall. He shuddered momentarily 
 as he saw the long wall which lost itself in the darkness 
 ahead of him, and drawing his cloak more closely hurried 
 on. The length of the wall had nearly been passed; when 
 a figure strode rapidly, but stealthily forward behind 
 Lascelles and as he came over the bounds of his own land, 
 sprang forward like a beast of pray, and clutching him, 
 bore him to the ground, and the long bright knife sought 
 his heart. 
 
 "Sell me as a slave, will you?" was hissed in his ears, 
 as the knife cut to his heart, and he gave an unearthly 
 
 108 
 
shriek and his life went out. That was the shriek which 
 Edward heard. He reached the top of the wall just in 
 time to see Sam draw the knife from the body. The moon 
 shone through the clouds, and he saw Sam draw the bloody 
 knife from the body of Lascelles, hold it up and taste the 
 blood; and again he drove it into the body. Horror 
 paralized Edward's tongue. Again the moon broke through 
 the clouds. The road was clear. There was no murderer 
 nor victim. Edward gazed in astonishm.ent. Had it all 
 been a vision or a fancy? He drew his hand across his 
 brow; was he in his right senses? He came down from 
 the wall and walked to the place where he had seen the 
 murder committed but all he found was a piece of paper. 
 This he picked up and departed for his home. 
 
 What had become of the body? Sam had dragged it 
 into a neighboring lot and hid it in some bushes; then 
 started for his home. "He'll not sell me for a slave," he 
 muttered, as he concealed the knife in his clothing. 
 
 CHAPTER 6. 
 
 New Orleans was thrown into consternation. The 
 dead body of Col. Lascelles had been discovered. Who 
 was the murderer? Dr. North had been seen soon after 
 coming from the direction of the place where the murder 
 Tiad been committed. Suspicion had been directed 
 against him and the circumstances that he was or had been 
 rivaled by Lascelles, was strong evidence that he was the 
 guilty one. The suspicion had led to the searching of his 
 office in his absence. The searchers were rewarded by 
 finding the piece of paper which he had picked up just 
 after the murder where it had occurred. The paper proved 
 to be a note Avhich Lascelles only the day before had paid 
 at the bank and it was sworn to by the officers of the 
 bank. This evidence was thought to be strong enough to 
 warrant the arrest of Dr. North, so he was arrested and 
 put in prison awaiting examination. How to prove his 
 innocence he knew not. To accuse Sam of the murder 
 
 109 
 
would avail nothing, unless he could bring proof to that 
 effect. Mary's evidence that he was in the garden, might 
 have some effect, but he would rather die than expose her. 
 Col. Walsingham had heard of the murder at his place 
 of business. He heard also that young North was in 
 prison for the murder, and though he rejoiced at the mis- 
 fortunes that had befallen his daughter's "Yankee lover" 
 as he called North, yet he did not believe him guilty. 
 When he came to consider that the death of Lascelles 
 would dispel his plans, and cause the payment of the note, 
 his anger at the murderer of Lascelles knew no bounds; 
 and he walked and raved about the office like a mad man. 
 Seizing his hat, he left for home. Mary was reclining on 
 the sofa in the parlor, where we saw her at the opening 
 of the story. She was dreading to have the hours roll 
 away. She knew that each day as it passed was bringing 
 her nearer to the day when she would become the wife of 
 Col. Lascelles, and by that deed perhaps become his slave. 
 Her meditations were cut short by the coming of her 
 father. His agitated countenance showed that something 
 unusual had happened. She sprang from the couch and 
 forgetful of the fact of what a tyrant he was, ran to him 
 and moved by paternal love, kissed his knotted brow, 
 while she tried to calm his feelings. 
 
 "Father, father, what is the matter? pray tell me, 
 what has happened?" 
 
 "Lascelles has been murdered, and we are beggars." 
 Despite the fact that his death had made them penniless, 
 her heart gave a great bound of joy as she heard the report 
 that Col. Lascelles was no more. She now fully realized 
 that she was again free. She could bear the poverty and 
 privation because she was free — was not the slave of a 
 heartless man. 
 
 "Murdered, father? When and by whom?" 
 "Last night while going home from Mr. Sweet's, he 
 was murdered just at the end of our garden wall, and his 
 
 110 
 
body was concealed in some bushes in the next lot; and 
 Ed. North is arrested as the murderer." 
 
 "Ed. North a murderer? It is false, false! What proof 
 have they? and the excited girl turned and clutched her 
 father's hand— "What proof have they for that charge?" 
 
 "I ought not to have told you so abruptly, began her 
 father, striving to sooth the excited and almost crazed 
 girl, let us talk about something else." But she still per- 
 sisted: — 
 
 "What proof have they? They have no proof — It is 
 false, it is false! I know it is false," and she wrung her 
 hands in despair; "but what proof?" and again she seized 
 her father's hand. 
 
 "Mary, you must be quiet and then I will tell you"; 
 and he led her to a seat. After she had become somewhat 
 calmed, he told her the facts of the case as before related. 
 When he had finished, she exclaimed: — "I know it is false 
 and I can prove it so. I must go to him, father. Order 
 up the horses." Her father tried to dissuade her, but to 
 no purpose. 
 
 "Father, I can save him and I must." 
 
 "I will go with you then," said he. 
 
 They entered the carriage and started for the prison. 
 Then she told him of the meeting in the garden the night 
 before and that Edward was with her when she heard the 
 scream, which was the death scream of Lascelles, she had 
 no doubt. She thought that would clear Edward. Her 
 father shook his head. They were driving out of the yard, 
 when a man hailed the driver and came to the door of the 
 carriage and said: — "Col. Walsingham, your ships are 
 coming up the Mississippi." 
 
 "Thank God!" and turning to her said — "Mary, we 
 are no longer beggars." And he ordered the carriage to 
 move on. 
 
 CHAPTER 7. 
 
 Edward North had been arrested and imprisoned, 
 charged with the murder of Col. Lascelles. He was a 
 
 111 
 
northerner, a Yankee, and so could look for little sympathy 
 among the crowd of aristocratic southerners who were the 
 friends of Col. Lascelles. He had been arrested quite 
 early in the morning before the great part of the people 
 were astir in the city. This was fortunate for him, for 
 if the crowd had been around then it was possible that it 
 might have taken the law into their own hands and 
 lynched him. 
 
 How to clear himself he did not know. He could no' 
 bring any evidence to prove his innocence. The circum- 
 stantial evidence against him was strong. His coming 
 from that direction late at night; his having in his 
 possession the unlucky piece of paper, which he had not 
 even looked at, would, he knew, have more weight than 
 his mere assertion of innocence. 
 
 "I have no doubt in my mind that Sam was the 
 murderer, but how to accuse him and how to prove my 
 whereabouts at the time of my seeing the murder. If I 
 could only summon Mary to me, to give evidence in my 
 behalf it would do some good; but will it do to summou 
 her? Will it? and he thought intently. He sank into the 
 only chair in his cell and his head fell upon his hands. 
 At last a thought struck him: — "When Samuel comes on 
 the stand to testify, for I hear they have summoned him, 
 I will accuse him of the murder and see if I cannot work 
 upon his fears and cause him to confess." With this 
 determination he awaited the time of his examination. 
 
 At length it came and he was led into the court room, 
 where was congregated a large crowd, which the unusual 
 fact of a murder trial had brought together. They were 
 for the most part friends of Lascelles. He looked around 
 him. Could it be possible that he, Dr. North, a young 
 physician enjoying the confidence of many friends in the 
 city, was now the object of curiosity, and arraigned in a, 
 court of justice, to answer to the great crime of murder; 
 a crime which all things seemed to indicate that he had 
 committed; and to prove his innocence he had but one 
 
 112 
 
expedient — to accuse Samuel Lascelles openly in court, 
 hoping that fear would cause him to reveal that he had 
 murdered his master. 
 
 Everything had been arranged after the usual 
 formula in such trials. The detectives were sworn who 
 had discovered the body and had searched the rooms of 
 Dr. North; the men who had seen him come from the 
 direction of the murder and shortly after the time when it 
 was supposed to have occurred; the note found in Dr. 
 North's possession, which had been identified by the of- 
 ficers of the bank as the one which Lascelles had paid the 
 day before. All these evidences had been presented and 
 Dr. North was conscious of being in peril, — in danger of 
 being indicted for the murder. 
 
 At length Samuel was called upon the stand to 
 testify that his master had gone out the night before and 
 did not return. He gave his evidence and was about to 
 leave the stand, when Dr. North asked of the magistrate 
 the privilege of asking one question. It was readily 
 granted. 
 
 Dr. North began very deliberately: — "Samuel Las- 
 celles, did you not, in the back of €ol. Walsingham's 
 garden, did you not murder your master? Did you not 
 hold the knife up to the light of the moon and taste the 
 blood upon it? Samuel Lascelles, I accuse you of the 
 murder of your father, Col. Lascelles." During this 
 dramatic interrogation Samuel had stood with distended 
 eyes, quaking knees and a wild, haggard countenance; 
 and as the words rang upon his ears, he gave one loud 
 shriek and cried: — "I did murder him! I did murder him!" 
 The constable sprang to seize him, but before he could 
 be prevented he drew the knife with which he had 
 murdered Col. Lascelles and plunged it into his own 
 bosom. The blood, fresh and warm gushed out of the 
 wound and spattered upon Dr. North, who sprang forward 
 and caught Sam as he fell. The court had become a scene 
 of wild confusion. While some rushed after surgeons, 
 
 113 
 
others crowded around to hear what reason the dying man 
 would give for the act. Why should a son murder his 
 father? "Away! give him air and room," cried Dr. North, 
 as he tried to stanch the blood from the wound; but to 
 no purpose. He laid Sam back upon the floor and as he 
 did so he asked — "Why did you murder your father?" 
 "He said he would sell me as a slave." As the dying 
 man raised himself the wild, awful look in his eyes ap- 
 palled those who stood near; and they fell back from that 
 look. He raised his hand with the last remaining strength 
 left in his body and said — staring at those around him: — 
 "He said he would sell me as a slave! Sell me as a slave! 
 But he did not!" He sank back upon the floor again. 
 Once more he strove to rise; his lips were seen to move, 
 and Dr. North, who had his ear close to the lips of the 
 dying man, heard — "Sell me as a slave" — a rattling waa 
 heard in his throat, the features relaxed, and the soul of 
 Samuel Lascelles was before his God with that of his 
 father, who had goaded him beyond endurance. Slaver>' 
 was a beautiful system (?) It is a wonder that God per- 
 mitted it to live as long as he did, and let the southern 
 people off with so slight a punishment. But it is wiped 
 out now, never to return. Dr. North straightened the 
 limbs of the dead man, then left the court room. He 
 went to his room; packed a few things in a carpet bag; 
 wrote a note which he directed to Mary; called a boy and 
 told him to take it to her, and he strode toward the levee. 
 
 CHAPTER 8. 
 
 They were carrying the body of Sam out of the court 
 room, as the carriage of Col. Walsingham drove up. It 
 had been to the prison, but finding that Dr. North had 
 been taken to the court house, they drove there; but 
 were too late for the trial. Col. Walsingham soon found 
 out the facts of the case., and his astonishment at the 
 knowledge that Sam was the slave of Lascelles knew no 
 bounds. He shuddered at the thought that he had ever 
 
consented to a union between Lascelles and Mary. How 
 different from the thoughts of a few hours before; but 
 now he could think and abhor Lascelles all he wanted to, 
 for his ships were sailing up the Mississippi. He detailed 
 to Mary, the facts of the confession and suicide of Sam. 
 Then the girl wanted to know where Edward was. The 
 colonel inquired of the crowd, but no one knew. 
 
 The excitement upon the death of Sam had been so 
 great that North had been lost sight of. "Let us drive to 
 his lodgings, father? What he must have suffered during 
 the last few hours;" and her eyes filled with tears at the 
 thought of her lover's sufferings. "Drive to his lodgings." 
 Her father gave the command, and soon the carriage drew 
 up at the house. In reply to the question as to the 
 whereabouts of Dr. North, the old lady who acted as 
 housekeeper said, that he came home much excited and 
 said he was going away. He packed a few things in a 
 carpet bag, gave the rest into my care and went off. 
 Where he had gone she knew not. Col. Walsingham and 
 Mary drove home. Mary was met at the door by Belle, 
 who holding out a note said: — "Missus, Missus, here is a 
 note a boy left here for you." 
 
 Mary snatched the note from Belle, for she knew the 
 writing. She opened the note and read hastily: — "Dear 
 Mary: Today I shake the dust off my feet and leave New 
 Orleans. Perhaps, yes, truly I shall come back in time. 
 I shall go to the newly discovered gold fields of California. 
 I shall strive to make a fortune. If I am successful I 
 shall come back, and if you will wait, share it with you. 
 O Mary, I love you with a true and sincere love. Through 
 misfortune or fortune I shall cherish it. 
 
 I shall sail at noon, on the steamer Laurel. I would 
 give much for a parting interview, but it is too late. Al- 
 ready I fear I shall lose the steamer. 
 
 Your affectionate lover, 
 
 Edward." 
 
 Half past eleven — In haste. 
 115 
 
Mary read the note in amazement. She looked at her 
 watch. The steamer sailed at twelve. It lacked but a 
 few minutes of that time — still — I will try and see him — 
 she cried, and entering the carriage that stood waiting to 
 carry her father down to his business, she ordered the 
 driver to drive at all speed to the levee. At a rapid pace 
 the carriage dashed through the streets. "Shall I be in 
 time? O that I may," she was thinking as they dashed 
 along. At the levee she asked of a working man, "Has 
 the steamer Laurel sailed? "Yes, it has just sailed, — you 
 can see the smoke from it now down the river there." 
 
 Mary looked. She could see the long cloud of smoke 
 that the retreating steamer left in its wake. "Too late, 
 too late," she murmured. She looked at the cloud of 
 smoke and watched it until it disappeared then ordered 
 the driver to drive home; and she leaned back in the 
 carriage and gave vent to her sorrow. 
 
 CHAPTER 9. 
 
 Five years with their varied changes and scenes have 
 passed since the incidents related in chapter 8, and in 
 those five years great changes had come to the persons 
 connected with our story. It was a bright spring after- 
 noon, and around the Col. Walsingham home a crowd of 
 men congregated. The colonel had been unsuccessful in 
 his speculations. His ships had been wrecked, and now, 
 when his hairs were whitening for the grave his fine 
 estate had come under the auctioneer's hammer. The 
 sale began. The first slave had not been sold, when a 
 new face appeared among the spectators. A face full 
 bearded and tanned and swarthy from the effects of the 
 sun, we recognize as that of Dr. Edward North. Five 
 years had changed him somewhat; for during that time 
 he had lived in the gold mines of California. He had been 
 one of the most successful miners, and now had returned 
 to New Orleans rich. The sale was soon discontinued, 
 because he bid so high for the slaves that it was of no 
 
 116 
 
use for anyone to bid against him; they saw that he in- 
 tended to have it all. At length the house and lands were 
 put up and these he also bought; so that now the whole 
 establishment was his. Everything which had belonged 
 to Col. Walsingham was now his. 
 
 "What name shall I put down as the purchaser?" 
 asked the auctioneer. 
 
 "Edward North," replied the stranger, and in a mo- 
 ment the name had run all through the crowd. 
 
 "Edward North!" with much interest said one of the 
 crowd; "the one who was formerly a physician here?" 
 "Yes, the same;" and he offered his hand which Dr. 
 North shook cordially. The whole crowd then pushed 
 forward to shake the hand of a man whom once they 
 would have passed without a nod, largely because he had 
 showed that he was rich. 
 
 Col. Walsingham lay upon his dying bed while the 
 sale was going on. A faithful nurse was beside him. It 
 was his still beautiful daughter, Mary. 
 
 "My child," murmured the dying man," I feel that my 
 end is drawing near, and I must leave you penniless. 
 What will become of you, Mary? What will become of 
 you?" — and the pain depicted in his face showed how sor- 
 rowful was the thought. "To think that after a life of 
 so many j^ears, during which I have been considered a 
 rich man, I should at length die and leave you penniless. 
 It grieves me beyond measure." 
 
 "Now don't grieve, father. Trusting in God, I shall 
 live some way. I can apply to some of my friends. They 
 will surely protect a lone orphan for a fevv^ weeks or 
 months until she can obtain employment." 
 
 "Your friends, I fear, Mary, will be very different from 
 formerly, now you are poor. I had thought to have found 
 a protector for you, but you have rejected every proposition 
 for a husband. You cannot believe that Edward is still 
 alive." 
 
 117 
 
"I not only believe it, but also that he will yet come 
 and reward my constancy," 
 
 "It cannot be, girl, for it is five years since you have 
 heard from him. E'er now he has fallen. — But is not the 
 sale over yet?" She went to the door of the bedroom and 
 asked Belle "Is the sale over?" 
 
 *'Yes, Missus, we's all sold and to one man." 
 
 "What's his name?" 
 
 'I don't know, Missus, I don't know. Missus, but he's 
 bought us all and the plantation, too." Mary went in and 
 told her father. 
 
 "Thank God," he exclaimed, "that one man has bought 
 them all. I could now die content if you were provided for." 
 
 "Don't think of me," cried the noble girl, while she 
 kissed his wrinkled brow. "God will care for the father- 
 less." 
 
 "Mary, I would like to see the man who has purchased 
 my people." 
 
 Mary went to the door of the bedroom, and calling 
 Belle, asked her to bring in the purchaser, her father 
 wanted to see him. 
 
 Dr. North entered the room. It was with difficulty 
 that he could control himself. "Do I see the buyer of 
 my people?" asked the colonel. 
 
 Dr. North bowed in assent. "Well, sir, it had long 
 been the wish of my heart to liberate these slaves at my 
 death; but circumstances compel me to do otherwise. 
 Sir, the opinion of a dying man is that slav^-y is as great 
 a curse upon the white people as upon the negroes. I 
 had hoped to liberate them and leave my daughter free 
 and independent as respects wealth, but I cannot, I can- 
 not." He covered his face with the bedclothes, and sobbed 
 aloud. 
 
 "Father, calm yourself," said Mary. Dr. North started 
 at the voice. The sick man uncovered his face, and Dr. 
 
 118 
 
North stepped forward, took the wasted hand in his, say- 
 ing — "Col. Walsingham, your wishes shall be carried out. 
 Your slaves shall be liberated and Mary, if she will, shall 
 be placed in a position free from all danger of ever be- 
 coming a dependent. The sick man partially raised him- 
 self in his bed, and despite his weakness grasped Ed- 
 ward's hand. Mary crept nearer and gazed wistfully in 
 his face. Thaf voice, it called up past recollections. When, 
 where had she heard it? Col. Walsingham still held the 
 hand of the stranger. "Your name, noble stranger? Your 
 name." He was almost childish in his eagerness. How 
 different from the stern man of former years. Dr. North 
 remembered. 
 
 "My name? — Edward North!" 
 
 "Edward North!" shrieked Mary, while she nearly 
 fell. Only the strong arm of Edward sustained her while 
 she was pressed to his heart. "Edward North, how comes 
 this?" exclaimed the old man. "We thought you dead, 
 from your long absence and silence." 
 
 Dr. North then related to them the story of his life 
 since he left. How he went to the gold region, and there 
 by means of his profession, had become a very rich man; 
 but my heart was in New Orleans. Led by an unexplained 
 cause I felt compelled to come here. If I had not arrived 
 just as the sale was coming off I intended to look around 
 and find out whether Mary was true to her word and was 
 waiting for me. If I had found that she was not, I in- 
 tended to leave New Orleans. I came up to your planta- 
 tion and found the sale just commenced. From the by- 
 standers I learned of Col. Walsingham's misfortunes, and 
 resolved to buy the whole, I also learned that Mary was 
 still unmarried — and is she still true? is she still loving 
 Edward?" "Yes, she is still true" — it was her father who 
 answered for her. "Come to my heart, dearest." Mary 
 arose and was folded to his bosom. "And now your bless- 
 ing, father!" as they stood before him. 
 
 119 
 
The old man raised himself in his bed; — "Children, I 
 give you my blessing. Edward, you will find Mary a true 
 and worthy wife — cherish her. And Mary, I think in 
 Edward you will find a faithful husband; and now receive 
 my blessing." He sank back on the bed much exhausted. 
 
 From that day he sank rapidly, and soon after the 
 final sale of the plantation he died. It was a beautiful 
 evening selected for the burial of the body of Col. Walsing- 
 ham. In accordance with his wish he was to be interred 
 in the family burying ground on the plantation. The eve- 
 ning of the burial arrived. The procession left the house 
 in the following order: — Back of bier, on which rested the 
 coffin followed Mary and Edward. Behind them, weeping 
 and moaning, followed the servants, no longer thought of 
 as slaves. From the oldest to the youngest, all bowed 
 with sorrow, they came. The solemn services had been 
 said at the graves. The rueful fiat "earth to earth, dust 
 to dust, ashes to ashes," had been spoken and the grave 
 had been filled; when Dr. North made a little address to 
 the slaves: — "Servants, your dead master's wish was that 
 when he died you might become free! In accordance 
 with that wish I now pronounce you free. Step forward 
 now and you will receive your liberation papers." There, 
 in the impressive silence, caused by the suppressed grief 
 and mingled joy — with the moon shining down on the 
 grave of their beloved master, Dr. North gave each one of 
 the papers which made them free men and women. He 
 added: — "I have seen enough of slavery to make me abhor 
 and loathe it." 
 
 "And so have I," said Mary. 
 
 Dr. Edward North and Mary were married soon after 
 the burial of her father; and after a time they disposed 
 of the plantation and moved to one of the northern states, 
 where they now live. Dr. North, in their northern home 
 town, is an influential and honored physician. Mary still 
 graces their home with her beauty — which her husband 
 says "will never fade." 
 
 120 
 
A WINTER IDYL 
 
 The joys of other days are flown; 
 The friends of other scenes are gone; 
 And I can now but mourn alone — 
 But mourn alone. 
 
 The forest trees have lost their leaves; 
 And twist their branches in the breeze; — 
 As naked as my heart that grieves — 
 My heart that grieves. 
 
 The snowflakes on the landscape fall, 
 And whiten wood and hill and all; 
 But my poor heart fresh griefs appall — 
 Fresh griefs appall. 
 
 O when will come the blessed end? 
 O when will peace our Saviour send? 
 O when will joy with sorrow blend? 
 With sorrow blend. 
 
 We wait, O God, while we obey, 
 The coming of the wished for day. 
 When heart and soul in peace shall pray- 
 In peace shall pray. 
 
 Jesus, Oh how I love that name! 
 
 It sends a thrill through all my soul. 
 That for my sins he bore the shame. 
 
 And sorrow's cup, he drank the whole. 
 
 Jesus for thy redeeming love. 
 
 How can I ever thee repay? 
 That thou should'st for my soul have strove 
 
 And followed me from day to day. 
 
 From day to day, until I felt 
 The sinner's load so hard to bear. 
 
 And thy sweet love my will to melt 
 And I sin's load no longer wear. 
 121 
 
But Jesus thou hast spoken peace 
 
 Unto my weary, sinsick soul; 
 And from my sins I feel release, 
 
 For thou did'st them from off me roll. 
 Feb. 1, 1866. 
 
 MY QUEEN 
 
 She is standing somewhere, she I shall honor, 
 She that I want for my queen 
 Whether her hair be golden or raven, 
 Whether her eyes be hazel or blue, 
 I know not now, it will be engraven 
 Some day hence as my loveliest hue. 
 But she must be courteous, and she must be holy, 
 Pure in her spirit, the lady I love, 
 Whether her birth be noble or lowly, 
 I care no more than the spirits above; 
 I'll give my love to my lady's keeping. 
 And ever her strength on mine shall lean; 
 And the stars shall fall and the angels be weeping- 
 E'er I cease to love her, my Queen, my Queen. 
 
 ANOTHER DAY 
 
 Another day 
 
 Has rolled away 
 And we are nearer home. 
 
 And one day less 
 
 Of pain, distress 
 For us on earth to roam. 
 
 One less of toil 
 
 And earthly broil 
 Here on this hither shore. 
 
 We'll sooner meet 
 
 And sooner greet 
 Our friends who've gone before. 
 122 
 
Time is so fast 
 
 Our days will pass 
 E'en as a fleeting song. 
 
 Then let us strive 
 
 As thus we live 
 To happy pass along. 
 Feb. 8, 1866. 
 
 USE IT 
 
 Time is passing swift away — 
 
 Use it, use it. 
 An hour is gone and then — a day — 
 
 Use it, use it. 
 Soon our days will all be past. 
 We shall come to death at last, 
 Therefore while a chance thou hast. 
 
 Use it, use it. 
 
 Life is passing swift away — 
 
 Use it, use it. 
 Seize the gift while now ye may — 
 
 Use it, use it. 
 For our life will soon fly by. 
 And within the tomb we'll lie, 
 Then see that ye, ere ye die — 
 
 Use it, use it. 
 Jan. 9, 1866. 
 
 LIFE'S RIVER 
 
 Onward rolling, ever rolling. 
 
 In its never ceasing way. 
 Rolls the river — Life's own river — 
 
 To "Time's ocean," day by day. 
 
 On it floating, ever floating 
 Human souls are borne along 
 
 On their course, though winding, fickle 
 But as e'en a fleeting song. 
 123 
 
All along the banks are lying 
 Wrecks of those who've gone before, 
 
 Not well guiding in the current 
 Have been cast upon the shore. 
 
 We are sailing onward rapid, 
 
 Soon will reach the harbor rest — 
 
 Say, O voyager, on life's river, 
 Shall it be the harbor blest? 
 June, 1866. 
 
 UNDER THE SNOWS 
 
 Dead — did you say! 
 
 It cannot be! 
 She who with joy 
 
 Was wild and free. 
 She — on whose cheek 
 
 Red bloomed the rose — 
 Dead! — No, No, and 
 
 Under the snows? 
 
 Light her step 
 
 As she moved along, 
 And on her lips 
 
 There trilled a song, 
 It was bright springtime — 
 
 How swift time goes! — 
 Now — she's dead and 
 
 Under the snows. 
 
 Not more pure than 
 
 Her guileless breast, 
 Are the snows that 
 
 Over her rest. 
 The drift snow blows — 
 
 Over her? Yes, 
 For she's dead and 
 
 And under the snows. 
 Jan. 22, 1865. 
 
 124 
 
THE KISS 
 
 She sat at my feet, I took her hands, 
 I looked at her, she looked at me. 
 
 And as we sat the thought arose, 
 If ever she my wife would be. 
 
 I parted the hair from off her brow. 
 That rounded out so full and white. 
 
 And bending down upon that brow 
 I pressed a kiss — 'twas very slight. 
 
 She turned her eyes full on my face. 
 They were not filled with angry hate, 
 
 And in their liquid blackness there, 
 I quickly read my future fate. 
 
 She sits at my feet, I take her hands, 
 
 I look at her, she looks at me, 
 And in my mind there is no thought, 
 If ever she my wife will be. 
 May 17, 1866. 
 
 Lost — 
 
 Lost — 
 
 AN ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 A little girl with blackest eyes 
 
 That laugh with mirth the while; 
 With mouth the sweetest on the earth 
 
 When round it plays a smile; 
 With brow as white as marble pure — 
 
 The veins on it you trace — 
 With figure slight and slender too. 
 
 And moved with every grace. 
 
 Aji erring heart that was my own 
 
 For nature gave it me, 
 And I had thought I'd carried it 
 
 From Cupid's arrows free. 
 125 
 
But it is gone, (nor care I if 
 I can somebody's find, 
 
 A fair exchange no robb'ry is 
 If pleasing to each mind). 
 
 Hear- 
 
 Whatever one the first may find, 
 
 Will find the last I ween, 
 For it is said together they 
 
 Were when the last was seen. 
 If but this chance to meet the eye 
 
 Of one — upon her part, 
 Will she not bring it back to me 
 
 Or send me back my heart? 
 May, 1866. 
 
 SONG 
 
 O come to the foot of the vale — 
 
 Come, Love, come; 
 And there I will tell you a tale. 
 
 Come, Love, come. 
 Come when the stars are shining bright, 
 Come by the moon-beams' first pale light. 
 Come when today has turned to tonight. 
 
 Come, Love, come. 
 
 Do thou come to the old oak tree; 
 
 Come, Love, come, 
 There I will come to meet with thee; 
 
 Come, Love, come. 
 And I will whisper in your ear, 
 Such words as you will love to hear. 
 Words which will be — O nameless, Dear- 
 Come, Love^ come. 
 
 Come by the moon's first gilding light, 
 
 Come, Love, come. 
 Come in all thy beauty's might; 
 
 Come, Love^ come. 
 126 
 
And as the stars look from above; 
 And both our hearts in common move, 
 Then I will whisper of my love; 
 Come, Love^ come. 
 June 3, 1866. 
 
 THE TWO BELLS 
 
 On the frosty air of the midnight gloom 
 
 Two bells rang out their chime; 
 Each telling the old year had met its doom, 
 
 Its death was sealed by time. 
 With a shuddering groan and a long drawn sigh 
 
 The old year died away; 
 While the one bell tolled, and the other high 
 
 Rang out right merrily. 
 
 As the sounds smote my ear, I astonished cried: 
 
 "O bells, why this double sound? 
 Why now do you ring, as with merry pride, 
 
 And now in sadness bound?" 
 And a silvery voice from the silver bells 
 
 Gave the answer true to me — 
 The tolling bell of the past it tells. 
 
 Dead for eternity! 
 
 But the merry bell with resonance loud 
 
 Proclaims the future come. 
 Which shall lead us on, both the meek and proud. 
 
 To heaven and to home. 
 Then I said in my soul, "May it be at last. 
 
 When I shall leave this strife. 
 That the tolling bell may tell of the past, 
 
 And the merry of future life." 
 Dec. 25/ 1867. 
 
 MAY HEARTS BE TRUMPS FOREVER 
 
 When friends desert and hopes are dead, 
 When clouds and darkness 'round us spread, 
 127 
 
Quench our life and dear ones sever, 
 May hearts be trumps forever. 
 
 When joys and pleasures bless our way, 
 And make it one bright summer day; 
 While we high hopes endeavor. 
 May hearts be trumps forever. 
 
 In youth when each is fresh with life, 
 And eager for the world's fierce strife. 
 To turn it with his lever. 
 May hearts be trumps forever. 
 
 In manhood's prime when firm and strong 
 
 Our path in life we march along. 
 Despising those that waver. 
 May hearts be trumps forever. 
 
 In age when frosted is our hair, 
 And chill our bones from wintry air, 
 And the future 'comes the never. 
 May hearts be trumps forever. 
 
 O man in youth or manhood's prime, 
 In joy or pain, in age's decline, 
 If you from truth ne'er sever, 
 
 Hearts will be trumps forever. 
 Nov. 16, 1867. 
 
 A LESSON FROM THE RAIN DROPS 
 
 Down from the heavens with patter and dash, 
 Come the bright raindrops on window and sash; 
 All through the morning unceasing they fall — 
 Wet with their dashings are wood, tree and wall. 
 
 In summer I list as on passes the shower. 
 And brightens with gladness the woodland and bower, 
 While lying on sweet hay, beneath the barn roof. 
 To the raindrops that make in my dreams the woof. 
 
 128 
 
But thinking the, while, with dreams in my eyes, 
 How much they effect, though tiny their size; 
 What work they perform, for people and world. 
 As down on the earth by wind they are hurled. 
 
 Down in the bosom of earth lies a seed, 
 
 A germ in its heart, the millions to feed; 
 
 But ages may come and ages may go, 
 
 But the touch of the raindrop alone makes it grow. 
 
 From the green hillside there flows forth a spring, 
 A head source from whence brooks babble and sing. 
 But dried would the spring be and silent the brook, 
 Had raindrops their cloud homes never forsook. 
 
 The ocean's vast waves, the roll of the tide. 
 The great river flood, on which huge navies ride. 
 Are raindrops combined in one swelling mass. 
 And naught in the world has force to surpass. 
 
 A lesson is taught to man in his pride, 
 Oxir greatness or smallness but little betide. 
 If we with whole soul and strong iron will. 
 Our own part in life would surely fulfill. 
 Aug. 20, 1867. 
 
 PILLARS OF SMOKE 
 
 Pillars of smoke — when morning breaks 
 
 O'er night and day contending, 
 Awakened birds, they spread their wings 
 
 The azure sky ascending. 
 
 Pillars of smoke — on far hillside 
 
 From home of thrift and plenty, 
 Marking a life that's brave and true. 
 
 Sweetened with peace and plenty. 
 
 Pillars of smoke — from chimneys tall. 
 Where factory looms are humming, 
 
 Weaving webs of a nation's wealth 
 And good times surely coming. 
 129 
 
Pillars of smoke — where presses clink, 
 The fair white sheets fast-blotting 
 
 With tales of a day that's passed away — 
 Its success, its defeat, its plotting. 
 
 Pillars of smoke — unsubstantial things. 
 Forgotten when noontime's flowing; 
 
 What lessons sublime, what hope, what trust — 
 To mind of seer showing. 
 
 TIME ISLES 
 
 There is a mystic stream which flows 
 From God's eternal throne to man. 
 
 A gentle zephyr o'er it blows 
 
 And rainbows bright its waters span. 
 
 A river deep, whose banks are seen 
 
 But in the twilight of the past, — 
 So deep it is, it ne'er does seem 
 
 To rufQe with the passing blast. 
 
 Its name is Time, its maker God, 
 
 Its future and its past are one. 
 It flowed when man the earth first trod. 
 
 It flows when earth her course has run. 
 
 Placed in this river deep and wide 
 
 Are islands, more than mind can know; 
 
 That wait their whelming by the tide 
 Which leaves them blest, or cursed with woe. 
 
 Time Isles — which last some for a day, 
 And others while long years have rolled; — 
 
 They count threescore and ten, they say. 
 Before their forms the waves infold. 
 
 'Tis well — but when time's waves shall flood 
 
 My island home, and I go down — 
 May Christ have shed not vain his blood, 
 
 Nor worn for naught his thorny crown. 
 Aug. 22, 1867. 
 
 130 
 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE 
 
 A ship was sailing on its way 
 
 Across a wide extended sea. 
 A thing of life it seemed to be — 
 
 A courser wild, untamed and free. 
 The waves around it dashed and played, 
 
 The wind its masts bent to and fro; 
 But as it sped, it seemed to scorn, 
 
 The winds above, the waves below. 
 
 The ship a human form it was 
 
 And bore along a casket rare; 
 A cargo rich as India's wealth, 
 
 A human soul unstained and fair. 
 The ocean — was life's troubled sea. 
 
 That 'round us dashes here below; 
 Filled with reefs and dangers dire, 
 
 Through which each his course must plow. 
 
 The waves were those few troubles that 
 
 Assail us on this mundane sphere; 
 The winds — they were those sorrows fleet 
 
 That come across our pathway here. 
 But as the ship laughed them to scorn 
 
 And on its course, untamed and free, 
 Sped forward to the harbor rest — 
 
 Our course in life — thus may it be. 
 Dec. 9, 1866. 
 
 LIFE, WEARY LIFE 
 
 Life, weary life. 
 Burdened by sorrow, embittered by strife; 
 Thy billowy river 
 Is bearing me ever — 
 Whither! Ah, whither! O Life? 
 
 Night! gloomy night! 
 Starless and cheerless, no promise of light. 
 131 
 
Though fearful the gale 
 Still onward I sail — 
 Whither! Ah. whither! O Night? 
 
 Years! rolling years! 
 Will ye not heed the swift coming tears? 
 As in the gathering gloom, 
 I reel on to my doom — 
 Whither! Ah, whither! O years! 
 
 Grave! Silent grave! 
 Thou hast no power from sorrow to save! 
 My spirit shall wander 
 In the infinite yonder — 
 Whither, Ah, whither! O Grave? 
 
 Eternity ! 
 Fearful the fate thou hast treasured for me! 
 I shall anchor my spirit bark never 
 Sailing into the gloomy forever, — 
 Whither, Eternity, whither? 
 
 MY SEWING GIRL 
 I would not give my Sewing Girl 
 
 For all the wealth the Indies hold. 
 No price could tempt me e'er to part 
 
 With one fair tress of shimmering gold 
 That doth her head — a crown infold. 
 
 For she to me is dearer far 
 
 Than wealth or gems or aught can buy; 
 For heaven would be without a star 
 
 To light my soul to realms on high 
 Did she refuse my life to try. 
 
 My Sewing Girl! — her eyes are blue — 
 Her lips reveal the pearls between. 
 
 Her hair a golden azure hue 
 
 When on it lies a sunshine sheen. 
 
 Or is caressed by passing gleam. 
 132 
 
I know tliat some may think it strange 
 That I should love one such as she. 
 
 A working girl — yet knew they me — 
 A greater wonder would it be 
 
 That she should be so true to me. 
 
 My Sewing Girl — I would not give 
 
 For all the maids that Fashion knows; 
 For she has that they may not have, 
 
 A heart that thrills and throbs and glows 
 With love for me, which ever grows! 
 May 28, 1870. 
 
 PUSH 
 
 In the stream of life that flows 
 
 From the life spring to the grave — 
 Every boat that bravely goes 
 
 O'er its onward rushing wave — 
 That alone shall surely reach 
 
 To the haven of that realm, 
 Where Success stands on the beach — 
 
 That has Push placed at the helm. 
 
 Backward floating with the tide, 
 
 See yon craft with faith once bright. 
 Dashed about on every side 
 
 Conquered in the watery fight. 
 'Gainst the rushing of the tide 
 
 To its goal like arrow true, — 
 O'er the waves no more 'twill ride — 
 
 Push has left the fickle crew. 
 
 See yon boat with sails all set. 
 
 Colors floating on the breeze, 
 Bowsprit like a bayonet 
 
 Glinting mid the forest trees; 
 Full of life it seems to be. 
 
 Rushing like an armed band — 
 Its success is plain to see — 
 
 Push is captain in command. 
 133 
 
Voyager on life's rapid stream, 
 
 To yourself be ever true; 
 If on shore the false lights gleam, 
 
 Onward still the right pursue. 
 And whatever fate you meet 
 
 Sailing towards the western sun 
 You success will surely greet 
 
 If, for captain, Push you've won. 
 Sept., 1878. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S MURMURIN' 
 
 The sun had sunk behind the western hill; 
 The mellow light was fading fast away 
 !From out the western sky. The birds had ceased 
 To sing, and now with head beneath the wing. 
 Were waiting for the morn. 
 
 Within his room 
 An old man sat; from long continued fast 
 Pallid and weak and faint. And as he sat 
 Thus to himself he mused: — 
 
 Life? What is life! a bubble rare 
 
 That rises but to burst in air; 
 
 An arrow shot without an aim, 
 
 None knowing where 'twill lodge again; 
 
 A fleeing from the sorrows drear 
 
 Which crowd upon our pathway here; 
 
 A living to forget the past, 
 
 A seeking for the future fast; 
 
 A sky spread o'er with clouds of pain. 
 
 Through which the sunshine strives in vain — 
 
 This is the life that I have found, 
 
 There's rest for me — but, 'neath the ground. 
 
 With a deep groan 
 He ceased his melancholy wail. Darkness 
 O'er shadov^^ed fast, and threw a dark'ning veil 
 O'er nature, and within his room fell thick 
 
 134 
 
With gloom. He laid him on the sunken floor, 
 And as he lay he slept; while through his brain 
 Dreams of the past — what he, a j^outh, had dreamed 
 Of life, which 'fore him lay a long bright vision flitted. 
 
 From childhood grew he into 
 The stalwart man. He kissed the lips again 
 Which he alone had pressed; and folded her 
 Unto his breast, whom he alone had called 
 The sacred name of wife. The blush of pride 
 Which moved him then, again thrilled in his veins. 
 He saw his offspring rising up to stand 
 Among the great and proud. And yet his heart 
 Had spoke light of his life; and he would curse 
 Himself for his own words, but stayed the words 
 Upon his lips — 
 
 The vain old man was dead. 
 July 10, 1867. 
 
 A MYTHICAL BIRD 
 
 The Hindoos tell us of a bird. 
 
 By none e'er known to sing; 
 As on the earth it wanders round 
 
 With but a single wing; 
 It is the strange sad counterpart 
 
 Of bachelors forlorn — 
 Condemned to walk through busy life 
 
 As single as when born. 
 
 Another bird the Hindoos say, 
 
 Built in the same half state. 
 Likewise is forced to roam alone 
 
 Until she meets her fate; 
 A counterpart of spinsters old 
 
 Or maybe blooming lasses 
 Condemned to fight her way alone 
 
 Through life's most rugged passes. 
 135 
 
But happy days come to these birds, 
 
 When once they chance to meet; 
 Each half does know the other half — 
 
 The wings their comrades greet; 
 And then united up they rise 
 
 On pinions glad they fly, 
 One aim, one fate, one endless home 
 
 Within the azure sky. 
 
 And so my friends, the bachelor, 
 
 And lonesome maiden pale. 
 Just take into your half-grown hearts 
 
 The moral of this tale — 
 Unite your single, crippled lives — 
 
 Catch joy upon the fly — 
 And soar above and live in love 
 
 In the matrimonial sky. 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD 
 
 "I never drink" — the stranger said. 
 
 My father grasped his hand. 
 "Come in and rest your weary head, 
 
 Thou noblest of the land." 
 
 "I never drink" — the stranger said. 
 
 "Ay! so you said before." 
 "Come in!" — and then my father led 
 The way in from the door. 
 
 "I never drink" — the stranger said. 
 
 "And hear you that my son; 
 This man in temperance teaching led 
 
 Already friends has won." 
 
 "I never drink" — the stranger said, 
 "Because you hadn't ought'ter; 
 
 But fix a chamber and a bed" — 
 "My whiskey mixed with water." 
 136 
 
And then my father's brow grew red 
 
 With angry rage I think; 
 And he severely bust the head 
 
 Of the man who didn't drink. 
 
 MY MUSTACHE 
 A Ditty 
 
 Respectfully inscribed to I. W. F., I. M. T., S. W. H., 
 G. A. T., and to the memory of that bright particular one, 
 which in days agone formed one of the many attractions 
 of I. S. 
 
 My mustache! Oh, my mustache! 
 
 My heart still treasures thee. 
 And many are the fleeting hours 
 
 I've passed in nursing thee. 
 My weary feet have wandered far. 
 
 And yet must farther roam, — 
 But, Oh, whatever land I tread 
 
 My mustache there must come. 
 
 The fields of classic Hamilton 
 
 Are spreading round me wide; 
 Its college hills and castled Sem 
 
 In all their learned pride; 
 But give me to my old wild land, 
 
 Far from the park — so lone, — 
 For there amid her forest free. 
 
 My mustache is — at home. 
 
 I've listened at the sunset hour 
 
 To songs of Ham. Fem. Sem., 
 And smiled to see her students glad 
 
 As I always do — a Fem. 
 But sadness chased away the smile. 
 
 As I thought that it must be, 
 That the reading group in the northern room, 
 
 My mustache could not see. 
 137 
 
There's no mustache like my own mustache, 
 
 Nor ever will there be; 
 Such hairs of beauty and of worth 
 
 As mine, which now you see. 
 Where royal razor ne'er has trod 
 
 Nor lather frothed a chain — 
 And, O, should I e'er cut thee off, 
 
 Thou'lt soon grow out again. 
 March 2L 1868. 
 
 PARAPHRASE OF "ROCK OF AGES" 
 
 To thy cross, O Lord, I cling, 
 
 Thus my soul would ever sing — 
 
 I am weak but that is strong, 
 
 It will keep me all day long — 
 
 All day long, through life's clear sun, 
 Till the night of death is come — 
 If to thy dear cross I cling, 
 Strength to keep me, it shall bring. 
 
 I am weak but that is strong, 
 
 Is the burden of my song; 
 
 In its strength I trust and rest. 
 
 Let my soul by it be blessed. 
 
 All day long, through life's clear sun, 
 Till the night of death is come — 
 If to thy dear cross I cling, 
 Strength to keep me, it shall bring. 
 
 In its strength I trust and rest. 
 
 By my trust now all confessed; 
 
 Let it be a refuge where 
 
 I can breath my willing prayer. 
 
 All day long, through life's clear sun, 
 Till the night of death is come — 
 If to thy dear cross I cling, 
 Strength to keep me, it shall bring. 
 138 
 
THE RELIABLE GIRL 
 
 Let this one be praised for her beauty. 
 
 The gold that shines out from her hair. 
 And form like divine Aphrodite — 
 
 Than all of the Graces more rare; 
 With eyes like soft bits of blue heaven, 
 
 And teeth like the frost of a pearl. 
 But ever I'll praise my own darling — 
 
 The blessed reliable girl. 
 
 Let that one be sung to the heavens. 
 
 For wit like the sun at noon-day, 
 For thoughts that flash like the meteors — 
 
 Lost stars that in the sky play — 
 Though keen be her wit and her genius, 
 
 For me not a charm they unfurl, 
 They're nought when I'm with my own darling. 
 
 The blessed reliable girl. 
 
 When sickness, with skeleton fingers. 
 
 Has seized one with cruelest pain; 
 When trouble its murkey cloud lowers 
 
 And darkness is over life's plain; 
 What cares one for v/it or for beauty — 
 
 The diamond that outshines the pearl — 
 They're dull by the heavenly goodness 
 
 Of th' blessed reliable girl. 
 
 Let others then sing of their beauties 
 
 With forms that are rare and divine; 
 Their wits, with bright crowns on their foreheads, 
 
 That glitter like gems from the mine; 
 I never will yield to their laudings, 
 
 Though at me their mockings they hurl — 
 But ever I'll praise the true hearted. 
 
 The blessed reliable girl. 
 April 30, 1879. 
 
 139 
 
VOICES 
 
 Written for the Waverley Magazine. 
 There are voices all around us. 
 
 Thrilling ever through the soul; 
 Voices, which, so strange and mystic, 
 
 On our life a sadness roll. 
 
 They are calling from the thin air 
 As the winds go moaning by, 
 
 And the sound they oftenest utter 
 Seemeth like a quivering sigh. 
 
 From time's drear and desert ocean, 
 Strewn with hulks of long ago. 
 
 Floating ever come these voices, 
 Mingling joy with saddest woe; 
 
 Wakening in us olden memories — 
 Scenes long gone in weary years; 
 
 Scenes o'er which there thickly gathered 
 Leaden clouds, whose rain was tears. 
 
 Through our souls we feel these voices 
 Throbbing with the strangest dread; 
 
 And they startle all our senses, 
 Like the touch of sheeted dead. 
 
 Often struggle we for freedom 
 From their power, but all in vain; 
 
 Still they shriek and sob and whisper 
 Like a demon in the brain. 
 
 Often fond, and oft reproachful; 
 
 Often choked with saddest woe; 
 Often sadly, sweetly tender, 
 
 Like a mother's long ago; 
 
 Then they thunder out their orders 
 With a harsh and stern command. 
 
 And we cannot stop their ringing 
 As on brain we press the hand. 
 I4O 
 
Now a sister's gentle pleading 
 Strikes upon our listening ear; 
 
 And their accents, soft and winning. 
 Seem to mingle with a tear. 
 
 Then the voice of one still dearer 
 "In the golden days of yore" 
 
 Comes to us a sweeter music 
 Than was ever heard before. 
 
 O sad voices! O sad memories! 
 
 Will you never cease to throng 
 In our brain as oft the phantom 
 
 Of a long-forgotten song? 
 
 Will you never leave in calmness 
 The poor weary, troubled soul? 
 
 Will you never, from it ladened, 
 All thy load of sorrow roll? 
 
 S, A. Mott. 
 
 THE MAN OF STYLE 
 
 While walking through the village green, 
 
 And looking at the town, 
 Whom, think you, my dazed eyes have seen. 
 
 Which makes me feel "done brown"? 
 If you'll believe me for the while. 
 It was the man who puts on style. 
 
 His coat was cut in latest mode; 
 
 His pants in latest trim; 
 His boots were long and were "box-toed," 
 
 Which made his feet look slim; 
 And on his head he wore a "tile," 
 A nice "plug" hat — this man of style. 
 
 A meerschaum "hand" held his cigar 
 
 As he went loitering by: 
 The smoke — ^he drew it from afar, 
 141 
 
And puffed it in your eye. 
 The holder caused a pensive smile; 
 The smoke, a tear — O man of style! 
 
 A little cane he swung with grace, 
 
 Kid gloves his hands concealed, 
 And smiles that mantled o'er his face 
 
 All angry passions healed 
 If you allowed your rage to "bile" 
 At seeing him, the man of style. 
 
 He came out here to get the air, 
 
 And see a country place. 
 His urbane ways with them to share, 
 
 And give a little grace 
 To country boors, and for the while 
 To show himself a man of style. 
 
 One day he went up to the "pond," 
 
 With twenty odd or so. 
 "Most country folks are rather fond 
 
 Of such picnics, as you know;" 
 We answered "Yes/' cross as a file, 
 He's such a blow, this man of style. 
 
 Just here we asked, with eager rate, 
 
 How long it might appear 
 He lived within the city great. 
 
 He answered, "Half a year." 
 We turned away with quite a smile 
 As thus he spoke, our man of style. 
 
 S. A. Mott. 
 
 In crimson flakes on the garden mold 
 
 On the fallen rose leaves lying, 
 And the mystic wind that harper old 
 Thru my ravaged bower is agleing 
 A low sad tune 
 For lovely June 
 Is dying. 
 142 
 
THE HARDER PART 
 Originff.l. 
 
 Ho, ye who at the anvil toil, 
 
 And strike the sturdy blow; 
 Who feel the blood within you boil 
 
 Before its furnace glow — 
 Ne'er envy him whose life is passed 
 
 As one long holiday. 
 For know it is the harder part 
 
 To idle life away. 
 
 Ho, ye who on the rugged farm 
 
 Contend with hardy soil. 
 To wrest from out earth's bosom warm 
 
 The fruits of honest toil, 
 Ne'er envy him whose life is passed 
 
 In indolence and play. 
 For know it is the harder task 
 
 To idle life away. 
 
 Ho, ye who rack the weary brain 
 
 In study hard and long, 
 That ye perhaps at last may gain 
 
 The honor of a song — 
 Though wearily the time is passed 
 
 As work ye day by day, 
 Yet his is still the harder task 
 
 Who idles life away. 
 
 And so, whatever be your work, 
 
 Perform it with a will. 
 And never from its duties shirk. 
 
 Nor soul with envy fill; 
 For that which makes the happy heart 
 
 Is work, not foolish play. 
 And freedom from that harder part 
 
 Of idling life away. 
 
 S. A. Mott. 
 143 
 
A WINTER'S EVENING 
 For the Temperance Patriot. 
 
 By S. A. Mott 
 Snows o'erspread the valley, 
 
 Snows o'erspread the hill, 
 Ice has hound the river. 
 
 Frost has stopped the mill; 
 In the far off distance 
 
 Cold and blue the sky. 
 In the barren branches 
 
 Sad winds shriek and sigh. 
 
 Birds have fled the presence 
 
 Of the ice and cold. 
 In the distant southland 
 
 Tired wings they fold; 
 And the timid sauirrel 
 
 Feeds upon the store 
 Of nuts that he has gathered 
 
 To pass the winter o'er. 
 
 Men, they walk the pavement 
 
 With a hurried tread. 
 While their cloaks around them 
 
 Thick and warm are spread. 
 From the rich man's window 
 
 Brightly streams the light — 
 God protect the homeless 
 
 Such a bitter night. 
 Dec. 31, 1870. 
 
 WITH A PIECE OF CHALK 
 For the Journal, 
 PROLOGUE. 
 She stood by the blackboard's sooty side. 
 
 The chalk-dust settled on her dress; 
 Then opened she the grey eyes wide — 
 But who she was — you cannot guess; — 
 144 
 
She flourished 'round a crayon white. 
 Drew back her hand as he would take it, 
 
 Then on the board began to write: 
 "The world is this — just what you make it.' 
 
 I. 
 See fair Hope tint a glorious world. 
 
 Wherein to dwell secure from sorrow; 
 The wings of death all closely furled, 
 
 And never thought of sin to borrow; 
 Where every wish at last is gained, 
 
 An^ evil leads us to forsake it, 
 And at the last a Heaven attained — 
 
 O, that's the world, if Hope could make it. 
 
 n. 
 
 Ambition paints a different scene — 
 
 A struggle long in some proud mission, 
 
 Where all shall sink who come between 
 Our starting out and full fruition; 
 
 A blazing star that lights the sky — 
 No driving storm can e'er o'ertake it — 
 Applauding millions when we die — 
 A glorious world, if Ambition make it. 
 
 III. 
 A rosy tinted world that yields 
 
 A thousand sweets to those who know it, 
 An azure sky and golden fields, 
 
 And visions rapt to charm a poet; 
 A zephyr soft as baby's touch 
 
 That went to God, when he would take it, 
 A Heavenly world — we miss it much, 
 
 But that's the world, if Love could make it. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 They hold the three within their power, 
 
 The grey eyed maiden and her lover, 
 Fair Hope shall wreath an endless bower, 
 145 
 
And Love's pure gold their pathway cover; 
 Ambition run a noble race; 
 
 One life in three if they will take it. 
 And joys like flowers their pathway grace — 
 
 Such life be theirs — they've but to make it. 
 April 12, 1877. G. A. T. 
 
 THE GREAT WEST HILL 
 
 (From a personal, municipal, political, legal and com- 
 mercial view-point.) 
 
 The great west hill, the great west hill, 
 
 I wish the dum thing would keep still. 
 And not each morn fire off its gun. 
 That wakes me up, makes shivers run 
 
 My backbone down, and puts to flight 
 
 My dreams. I'm 'fraid of dynamite. 
 
 The great west hill, the great west hill. 
 Its rocky insides, wagons fill 
 
 With huge flag-stones, that make a dent 
 
 In our "residential" soft pavement. 
 And raises thoughts of swear and ire 
 And arguments for a six inch tire. 
 
 The great west hill, the great west hill, 
 My soul with agony keen doth fill 
 
 As think I this — there'll come a day 
 
 When it will be all dug away. 
 And to Dick Quinn's life-leased abode. 
 There'll nothing be, but a level road. 
 
 The great west hill, the great west hill, 
 Our lawyers' pockets it doth fill 
 
 With petty fees, when workmen fly 
 
 To file a lien on the sly — 
 For though employers get away — 
 Old West Hill great — you're bound to stay. 
 146 
 
The great west hill, the great west hill, 
 I hope you'll stand for years until 
 
 The "infant industry" of Clark & Co. 
 
 And Chenango Blue Stone thrive and grow- 
 And when blue stone shall cease to sell. 
 Then, old west hill, ta, ta, farewell. 
 
 March 13, 1906. — Deek. 
 
 "ROOM ENOUGH" 
 
 In the world, where goes the battle 
 
 Of the right against the wrong. 
 Where too many are but cattle 
 
 Driven by the goading throng; 
 Youth too often is desponding 
 
 Of the future and its glory — 
 Better with these words responding — 
 
 "Room enough in upper story." 
 
 Brains will tell in place of riches. 
 
 If they're trained in labor's way; 
 They can always find the niches 
 
 In the temple of To-Day — 
 Built by Fame for man's uprearing. 
 
 And his profit and his glory — 
 If they take for compass-steering: 
 
 "Room enough ia upper story." 
 
 In the skies' unfathomed ocean. 
 
 Where the tide of air is flooding. 
 Sail the clouds, without commotion, 
 
 In an ever-onward scudding; 
 They're not crowded in their flying, 
 
 In their beauty nor their glory — 
 They have found, like soul that's dying, 
 
 "Room enough in upper story." 
 
 Souls can be like clouds uprearing 
 
 Through the vault of Heaven's daylight, 
 
 147 
 
With the silver bright appearing. 
 On their own majestic way-right; 
 
 They have but to feel expanding 
 All the spirits' better glory — 
 
 Know, repression notwithstanding, 
 "Room enough in upper story." 
 
 Let youth be as are the cloud-drifts. 
 
 In the pursuit of ambition; 
 It can overcome the world-rifts — 
 
 Find in all a true fruition; 
 Link its name to men immortal, 
 Gain the world a truer glory. 
 And when passed in Death's dark portal, 
 Find there's room in Heaven's story. 
 Jan. 19, 1881. 
 
 THE PERPLEXED SINNER 
 
 I'm a poor and lowly sinner 
 
 Walking in the paths of vice. 
 Such a many's walking with me 
 
 That I really cut no ice; 
 I'm not vicious, only so-so. 
 
 Common in a common band. 
 But my feet the preachers tell me 
 
 In the way of sinners stand. 
 
 Really I would like to gather 
 
 Up my skirts and things and all. 
 Put them in a reform gripsack 
 
 And for heaven make a crawl; 
 But what pathway shall I travel? 
 
 Up what straight road take my way? 
 For the sign posts are so many — 
 
 They perplex me and dismay. 
 
 Here's one sign — it says Baraca, 
 
 Here's another, Epworth L 
 
 148 
 
(L's for League, hard work to rhyme with) 
 
 Pointing right away from hell; 
 There St. Andrew plants a sign post 
 
 With the grip of brotherhood — 
 All asserting that their purpose 
 
 Is to do the sinner good. 
 
 Over there, quite weather beaten. 
 
 Showing it has been out long, 
 Y. M. with C. A. added. 
 
 Sings at me with holy song; 
 And a one ring circus showing 
 
 To their rooms next Wednesday night — 
 They'd resolve me into sunlight 
 
 Out the dark of sinful night. 
 
 Then the Philathea lures me 
 
 And th' Daughters of the King — 
 But my sex forbids me going 
 
 To embrace 'em — 'taint the thing; 
 All's perplexing and confusing 
 
 For a sinner in Sin's tribe. 
 Here's the Devil's only sign board, 
 
 A saloon — come, let's imbibe. 
 April 3, 1906. ' — Deek. 
 
 THANKSGIVING 
 
 The years have grown two centuries more 
 
 Since on old Plymouth's coast. 
 Our Pilgrim Fathers sat them down 
 To their first turkey-roast — 
 The fattest of the season, 
 With gravy, full of grease on; 
 Mince pie, with bits of cheese on; 
 Cider and flow of reason 
 From him who played the host. 
 
 Oh, they were hearty livers. 
 In days of long ago, 
 
 149 
 
And as a gastronomic tilt. 
 Enjoyed from high to low 
 
 The turkey of the season. 
 
 With gravy, full of grease on; 
 
 Mince pie, with bits of cheese on; 
 
 Cider and flow of reason 
 From him who played the host. 
 
 The custom then established 
 
 Upon that barren coast. 
 For us, their true descendants, 
 Enshrines the turkey roast — 
 The fattest of the season. 
 With gravy, full of grease on; 
 Mince pie, with bits of cheese on; 
 Cider and flow of reason 
 And blessings brings the host. 
 
 May that day never blossom, 
 
 When, into ev8ry_ home. 
 The Pilgrim Fathers' feast-time 
 And turkey shall not come — 
 The fattest of the season; 
 With gravy, full of grease on; 
 Mince pie, with bits of cheese on; 
 Cider and flow of reason 
 In hearts of guests and host. 
 Nov., 1903. G. A. T. 
 
 SUNBEAMS 
 
 Who warmly grasps you by the hand 
 
 And shakes it with oppressive grace; 
 Who asks about your wife and kids, 
 
 And compliments you to your face; 
 Who wishes you all sorts of joy. 
 And sunshine for your future fate? 
 The minister? 
 Oh, no, my boy — 
 It is the Trustee candidate. 1892. 
 
 150 
 
AN OPEN LETTER 
 
 With Marginal Explanation. 
 
 By S. A. M. 
 
 I. 
 
 The sad-eyed man who read 
 Wherein What S. A. M. did write, 
 
 a sad-eyed Of things both done and said 
 
 man mur- On July 4th and night, 
 
 mureth. Rose from the chair he sat in 
 
 And murmured: "D^ n the Latin!' 
 
 The writer 
 maketh a 
 demurrer. 
 
 He also 
 proveth his 
 case by a 
 categorical 
 interroga- 
 tory. 
 
 What the 
 sad-eyed man 
 might have 
 done 3,000 
 years ago. 
 
 Further suppo- 
 sition of what 
 
 II. 
 There was a phrase or two 
 
 Of that most ancient stuff 
 The writing scattered thro'. 
 
 But surely not enough 
 To ruffle his soul's satin 
 To words like "D n the Latin!" 
 
 III. 
 He had no excuse for 
 
 Such flow of angry passion — 
 A thing that I abhor; 
 
 For isn't it the fashion 
 To show the skill you gat in 
 School, by words of Latin? 
 
 IV. 
 Now had he been a Goth, 
 
 Trans-Alpine, let it be. 
 And been as badly wroth 
 
 In 753— 
 (B. C, of course, put that in) — 
 And sought a "bloody" Latin. 
 
 V. 
 And on the seven hills 
 Round which there rolls the Tiber, 
 151 
 
Had had some little "mills" 
 
 With Remus — strong of fiber, 
 Or Romulus — Mars 'gat him, 
 He'd said: "Now d n the Latin!" 
 
 VI. 
 
 And with a good cause, too. 
 
 For if Remus hadn't "whaled" him. 
 
 And let the daylight thro' 
 The part where he assailed him, 
 
 Romulus had gone to battin' 
 
 His home-base — done in Latin. 
 
 VII. 
 So I've no great respect 
 
 For such a shallow pate. 
 Who, if he will reflect, 
 
 Is three hundred decades late — 
 And shames the age that gat him. 
 By saying: "D n the Latin!" 
 
 THE HAND ORGAN 
 
 By S. A. Mott 
 
 The Doctor sat in his easy chair, 
 
 Just then in through the window came, 
 
 On the amber air it floated, 
 The crank-turned organ's shrill refrain — 
 
 By a vagabond 'twas toted. 
 And away with the changing notes, my mind 
 
 On the wings of fancy wandered, 
 As careless as the fickle wind. 
 
 Of precious moments squandered. 
 
 Another summer's day is mine, 
 
 'Tis mixed of sun and shower, 
 Sorrow and pleasure both combine. 
 
 As pass the fleeting hour, 
 152 
 
 might-have 
 been done and 
 sayed in said 
 remote past. 
 
 Wherein cer- 
 tain things are 
 deduced, with 
 a dim allusion 
 to Romulus' 
 shovel. 
 
 The writer ex- 
 presseth his 
 mind, which is 
 somewhat ir- 
 relevant to the 
 other verses. 
 1874. 
 
I little thought to be forgot 
 
 Or forget in time then coming. 
 Each organ note its comrade sought 
 
 And "Auld Lang Syne" was humming. 
 
 Away sad thoughts! Come happy days 
 When youth was bright with flowers; 
 
 When passion shot bewildering rays 
 Like sun, in passing showers, 
 How full was life, of pleasure ripe, 
 Of youthful tricks and squabbling; 
 
 Out from the asthenic organs pipe 
 "I'm Captain Jinks" was hobbling. 
 
 Then rose the form of one whose love 
 
 Had flowed on without measure; 
 Whose eyes were like the sky above, 
 
 When white clouds flee the azure; 
 Whose grave is swept by evening winds, 
 
 As the western day is dying, 
 The responsive organ a key note finds, 
 
 "Sweet Nellie Gray," replying. 
 
 And now there come again the dreams 
 
 That ever v/ould come o'er me. 
 Of honor, fame, and glory's beams. 
 
 When youth lay all before me. 
 Of battle field and victor's shout, 
 
 A brow the laurel wreath displaying. 
 With martial tread the notes march out 
 
 And "Old John Brown" so bravely playing. 
 
 Again I saw the humble life 
 
 My days must ever measure; 
 The dear, contented^ sweet voiced wife, 
 
 Whose love is more than treasure. 
 And I thanked God that in his way 
 
 He chose to make it so — 
 153 
 
The organ breathed out far away, 
 "John Anderson, my Jo." 
 
 The Doctor sat in his easy chair 
 
 And I sat by the table; 
 The day was bright, and clear, and fair, 
 
 As Halcyon ones in fable. 
 The book upon my lap was layed, 
 
 A tear dropped in its pages; 
 The organ notes on the air were dead, 
 
 And I — won dreamer's wages. 
 Aug. 10, 1876. 
 
 THE OLD PROFESSOR 
 
 In the dusk of a Winter's morning, 
 
 As the shafts of the god of day 
 Blood-red from the East were pointing 
 
 The path where his duty lay; 
 Into the dark and dim old chapel. 
 
 Where the gloom and silence slept. 
 His aged head uncovered, 
 
 The old professor crept. 
 
 "Yes, empty to you it seemeth." 
 
 And he gazed around the room; 
 "But to me 'tis alive with voices. 
 
 And they speak from its duskiest gloom 
 'Tis thronged with clusters of faces 
 
 That have changed and gone away, 
 Like the clouds that flee to the southward 
 
 In the winds of a March-like day. 
 
 "In the halls there are gentle foot-falls. 
 They are coming down the stairs, — 
 
 The girls file in at the right there. 
 Many happy and loving pairs; 
 
 But now they are wives — they say so. 
 And 'tis truth what they have said — 
 154 
 
And the wives walk not with their husbands, 
 For the wives, alas! are dead. 
 
 "There's a sturdy tramp to the left now — 
 
 'Tis the boys — and I love them so! 
 How proudly they bear up their brave heads 
 
 With the sunlight where'er they go! 
 Boys? but they're men long ago, and scattered 
 
 Like leaves in the winds of Fall; 
 And some sleep with their eyes to the eastward, 
 
 And the marble above — that's all. 
 
 "Ah well! there's one truth we gather. 
 
 Whatever else we forget: 
 There is change in the v/orld, that's certain. 
 
 And death is the change we get." 
 Then the professor turned away sadly, 
 
 With a bow to the throng none could see; 
 And there in the gray of the morning 
 
 Left an empty chapel to me. 
 
 — S. A. M. in Observer. 
 
 AN APPEAL 
 
 (From the Telegraph & Chronicle.) 
 By S. A. Mott. 
 Whether they fell in battle fray, 
 Or sick'ning perished by the way; 
 Or, whether when the cannon rolled, 
 And clouded smoke, recoiled and broke 
 Above the fray, on battle day 
 Then end of life for them was told; 
 Whether upon the charger's back. 
 They followed hard the Rebel's track; 
 Or whether led by that brave man — 
 The dashing, war-fried Sheridan — 
 In the "Valley," 'mid shot and shell — 
 A maddening sight — they bravely fell; 
 Or in the prison, far from home, 
 155 
 
From hunger's pangs, they died alone; 
 
 Or on the picket some lone night, 
 
 The soul unseen sped on its flight; 
 
 Or 'mong the missing, they were found, 
 
 And now — their bones bleach on the ground ;- 
 
 I care not where, or when they fell. 
 
 Or when was rung their funeral knell. 
 
 That told this life for them was past, 
 
 And death had clutched them sure and fast, — 
 
 Let all their names emblazoned shine 
 
 On some prim tablet, or some shrine. 
 
 Where all who come, their names may see, 
 
 And reverence martyrs — dead but free. 
 
 O, ye of bright Chenango's vale! 
 
 All ye — for whom they fought and bled! 
 Will ye not listen to the tale? 
 
 Will ye not honor sainted dead? 
 Are ye so given to sordid gain 
 
 To heaping wealth, the more on more. 
 
 That ye will not from out your store 
 Give free, — to keep your name from stain! 
 
 Over the hills as far we look, 
 
 Down along the sweeping river; 
 By the Can'sawacta brook. 
 
 Want and death are seen, no! never! 
 Bright smiling forms afar are spread 
 
 And cattle feed upon the hills, 
 
 ¥^ile by the brooks and gliding rills 
 Full flocks and large, sport o'er the mead. 
 
 The golden butter from your home 
 Goes to old England's sea-washed shore. 
 
 While still more riches to you come. 
 But to increase the too full store. 
 
 Would all such blessing to you be, 
 Had they not fought so well, and died, — 
 156 
 
And doing this, while yet they tried 
 To leave a nation, strong and free? 
 
 Shall not the marble without stain 
 
 Pointing to the martyrs' heaven, 
 
 Proclaim their faults are all forgiven, 
 But that their deeds with us remain? 
 Men of Chenango! Rich in fame. 
 
 Rich in heroes and in glory! 
 Shall not the marble hold their name, 
 
 A.nd all their deeds — a glorious story! 
 July 11, 1866. 
 
 HOPE 
 
 In Naples, by the Inland sea, 
 
 And under fair Italian skies; 
 Said loving lips in loyalty: 
 
 "The King of Naples never dies." 
 
 And when within his chamber dim. 
 
 All cold and dead his body lay. 
 They carried still his food to him — 
 
 "The King," they said, "dines not today." 
 
 So Hope within the human heart, 
 A regal King with shining eyes. 
 Forever sways its royal part. 
 And like a King, it never dies. 
 Nov., 1878. G. A. T. 
 
 In New York, Miss Izard, 
 
 With no more heart than a blizzard, 
 
 Sued her dentist for breaking her jaw 
 While pulling her tooth, 
 And the jury, forsooth. 
 
 Gave her twelve hundred dollars by law. 
 157 
 
Miss Jessie M. Izard 
 Can thank her sweet gizzard 
 She was single when she went to law; 
 
 For husbands are many. 
 
 Who'd give that sum to a penny 
 To the dentist who'd break their wives' "jaw. 
 
 GONE TO SEED 
 
 It cannot be the sun has less 
 
 Of brightness in its beam; 
 It cannot be, as some profess 
 
 "Things are not what they seem;" 
 But rather that "I am full grown," 
 
 And though 'tis sad indeed, 
 Have reached a state but too well known 
 
 By those who've "gone to seed." 
 
 I well remember when the grass 
 
 Was green as after shower. 
 When protoplasm went en masse. 
 
 To every limb in power; 
 I really thought I'd surely pass 
 
 For something grand indeed — 
 I never thought I'd grow — alas! 
 
 And then I'd "go to seed." 
 
 How dry and scorched seems all the world! 
 How choked with dust and heat; 
 The banners of the flowers are furled, 
 
 And they, in full retreat! 
 Though it may be, the trouble lies 
 
 In me, not them indeed, 
 And I look out of burning eyes 
 
 Of one that's "gone to seed." 
 
 O that some nature, like a cloud 
 
 All pregnant with a shower. 
 Would thunder 'round me long and loud. 
 
 And curruscate with power, 
 158 
 
Perhaps 'twould knock me off my stem, 
 
 And like a flower indeed, 
 I'd grow and brighten fresh again 
 
 For having "gone to seed." 
 
 G. A. T. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. COL. R. P. YORK 
 1886 
 
 A May day, sunny, cloudless, rare. 
 We stood upon the summit where 
 
 The dead were lying row on row; 
 And bright flags waved and flowers spent 
 Their fragrance 'bove each grassy tent 
 
 Of him who slept in peace below. 
 
 We thought not what the year would bring. 
 How black a shadow it would fling 
 
 Across our lives, as Time would flow; 
 His soldier form would bend and die. 
 How homeward his brave soul would fly — 
 
 Who stood with us one year ago. 
 
 1887 
 
 Another day, as full of grace 
 
 Is here; — the flags his comrades place — 
 
 They gently flutter to and fro; 
 But he is gone, the soldier sleeps, 
 His grave the flowery harvest reaps 
 
 As others did, one year ago. 
 
 O, brave soul of the stirring times! 
 O, soldier of the melting lines! 
 
 For whom the ready tear drops flow; 
 The flag, the flowers — we heed them not, 
 Where thou do'st sleep's a hallowed spot. 
 And memories sacred from it grow. 
 Norwich, May 30, '87. Geo. A. Thomas. 
 
 159 
 
A JUNE DAY 
 For the Journal. 
 
 A June day lighted all the hills, 
 
 And shone within the valley. 
 The clear drops gurgling in the rills, 
 
 With the flowers seemed to dally. 
 And clear and bright was all the air, 
 
 On that most radiant morning. 
 But nought in nature could compare 
 
 With my office's fair adorning. 
 
 O, white may be the Iceland snow 
 
 To those who dwell within it. 
 And fairest pearl the blooms that blow 
 
 'Round apple-nested linnet. 
 And stately with its dewy air 
 
 The lily in the morning, 
 But nought in nature can compare 
 
 With my office's fair adorning. 
 
 The song of birds had died away. 
 
 The lazy noon was coming. 
 The heated children, tired of play. 
 
 Had ceased their gentle humming, 
 When in she came, all unawares. 
 
 With the noon of that sweet morning 
 And nought then ever can compare 
 
 With my office's fair adorning. 
 
 O, splendid day of all the days 
 
 Of that most glorious summer. 
 I'll ne'er forget the charming ways 
 
 Of my unexpected comer. 
 And in the life that yet shall bloom. 
 
 Till breaks God's final morning, 
 I'll ever see within my room 
 
 My office's fair adorning. 
 Feb. 22, 1877. G. A. T. 
 
 160 
 
AUTUMN 
 
 For the Journal. 
 
 ^'Things grow ripe when Autumn comes," 
 
 Or Autumn comes when things grow ripe; 
 
 I care not which — like him that hums 
 
 In happy mood, with glowing pipe 
 Some old, familiar, love-lorn tale — 
 How he was young and warm as May, 
 And she had not begun to fail, 
 Whose hair was then like tangled ray 
 Of Autumn sun. 
 
 Yes, things grow ripe with Autumn's hour; 
 The pumpkin yellows with its face 
 The corn-field lot; the summer flower. 
 Shakes down a shower of purple grace. 
 And naked stands, till winter time. 
 With whirling snow or pelting rain. 
 Shall clothe it with a robe divine, 
 Or diamond chain. 
 
 And men grow ripe with Autumn days, 
 The promised land beyond they view, 
 Although three-score, the good book says. 
 And ten years more, are to them due; 
 And never want for Winter's snow. 
 But eager lay them down to rest. 
 For things are transient here below. 
 Their souls attest. 
 
 But there no Autumn e'er shall come, 
 But smiling Summer ever be — 
 The shivering cattle standing dumb. 
 And golden leaves stripped from each tree. — 
 The soul shall never ripen more. 
 But all perfection stand in grace. 
 Come, blessed time! unbar the door 
 To that dear place. 
 Jan. 17, 1877. G. A. T. 
 
 161 
 
"FIVE MEN IN A BOAT" 
 
 Apropos of an article recently published in the Union 
 under the above heading, one of the five submits the fol- 
 lowing. His message as he delivered the manuscript was 
 "Here's some poetry about your five men in a boat." We 
 leave it to the reader to judge whether it may be properly 
 described as poetry and to guess as to the identity of the 
 poet. No prize is offered for a correct guess. 
 
 MORE FACTS ABOUT MOORE'S "FIVE MEN IN A 
 BOAT" 
 Into a boat, flat-bottomed, Five Men did get — 
 
 " 'Twas June, two-eight, on th' Unadiller; 
 They pushed from shore, but the boat hee-hawed. 
 For no one thought to bring a tiller. 
 
 "Give me those oars," cried Nash, the stout, 
 "I'll show you how o'er this river to dust;" 
 
 For he'd ate so much, he later confessed — 
 "If I hadn't rowed, I must have bust." 
 
 They made down stream in a criss-cross way, 
 
 A trifle slower than the river's flow; 
 And after awhile they struck the cove 
 
 Where many wonderful lilies grow. 
 
 Then Mallory reached out his five foot arm 
 
 To distant pads where the lilies were; 
 And Satchel stood with his legs apart 
 
 Like Washington crossing the Delaware. 
 
 In the stern sat Thomas, sedate, unmoved. 
 
 Ready to ride, or sink, or swim; 
 But Forsythe — his eye on his bran new socks — 
 
 Bailed water and yelled — "It's slopping in." 
 
 They got the lilies — then came return — 
 Four taffied C. G. and he sweat and rowed; 
 
 And the lilies, wet with frog-spittle and slime 
 Wilted and sighed: "We've been buncoed." 
 162 
 
But the five brave men — they will never forget — 
 The one how he worked, the four how they rested. 
 
 On the bosom fair of Unadilla's stream, 
 And without a pain Greenes dinner digested. 
 
 Union, July 14, 1910. 
 
 THE FAIR 
 
 For the Utica Observer. 
 By S. A. M. 
 
 You say that you live in the city. 
 
 And country things to you are rare. 
 And never — alas! what a pitv! — 
 
 Have been to a good country fair; 
 Moreover, you want me to write you, 
 
 If I can my precious time spare — 
 I'll do it if only to spite you — 
 
 Some things that they have at "the fair." 
 
 Well, first then, they build a big building. 
 Of boards, very rough and quite tall, 
 
 Unpainted, but whitewashed for gilding. 
 And call it for short, Floral Hall; 
 
 If Flora were there though, I'm doubting 
 Her grace with the place would compare, 
 
 And that's the first thing — stop your pouting — 
 They always do have at "the fair." 
 
 Within this great hall that is thus built 
 
 Are shown what the daughters have done, 
 Are tidies and afghans and bedquilts. 
 
 Rag-carpets their fingers have spun; 
 Framed pictures of saint and of sinner. 
 
 All penciled with painstaking care, 
 And bread that you covet for dinner — 
 
 Are things they have at the fair." 
 
 On the "grounds" there walk a few cattle. 
 With a sheep here and there, and a pig, 
 163 
 
A goat ever ready for battle, 
 
 A racer hitched up to a gig, 
 A showman, perhaps, with a monkey, 
 
 Or birds most exceedingly rare — 
 Lots of fellows and girls that are hunkey- 
 
 Dory, they have at "the fair." 
 
 The last day, they read off the long lists 
 Of premiums obtained at the show. 
 
 And a man for an hour his tongue twists 
 In telling some things he don't know; 
 
 And along when the sun is down setting 
 All leave for their homes and declare 
 
 They "ne'er were so tried," forgetting 
 That's what they must get at "the fair." 
 
 And now, though you live in the city. 
 
 And country things to you are rare. 
 And never, alas! what a pity! 
 
 Have been to a good country fair, 
 From all the above that is told you. 
 
 In time that is quite hard to spare, 
 May the "truths set forth" close infold you. 
 
 And show what they have at "the fair." 
 1876. 
 
 TURNING POINTS 
 Are the winds that blow over life's highlands 
 
 The winds that sweep over me now? 
 Are the waves that submerge our life-islands 
 
 Those dashing their spray on my brow? 
 Have I climbed to the top of the mountains? 
 
 Do I gaze on the farther off slope? 
 Have I lost the grand play of youth's fountains 
 
 And the gleam of its rainbow of hope? 
 Sweet hope, that in young days was fuller 
 
 Than the chrysalis to burst with the sun; 
 New memory, whose thinking was duller 
 
 Than the days 'ere the world had begun — 
 164 
 
Has the one, then, submerged all other, 
 
 In the rush of the incoming tide? 
 Like Death, and sweet Sleep, called his brother — 
 
 They sleep, when we say they have died. 
 
 Am I, then, where 'tis said life is turning, 
 
 Passed over the heights of the hills; 
 On the side where the western sun's burning. 
 
 And with me, the flow of the rills? 
 Ah well! If 'tis so, let us tarry 
 
 While Hope dies away in the breast — 
 Here's a glass to our youth's buried fairy. 
 
 Here's a glass to the coming sweet rest. 
 
 — G. A. Thomas, in Ballou's Monthly. 
 
 MAY 
 
 The years that have been lonely 
 
 Have ceased forevermore; 
 For me remaineth only 
 
 The bright and pleasant shore, 
 As sailing down life's river 
 
 I pass an Autumn day — 
 Red leaves and golden shimmer, — 
 
 I'm dead in love with May. 
 
 Consumed I am with passion 
 
 That burns within my heart. 
 Yet much I love the fashion 
 
 That with the world had start 
 When Eve gave Adam kisses 
 
 Upon that first sweet day — 
 Supremest of all blisses, 
 
 I'm dead in love with May. 
 
 That I confess too freely. 
 
 Perhaps you rightly chide. 
 But yet I love her really, 
 
 And by that fact abide; 
 165 
 
There is no cause for blushes. 
 
 Nor eyes that drooping play — 
 Grey locks my old age brushes. 
 
 And only five is May. 
 Watchword, 1876. S. A. Mott 
 
 TO THALIARCHUS 
 (For the Monthly Melange) 
 
 Translated and versified by Geo. A. Thomas. 
 
 "I confess he (Goethe) was no saint." "No; his 
 philosophy is the ethnic philosophy. You will find it all in 
 a convenient and concentrated portable form in Horace's 
 beautiful ode to Thaliarchus." — Longfellow's Hyperion. 
 
 Dost see Soracte rear its head 
 
 With drift-snow whitely shining? 
 Dost see by frost the streams are bound- 
 The giant pines crouch like a hound 
 From weight of snow inclining? 
 
 II. 
 
 Dispel the cold, pile on the hearth 
 
 The back logs, hotly glowing; 
 O, Thaliarchus! bring the wine 
 That in the Sabine jars doth shine — 
 The dust its seasons showing. 
 
 TIL 
 
 We'll trust all else unto the gods; 
 
 For when the sea is boiling 
 They've but to lull the winds to sleep, 
 And motionless each leaf doth keep, 
 
 And nature ceases toiling. 
 
 IV. 
 What may come forth tomorrow, then, 
 'Tis best to stop inquiring — 
 166 
 
Whatever days the fates may give 
 Put down as gain; and while you live 
 Disdain not Love's inspiring. 
 
 V. 
 So long as old age keeps away, 
 
 Nor on thy youth's encroaching, 
 Scorn not the dance; nor let the walks 
 Forget at all the lovers' talks 
 
 When evening time's approaching. 
 
 VI. 
 Let laughter, only half repressed. 
 
 But show to you, insisting. 
 The maiden hiding in her play. 
 Whose kisses you can snatch away. 
 
 Despite her slight resisting. 
 
 GEOGRAPHY IN RHYME 
 
 "O maiden with the frizzled hair, 
 
 That well would please the scalping Choctaw, 
 Come wander with me for a while 
 
 Where flows the shallow Canasawacta." 
 
 "The moon is rising clear and fair, 
 Red as the wine that is a mocker, 
 
 And I'd much rather we should tread 
 The ravine of the Whaupaunaucau." 
 
 "No, no, my dear, that valley's where 
 A hungry kid, I chanked a cooky, 
 
 I'd much prefer scenes new and strange 
 Where glides the mad Tioughnioughah." 
 
 "Good Lord, that's forty miles away. 
 
 So far I will not by a dang, go," 
 And so they compromised and went 
 
 To walk the banks of old Chenango." 
 1888. 
 
 167 
 
CARRIER'S ADDRESS 
 
 To the Patrons of 
 THE CHENANGO UNION 
 January 1, 1872 
 
 The year grew green, and hung its cup 
 Of flowers bright, where bees might sup; 
 Laid bare its bosom brown with mold, 
 To take the seed of wealth untold; 
 In travail lay through half the year. 
 While Summer days went loitering by, 
 And Summer showers usurped the sky. 
 That Autumn harvests might appear. 
 Then, tired and worn, grew red and brown. 
 And shook the leaves of Autumn down. 
 Anon the clouds went scudding by. 
 And sifted snow flakes from the sky. 
 December, with its beard grown grey. 
 Frowned on us with its shortened day. 
 But blessed us with a gladsome chime, 
 When came the Holy Christmas time. 
 Then, old, decrepit, worn and sere. 
 It died; then came the glad New Year. 
 
 The glad New Years! how swift they come and go, 
 But servants of the master. Time, to build and overthrow; 
 But toiling days for weary men to sow, and till and reap, 
 To gather here a little hoard, that there they cannot keep. 
 
 The glad New Years! how mark the age of men. 
 
 And gleam along the world's broad path, to tell what 
 
 deeds have been; 
 To light the arduous battle of the ever-toilsome way. 
 By which the race must struggle up to win the perfect day. 
 
 The glad New Years! what different scenes and states, 
 What halcyon expectations, and unexpected fates 
 
 168 
 
Do they witness in their coming and their going with a 
 
 day. 
 As the years which they have heralded, quickly pass away. 
 
 The glad New Years! they come so thick and fast; 
 
 But in their coming may they bring the joy that long will 
 
 last; 
 And each New Year a bright one be — a white one in our 
 
 life. 
 Till there ushers in the last one, which shall end for us 
 
 all strife. 
 
 The year that fled with yester-night. 
 
 Like years that went before. 
 Has left the impress of Time's might 
 
 On this and every shore. 
 The World's advance has constant been. 
 
 Like the slowly rising tide 
 That creeps along some ocean beach. 
 
 And in its caverns glides. 
 
 When first it came, on Europe's land. 
 
 Contending armies stood; 
 The Queenliest City of the world 
 
 Was bathed in smoke and blood; 
 On the drooping lilies of fair France 
 
 The breath of death had come. 
 And on the land was Egypt's curse — 
 
 The dead were in each home. 
 
 But with the year, the foreign foe 
 
 Have ceased her fields to tread. 
 Though left, as foot-prints of their march, 
 
 The black cross of the dead; 
 And Frenchmen with their bouyant hope. 
 
 And love of glorious fame. 
 Have now "La grande Republique!" 
 
 If only in a name. 
 
 169 
 
Old England, with her wooden walls. 
 
 Now cased with iron plates. 
 Her prestige gone, a back seat took 
 
 Among the Old World States; 
 And sitting there began to see 
 
 Some sins of her omission; 
 And mentioned Alabama Claims, 
 
 And then the High Commission. 
 
 She sent her Lords to Washington, 
 
 And flunkies were agog; 
 And many dinners there they ate. 
 
 And drank they there their grog. 
 But better war on meats and drinks. 
 
 And call each nation brother, 
 Than with no food to get or eat, 
 
 To war on one another. 
 
 Russia in her Northern zone — 
 
 Our one true friend in need — 
 Majestic in her greatness nods, 
 
 And all the world takes heed; 
 But with broad Europe at her back. 
 
 She grasps us by the hand. 
 And her tall son Alexis sends. 
 
 To Tiew the Yankee land. 
 
 That Yankee land — our own dear land — 
 
 No grief of war has filled; 
 But with peaceful, helpful industry, 
 
 Her ample fields has tilled; 
 Has bid the world stand while she solved 
 
 The problem of all time. 
 Which solved, shall give eauality 
 
 To man in every clime. 
 
 Yet stood appalled one Autumn day. 
 When fearful tidings came, 
 170 
 
Borne on the lightning of the wire: 
 "Chicago's wrapped in flame!" 
 
 But though our City of the West 
 In ruins vast was laid. 
 
 We learned how grand a world is ours 
 To sympathize and aid. 
 
 In our own State, a bloodless war 
 
 Which sure results will bring. 
 Has roused the people in their might. 
 
 To squelch "Corruption's Ring;" 
 And if a thorough work be done. 
 
 As needs, if done at all. 
 Of Sweeny, Connolly and Boss Tweed 
 
 Sing Sing will make a haul. 
 
 Our village fair has kept its place 
 
 With the advance of time; 
 And with Improvements for its guide. 
 
 Is wheeling into line; 
 And hopes within the year to come 
 
 To see it more increase. 
 In all those works of industry 
 
 That bring us wealth and peace. 
 
 My task is done. But 'ere we part, 
 I hope you're sound in head and heart; 
 And, if I've pleased you for the time. 
 With verse which may not be sublime, 
 Yet take Intention for the deed, 
 And to my object give the heed; 
 For if my words are broad in range, 
 'Tis done to make a little change; 
 And now to all, with hearty cheer, 
 I bid a Happy, Glad New Year. 
 171 
 
TOMB THUMB BEATEN! 
 
 A Norwich Little Man 
 
 (Norwich Correspondent of Utica Observer.) 
 
 Norwich!, April 17, 1876.' — Last night your corres- 
 pondent was late at church. He had good cause, for he 
 had been to see the smallest specimen of humanity that 
 trods the footstool. His name as he gave it to us is 
 "Master Franky Flynn." He is the son of Edward F. 
 Flynn, formerly of Greene, in this county, where this 
 diminutive human was born. His age is four years and 
 a half. We went to see him expecting a Tom Thumb or 
 Commodore Nutt to walk in before us. Imagine our as- 
 tonishment when his grandmother brought him in as one 
 would a good-sized cat. He is not so large as one of Tom 
 Thumb's legs. In Tom Thumb's carriage he would look 
 as lonesome as an ordinary man in a circus band wagon. 
 To sit upon one of Tom Thumb's easy chairs would be to 
 him what it is to the ordinary boy to perch upon a gate 
 post when the spring comes. He is smaller than any one 
 can conceive who has not actually seen him. Yesterday 
 he had on two pairs of stockings, and even then the small- 
 est sized baby shoes were too large for him. His wrist is 
 of the size of an ordinary man's thumb; his ankle but a 
 slight increase. He was dressed in full suit like a man. 
 He stands 23 inches in his shoes, and weighs clothes and 
 all twelve pounds. — ^^This is the most he ever weighed in 
 his life. Still he is a lively, sprightly boy; very active; 
 climbing into chairs and getting down; walks around with 
 his hands back of him, "like his grandpa," and talks and 
 laughs, and is as cute as any boy of his years. He is no 
 larger than he was when one year old. His parents start 
 with him this afternoon for the Centennial Exhibition at 
 Philadelphia. He will be exhibited as a full-grown "states- 
 man" under the present regime. If he were sent by mail 
 he would go as third-class matter, and only require "a 
 one cent stamp, like a circular." He is the most wonderful 
 
 172 
 
specimen of humanity we ever beheld^ and if after we saw 
 him we went to church and heard Rev. Mr. Haynes preach 
 upon the "resurrection of the body," and we concluded 
 that if our corporeal frame was no larger than Master 
 Franky Flynn's we should not want to be resurrected, who 
 is going to blame us? 
 
 The Telegraph publishes the Observer's account of 
 Frank Flynn, and cuts it from a Manchester (England) 
 paper. That is going a good way from home for an item, 
 thinks S. A. M. 
 
 YANKEE DOODLE 
 (Essay read at the I. P. A.. Wednesday evening. 
 May 20, 1885, at Baptist church, Norwich, N. Y.) 
 
 Fitz Green Halleck, one of the first of American poets, 
 iiot only in point of time but in talent and genius sings: 
 
 "The good the Rhine song does to German hearts. 
 
 Or thine. Marseilles! to France's fiery blood; 
 The good thy anthemed harmony imparts, 
 
 "God save the Queen" to England's field and flood, 
 A home-born blessing, Nature's boon, not Art's, 
 
 The same heart cheering, spirit warming good. 
 To us and ours, where e'er we war or woo, 
 
 Thy words and music — Yankee Doodle! do." 
 
 Yankee Doodle was the outcome of a joke. During 
 the attack upon the French outposts in America in 1755, 
 Governor Shirley and General Jackson led the forces di- 
 rected against the enemy lying at Forts Niagara and 
 Frontenac. In the early part of June, while these troops 
 were stationed on the banks of the Hudson, near Albany, 
 the descendants of the "Pilgrim fathers" flocked in from 
 the eastern provinces. Never was seen such a motley 
 regiment as took up its position on the left wing of the 
 British army. The band played music as outre and anti 
 quated as their uniforms. Officers and privates had 
 adopted regimentals, each man after his own fashion. One 
 
 173 
 
wore a flowing wig, while his neighbor rejoiced in hair 
 cropped closely to the head. This one had a coat with 
 wonderfully long skirts; his fellow marched without an 
 upper garment. Various as the colors of the rainbow 
 were the clothes worn by the gallant band. It so happen- 
 ed that there was with the British a certain Dr. Shackburg, 
 wit, musician and surgeon. One evening, after mess, he 
 produced a tune, which he earnestly commended to the 
 officers of the militia as a well known piece of military 
 music. The joke succeeded. Yankee Doodle was hailed 
 by the militia with acclamation, as "their own march." 
 
 Dr. Shackburg's tune had no words and was, in fact, 
 a march. The words first affixed to the tune is the well- 
 known doggerel quartrain: 
 
 *'Yankee Doodle came to town — 
 Riding on a pony — 
 He stuck a feather in his cap. 
 And called it macaroni." 
 
 Engli3h writers assert that the air and words of these 
 lines date back to the time of Cromwell, the words 
 Yankee Doodle having been substituted for Nankee Doodle, 
 these last words being intended to apply to Cromwell and 
 the other lines to allude to "his going into Oxford with a 
 single plume, fastened in a knot called a macaroni." 
 
 Others claim that the tune was known in New Eng- 
 land before the revolution as "Lydia Fisher's Jig," a name 
 derived from a famous lady of easy virtue in the reign 
 of Charles II. It has been perpetuated in the nursery 
 rhyme: 
 
 "Lucy Locket lost her pocket, 
 
 Kitty Fisher found it; 
 Not a bit of money in it — 
 Only binding round it." 
 
 In 1775 and '76 the British regulars in Boston are said 
 to have sung to the air the following words: 
 
 174 
 
"Yankee Doodle came to town. 
 
 For to buy a fire-lock: 
 We will tar and feather him. 
 And so we will John Hancock." 
 
 The tune was played by the British in derision of the 
 patriots of 1776. When His Majesty's troops marched out 
 of Boston to destroy the munitions of war collected by 
 the rebels at Concord, their bands played Yankee Doodle. 
 But 
 
 "By the rude arch that spans the flood. 
 Their flag to April's breeze unfurled; 
 There the embattled farmers stood 
 
 And fired the shot heard round the world." 
 
 The British regulars were defeated. It was said of 
 them at the time: "The brigade of Lord Percy marched 
 out of Boston, playing by way of contempt Yankee Doodle; 
 they were afterwards told that they had been made to 
 dance to it." 
 
 A good many songs have been composed to the air of 
 Yankee Doodle, but most of them are literary mosaics; 
 lines and verses have been added from time to time by 
 different individuals, and the song has grown by accretions. 
 Our fathers used to sing a song, with this chorus: 
 
 "Corn cobs twist your hair. 
 
 Cart wheels surround you; 
 Fiery dragons carry you off, 
 And mortal pestles pound you." 
 
 Another song described the visit of the singer and his 
 father to the camp of General Washington, along with 
 Captain Gooding. It begins: 
 
 "Father and I went down to camp. 
 Along with Captain Gooding, 
 And there we saw the men and boys 
 As thick as hasty pudding. 
 175 
 
And there they had a swamping gun, 
 
 As big as a log of maple — 
 On a deuced little cart — 
 
 A load for father's cattle. 
 
 And every time they fired it off 
 
 It took a horn of powder; 
 It made a noise like father's gun. 
 
 Only a nation louder. 
 
 And there I saw a little keg — 
 
 Its head was made of leather; 
 They knocked upon it with little sticks 
 
 To call the folks together. 
 
 But I can't tell you half I saw. 
 
 They kept up such a smother; 
 So I took my hat, and made a bow 
 
 And scampered home to mother." 
 
 The chorus to this song is better known: 
 
 "Yankee Doodle keep it up, 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy; 
 Mind the music and the step, 
 And with the girls be handy." 
 
 Some maintain that Yankee Doodle was originally 
 derived from Holland. A song with the following burden 
 has long been in use among the laborers, who, in the time 
 of harvest, migrate from Germany to the Low Countries, 
 where they receive for their work as much buttermilk as 
 they can drink and a tenth of the grain secured by their 
 exertions : 
 
 "Yanker didel, doodel down, 
 
 Didel, dudel, lanter, 
 Yanke viver, voover, vown, — 
 Botermilk and Tanther." 
 
 That is "buttermilk and a tenth." 
 176 
 
Yankee Doodle was first played as the national air of 
 the United States, at Ghent, after the ministers plenipo- 
 tentiary of Great Britain and the United States had nearly 
 completed their labors of making the treaty of peace in 
 1815. The Burghers of that quaint old Dutch city resolved 
 to give an entertainment in their honor and desired to 
 have the national airs of the two treaty-making powers 
 performed as a part of the program. So the musical di- 
 rector was requested to call upon the American ministers 
 and obtain the music of the national air of the United 
 States. No one knew exactly what to give. A consulta- 
 tion ensued, at which Bayard and Gallatin favored "Hail 
 Columbia," but Clay, Russell and John Quincy Adams were 
 decidedly in favor of "Yankee Doodle." The director then 
 inquired if any of the gentlemen had the music, and re- 
 ceiving a negative reply, suggested that perhaps one of 
 them could sing or whistle the air. "I can't," said Clay; 
 "I never whistled or sung a tune in my lifetime. Perhaps 
 Mr. Bayard can." "Neither can I," replied Bayard; "per- 
 haps Mr. Russell can." Each confessed his lack of mu- 
 sical ability. "I have it," exclaimed Mr. Clay, and ringing 
 the bell he summoned his colored body servant. "John," 
 said Mr. Clay, "whistle Yankee Doodle for this gentleman." 
 John did so, the chief musician took down the notes, and 
 at the entertainment the Ghent Burgher's band played the 
 national air of the United States with variations in grand 
 style. 
 
 PRIZE ESSAY 
 
 At the close of the winter term of 1865, Mr. Chas. 
 Hopkins offered a prize to that student who should write 
 the best essay on the proposed monument in memory of 
 the fallen soldiers of Chenango county. 
 
 Five were handed in. The committee, Rev^ Mr. 
 Queal, Rev. Mr. Lewis, and Dr. Prindle, awarded the prize 
 to Brutus, (G. A. Thomas). Umbrella, (D. C. Clark), and 
 H. H. Steele, (Miss J. White,) were also honorably mem- 
 tioned. 
 
 177 
 
The Proposed Monument to the Soldiers of Chenango 
 County 
 
 From that time when man began to honor man; from 
 that time when man began to honor a brave and noble 
 deed; from the time when the greatest of deeds became 
 that of dying for one's country; some means have always 
 been found to preserve the names and the deeds of those 
 honored, and to proclaim them to posterity. Though the 
 names of Egyptian kings have been forgotten, though the 
 once powerful nation is sunken into insignificance, and 
 ranks no more among the nations of the earth, though its 
 arts and sciences are numbered with the things that were, 
 yet the pyramids still stand, and still proclaim the fact 
 that Egypt was once a great nation; that it once had its 
 arts and sciences, and that it once had its wise and power- 
 ful rulers — such as a people delighted to honor. 
 
 Leonidas and his brave three hundred fell at Ther- 
 mopylae. How was the fact of their brave and glorious 
 martyrdom preserved? How was it made a means to in- 
 cite the Spartans to deeds of valor? History informs us 
 that monuments were erected on that ever memorable 
 spot, bearing the inscription: "Go, stranger, and tell at 
 Lacedemon, that we died in obedience to her divine laws!" 
 
 What more simple epitaph? Yet what a deed it 
 proclaimed. And as the stranger wandered over that 
 battlefield, or passed through that pass, the monuments 
 and the inscriptions kept ever fresh in his mind the grand 
 deed there consummated, that brave lives were there 
 offered up on their country's altar. 
 
 Thus the ancients honored and preserved the mem- 
 ory of their heroes, and therefore there was a hero for 
 every occasion. Though we may not have such a deed 
 as the death of Leonidas and his men to commemorate or 
 to raise a monument to, yet during the last four years, as 
 brave acts have been performed, and ones as deserving 
 of remembrance as that of Leonidas, and those too by 
 
 178 
 
Chenango's soldiers. Deeds have been performed, which 
 have made the name of Chenango an honor to any man. 
 Words have been uttered by some of Chenango's dying 
 soldiers, which should be inscribed in the pages of his- 
 tory among the noble sayings of patriots and heroes. 
 Under these considerations, should we not pay some last- 
 ing tribute to those brave acts, to the brave men who 
 performed them? And how better could it be done than 
 by a monument, that would preserve, on the lasting 
 marble, their names, their words, their deeds? 
 
 During the last four years many a young and gallant 
 man from our midst has found his death upon the battle- 
 field, and others more advanced in years and who were 
 first in the estimation of their town's people and the coun- 
 try. They have laid their lives on their country's altar, 
 for our good, and our country's good, and should we not 
 recognize this by some suitable acknowledgement — by 
 some means, which would be lasting, and which would 
 proclaim all they were, when we, with whom they lived 
 and for whom they died, shall have passed off the stage 
 of existence, and shall have ceased to tell of their deaths? 
 Shall not the gallant soldier, the affable gentleman, the 
 patron of our public institutions, Elisha B. Smith, be re- 
 membered? Shall not his virtues, his deeds, his sacrifices, 
 and lastly his death at the head of his men be perpetuated? 
 Shall the former student of Norwich academy, who, when 
 wounded and dying, cried, "Bind up my wounds quickly, 
 surgeon, that I may go back and fight," — words becoming 
 a Warren or a Lawrence, the brave martyr, Edward E. 
 Breed, be forgotten? Shall not his virtues, his words, his 
 death be perpetuated? Shall the name of Clancey — one 
 of the first to fall — and Newton, who fell with the name 
 of mother on his lips — sink into oblivion, or Hancock, who 
 perished from starvation in the Rebels' cursed prison? 
 Shall any of these be forgotten? No! A monument the 
 voluntary offering of a free people — free through their 
 sufferings, free through their deaths — shall be raised as 
 
 179 
 
lasting as the hills that over-shadow our peaceful valley. 
 And then the hundreds of braves that have fallen in the 
 114th — Chenango's own regiment — do they not also deserve 
 some recognition? Yes, some recognition is due them. 
 It is due to all our dead, the revered dead — and what more 
 suitable recognition than the proposed monument — a 
 monument that would keep the memory of them ever fresh 
 in the minds of our people and of posterity. A monument 
 that would encourage such sentiments in the rising gen- 
 eration, that they would blush to do whatever would cast 
 a stigma upon the names inscribed upon the monument — 
 names that are more than mere words — names that teach 
 lessons of "heroism and fidelity." Revered shades of our 
 fallen braves, we will guard, we will remember, we will 
 perpetuate your memory and your acts! Then let the 
 solemn marble be raised, its lofty shaft pointing heaven- 
 ward — upon which the sun shall cast its first ray, and 
 lingering leave its last. Let it stand, and upon it, the 
 names of Chenango's heroes. 
 
 All nations have said, every people have said to their 
 brave defenders: "Go forth, fight, and if needs be die for 
 our country — your country — and your names and your acts 
 shall be perpetuated." It was becoming that nations should 
 do so. We find instances where they have done so every- 
 where in the history of the past. Therefore it becomes 
 us — a free and happy people — rich in heroes and in blood, 
 to do likewise. Though we may have a cenotaph in our 
 hearts, dedicated to our dead friends and companions, yet 
 it will remain there hidden from the public gaze, and ouv 
 love and veneration be unknown unless we make it known 
 by some tribute of worth like the proposed monument. 
 And if we thus honor our dead heroes, we, in the future 
 may never fear but many will be ready to uphold Chenan- 
 go's honor when it shall be necessary — (God grant that 
 time may never come). Therefore not only for the dead, 
 but for our own interests, does it become us to build the 
 proposed monument. 
 
 180 
 
We raise monuments to our great men. Many are 
 the monuments that have been raised to perpetuate the 
 name of our Washington — a name that can never be for- 
 gotten — a name that will be the synonym of liberty till a 
 world is emancipated — and many will be the monuments 
 that will be raised to preserve that of that other great 
 liberator, Abraham Lincoln, whose name will live forever 
 in the pages of history, though the monuments erected 
 to perpetuate it shall crumble and sink into dust, not only 
 as the saviour of his country, but also as a martyr to it. 
 It is proper that we should do so. The American people 
 would be strangely ungrateful if they did not do so. How 
 much more does it become us, the inhabitants of Chenan- 
 go, to honor men, who have made the greatest sacrifice 
 men can make, offered up their lives for their country; 
 attempted to unite a separated people by their very heart's 
 blood. Can we honor men too highly for such a deed? 
 Can we pay one tittle of the debt we owe them? No! we 
 cannot, but we can preserve their memory. 
 
 Let us look at the future! Will not such a monument 
 encourage our living soldiers? True^ the war in which so 
 many of our friends have been killed, is over. Peace — 
 glorious peace — has dawned upon our land. The "Stars 
 and Stripes" now hallowed by the blood of kindred, float 
 from Maine to the Rio Grande. They float, thank God, in 
 triumph too. Yet even though peace seems settled down 
 upon us, we know not how suddenly it may be broken. 
 War may again come upon us as did the Rebellion, "like 
 a thunder clap in the clear sky." There may come a neces- 
 sity for troops. If we build the monument, will not hun- 
 dreds, yes thousands, rush forth to the rescue knowing 
 that though they fall, they will not be forgotten; though 
 they perish, their countrymen will not be unmindful of 
 them ; but their names will shine on the tablet of the monu- 
 ment, among those of the brave heroes who have died for 
 their country. For this very reason we ought to build the 
 monument, and when the other considerations are thrown 
 
 181 
 
into the balance also, with what a zeal should the people 
 of Chenango set about this great work. 
 
 Our imagination is ever active. Can we not imagine 
 this picture of the future; the broad base, the towering 
 shaft, the inscriptions, the admiring and reverencing 
 crowd — who, standing with uncovered heads — for it would 
 be hallowed ground, read the inscriptions and the names 
 engraved upon the tablet of the monument — names of 
 men whose blood has been drank by the sod of the Shen- 
 andoah valley — whose dust now mingles with its earth — 
 upon whose unmarked graves the wild flowers are budding 
 and blossoming, and the fresh grass is growing, as though 
 a hero slept not beneath its turf. But there they sleep, as 
 
 " sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 
 
 By all their country's wishes blest!" 
 
 There they sleep. Their toils, their sorrows are over. 
 They have done their share in the great drama of life. 
 They have shed their blood for freedom — for a free people. 
 They have sought the battlefield, thinking though they fell 
 it Vv^ould not be in vain, knowing a nation would be the 
 result of their labors and sacrifices — a great, a free, a 
 liberty loving nation, and one that would not forget the 
 blood that bought them the great privileges they enjoy, 
 thinking that if they fell, 
 
 "Their rest would quiet be, 
 For over them a nation's free." 
 
 And shall we be unmindful of this? Shall they be 
 forgotten? Shall their names sink into oblivion? Shall 
 their deeds, their sacrifices, be swallowed up in the past, 
 with not a trace remaining to keep them fresh in our 
 minds? No! We, who have reaped the fruit of their 
 labors — we, who have been the gainers by their sacrifices, 
 vdll remember them! How shall it be done? Is there a 
 more fitting way than by a monument — one that crumbles 
 
 182 
 
not? Who gazes on the lofty spire that crowns Bunker 
 Hill, and forgets Warren, and his fellow martyrs, or the 
 events of that day on which he fell? What orator could 
 proclaim with such a solemn awe-inspiring emotion, their 
 brave acts, their brave deaths, as that lofty shaft point- 
 ing heavenward? Pointing to the place where Warren is: 
 
 "Their good swords rust. 
 Their steeds are dust, 
 But their souls are with the saints, we trust." 
 
 What more awe-inspiring than the thought that the 
 monument proclaims, "Warren and his co-patriots fell 
 here, but they are there." 
 
 Chenango's heroes should be remembered. — They have 
 fallen, and in a just cause. Then let them be remembered 
 and God will bless us. 
 
 Norwich, June 1, 1865. Brutus. 
 
 NORTHERN AND CENTRAL COUNTIES 
 Chenango County 
 
 A note from Capt. D. C. Knowlton. of the 114th N. Y. 
 v., 19th Army Corps, dated Winchester 20th inst., shows 
 that the 114th fared hardly in Gen. Sheridan's first battle. 
 Capt. K. writes that the 114th lost 190 in killed and 
 wounded, including ten commissioned officers. The loss 
 of the First Division, in which is the 114th, was 580 killed 
 and wounded — one-third of them being in the 114th, from 
 which can be judged the nature of the fighting in which 
 that regiment was engaged. The following are the 
 casualties in the Cazenovia company (K), commanded by 
 'Capt. Searls: 
 
 Killed — Joseph A. Wallace, Cazenovia, died in hospital 
 from wound in body; C. C. Spencer, Cazenovia, died or 
 the field, shot through the body; Abel P. Pangborn, died 
 on the field, shot in the breast. 
 
 Wounded — Capt. Searls, arm; Wm. E. Savage, leg 
 amputated; Wm. R. Colwell, in shoulder; Henry G. Dixon, 
 
 183 
 
thigh; Daniel W. Sims, thigh and ankle; Geo. Billings, 
 shoulder; John B. GoodselL leg; Eugene Santee, foot; 
 Sidney Caulkins, finger; Chas. Myers, wrist; Geo. P. 
 Haight, knee; W. M. Hudson, knee; J. J. McCollough, 
 breast, slight; Clinton K. Nourse, wrist; Wm. C. Norton, 
 slight; John Cadogan, slight. 
 
 "ME AND MY PEOPLE" 
 (For The Observer.) 
 Note — An Egyptian idol sold at auction in New York 
 for $7. — New York Press. 
 
 "When Thothmes sat upon his throne 
 
 And Pharoah talked with Moses, 
 Such mighty rulers bowed them down 
 
 And kissed my dusty "toeses;" 
 'Twas long ago in ages gone — 
 
 Too dim for modern scholars, 
 Since then I've fallen, fallen low. 
 
 And sell for $7. 
 
 My fate is one that's common to 
 
 The idols of most nations — 
 One day exalted to the skies 
 
 And drenched with sweet oblations; 
 In worship sought by servile crowds 
 
 From kitchens and from parlors — 
 Alas, the next to auction sent 
 
 And sold for $7. 
 
 'Tis well for man to learn from me 
 
 That honors are quite fleeting; 
 That none forsee the day's outcome 
 
 When morning sun he's greeting — 
 High up in state when it doth rise, 
 
 Hailed by the crowd that "hollers," 
 But when it's set — ^he may not sell 
 
 For even $7." 
 
 — S. A. M. 
 184 
 
CLOUDS 
 
 Clouds of purple-tinted gold. 
 Clouds of crimson, grand and bold, 
 Clouds, with beauty in each fold, 
 
 In the West. 
 Royal mountain summits lay. 
 As the glorious God of Day 
 
 Sank to rest. 
 
 Clouds of darkness and of lead. 
 O'er the heavens thickly spread. 
 Gave the earth a look of dread 
 
 Full of gloom; 
 Yet foretold as once again, 
 From their depths might fall the rain. 
 Fields would bloom. 
 
 Clouds of white and purest spray. 
 Drifted all the live-long day. 
 On their blue etherial way 
 
 O'er the sky. 
 And they seemed, as on they sped. 
 Like the forms of sainted dead 
 
 Blessed on high. 
 
 Clouds of crimson and of gold. 
 Clouds of lead with deeper fold, 
 Clouds of spray so lightly rolled. 
 
 All will fly; 
 Leaving not a trace to show 
 Whence they came or where they go. 
 
 In the sky. 
 
 So our cares, so heavy now. 
 Tracing on the fairest brow. 
 Furrows deep, with cruel plow 
 
 Of sharp pain. 
 185 
 
Like the clouds, will fly away, 
 Leaving but the pleasant day, 
 
 Once again. 
 
 — S. A. M. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING, WRITTEN BY HIMSELF, MAKES 
 A FITTING CLOSE TO THIS MEMORIAL VOLUME 
 
 Who lives life's middle span to tread. 
 Has fewer friends alive, than dead. 
 
 Friends come and briefly with us stay. 
 Then some with sunset pass away. 
 To linger with us still they seem — 
 We think of them as full of life. 
 As somewhere struggling in the strife — 
 'Tis Memory's trick; 'tis but a dream. 
 
 The old man gazes at his wife. 
 
 He sees not then the scars of life, 
 
 The wrinkles deep that time has plowed. 
 
 The trembling form that years have bowed — 
 
 He looks with eyes by memory tied. 
 
 And only sees his youthful bride. 
 
 A friend doth meet us on the way. 
 We travel toward the Endless Day; 
 On him sits manhood young and fair — 
 The rising sun gleams in his hair; 
 Ambition flashes from his eye, 
 Looks toward a summit Alpine high 
 The good of man, a God-like goal, 
 Illuminates his lofty soul. 
 His faults are in the halo lost — 
 Like sun spots on its surface tossed. 
 
 He parts from us and takes the way, 
 Which duty calls some fateful day; 
 Beyond the boundary of our sight. 
 We know he toils thus day and night; 
 186 
 
He's climbing where his hopes aspire — 
 The mountain tops all tipped with fire; 
 He toiled on till fruition stands, 
 And reaches for his outstretched hands. 
 
 And then — "he's dead," they say, some day- 
 What's that to us so far away? 
 To us — he lives the same as then 
 And mingles with the crowd of men; 
 In living, growing mountain higher — 
 He's some inflamed with heaven's fire. 
 His footsteps guided from above — 
 His work for man and God and love. 
 
 Cold reason says, he's called to be 
 At rest from cares of life set free. 
 From living man has gone to lie 
 Where daisies nod with open eye; 
 Where pansies glov/ and roses bloom, 
 Where spring grows green above a tomb. 
 Where dying autumn crimson glows, 
 Where winter pales with drifting snows. 
 
 Not true; cold reason stand aside, 
 He mingles with the living tide. 
 He merely sleeps, the words are few. 
 For us the kindly man we knew, 
 The living man from realms afar 
 Is calling — stand the gates ajar! 
 
 187 
 
M 18 89 Hi 
 

 
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^'•-. ^o 
 
 HECKMAN 
 BINDERY INC. |§ 
 
 ^ DEC 88 
 
 N. MANCHESTER. 
 
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