Class 
 
 Book 
 
 CopyrigM^^^- 
 
 CQEZRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
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 ¥W^ 
 
 Cbougbts from 
 Oregon 
 
 'Co Greet a friend 
 
 By 
 Kathleen IMacJ^eal Durbam 
 
 DccomtCons \>y 
 eetcUe Wallace pane 
 
 '}' 
 
 %% 
 
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 Portland, Oregon 
 1916 
 
 
 i^-> '^'\^::'^ <P^~^ ' 
 
 00^ 
 

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 Copyright, 1916 
 KATHLEEN MACNEAL DURHAM 
 
 1 
 
 Or 
 
 F. W. BALTES AND COMPANY, PRINTERS 
 PORTLAND, OREGON 
 
 ^ 
 
 •SEP 21 1916 
 
 ^CI,A4377?8 
 
r 
 
 HERE are heights of glory we all may reach, 
 
 And bask for awhile therein ; 
 There are lessons of patience that Life must 
 teach 
 Through pain, ere our goal we win. 
 But the joys we have grasped will seem far 
 more great. 
 The pleasures much more rare. 
 And the pain and sorrow by half abate, "^^^ Q 
 
 With a faithful friend to share. 
 
 't...^^ 
 
Contents page 
 
 Appreciation 21 
 
 At Fifty 40 
 
 Child and a Rose, A 38 
 
 Could Life's Night and Morning Meet . 34 
 
 Cry of the Widowed, The 24 
 
 Dear Lord, Teach Us 45 
 
 Fruition 27 
 
 Fruits of War, The . 50 
 
 Hast Ever Been to Oregon? 14 
 
 Her Neighbor 47 
 
 If 20 
 
 In the Gloaming 58 
 
 John Stevens' Choice 18 
 
 Let Us Give Thanks 41 
 
 Life's Rose Cycle 30 
 
 My Friend 29 
 
 My Little Old Home on the Island . . 32 
 
 Newsboys' Christmas Eve, The .... 42 
 
 ''A^. 
 
 
CONTENTS— Continued Page 
 
 Night and Morn 52 
 
 Now Use It 54 
 
 One Woman's Plaint 46 
 
 Oregon Grape, The 28 
 
 Oregon's Hymn of Praise 13 
 
 Parted 26 
 
 Pie I Didn't Get, The 48 
 
 Rose Brigade, The 39 
 
 Smile 25 
 
 Some Live Wire 36 
 
 That's the Way I Long for You .... 57 
 
 Time and Tide 16 
 
 Viewpoint, The 56 
 
 Whole World Knows the Portland Rose, 
 
 The 22 
 
^-^■■ 
 
 w^ 
 
 thoughts from Oregon 
 
 Co 6rcet a friend 
 
 W! 
 
 // 
 
 

 v^ r^ 
 
 OREGON'S HYMN OF PRAISE 
 
 For our state and all its plenty, 
 
 For its soil, its mines, its trees. 
 For its rivers, flowing swiftly 
 
 Outward to the Western seas; 
 For the grandeur of its mountains 
 
 Where, in faith, our souls have trod ; 
 For the beauty of its valleys, 
 
 We thank Thee, O, our God! 
 
 For the glory of its sunsets, c^" 
 
 On its many mountain tops ; ^ , 
 
 For the patter of its raindrops, ' 
 
 Auguring its bounteous crops ; 
 For its vast, uncultured acres, 
 
 Where sweet roses bloom and nod, 
 Future homes of countless thousands — 
 
 We thank Thee, O, our God ! 
 
 •-V. 
 
 !■■{ 
 
 '2 ^ -^^-^-^^j .-^— _. 
 
HAST EVER BEEN TO OREGON? 
 [With Acknowledgments to Fields] 
 
 Hast ever been to Oregon, where rolls the 
 
 bright Willamette down, 
 And Nature, with a lavish hand, has beautified 
 
 old Portland town? 
 Where snow-capped mountains rise and glint 
 
 like diamonds in the setting sun, 
 And Heaven dons a deeper tint of azure round 
 
 the tallest one? 
 
 Where verdure grows a brighter green than 
 
 any you have seen before, 
 And roses wear a fairer sheen than roses you 
 ^ K have known of yore? 
 
 Where vale and hillside vie in turn to capture 
 
 your enraptured gaze. 
 And bird and insect, flower and fern, elicit 
 
 terms of warmest praise? 
 
 [14 
 
Where giant trees *most reach the sky, their 
 
 tops as large as normal trees, 
 And mammoth logs 'twixt boom-sticks lie, for 
 
 rafting to the Western seas? 
 Where virgin mines, still unexplored, are 
 
 waiting for the magic wand, 
 And many is the "silver horde" of salmon in • 
 
 our rivers spawned? v; ^ 
 
 And these are not mere fairy tales, related for 
 
 a pleasant hour, 
 Before the real, the picture pales, as bud but 
 
 shadows forth the flower. 
 If you have never seen our state, you'll find it 
 
 all that I have told you. 
 And, when you shall participate, its wonders /TO 
 
 rare will charm and hold you. fj 
 
 k 
 
 ill 
 
 IS] 
 
TIME AND TIDE 
 
 I stood on the beach in the morning, 
 
 The tide was at its ebb, 
 And the sand was covered with debris. 
 
 And weeds of an intricate web. 
 The rocks stood barren and rugged, 
 
 The snags were barren and white. 
 All looked hopelessly sordid. 
 
 In the pitiless morning light. 
 
 I thought of our life in its morning, 
 
 And the many mistakes we make. 
 Ere we learn to weave its pattern 
 
 With a sort of give and take. 
 And Life's sands are strewn with debris 
 
 Of things we have started wrong. 
 And we're frightened at the discord 
 
 In the singing of our song. 
 
 I stood on the beach at noontime. 
 
 The tide was at its flow. 
 And the waves were singing a love song. 
 
 With a murmur soft and low. 
 There was no sign of debris 
 
 Now, on the white, white sand. 
 Only the beautiful ocean. 
 
 And the still more beautiful land. 
 
 jaQt^ 
 
 [I 
 
I thought of our life at its noontide, 
 
 When we've grasped some truth at last, 
 And we're learning to rise in the present, 
 
 Through our mistakes of the past ; 
 And Love has softened the errors. 
 
 And Hope has given a hand. 
 Through faith we have walked the waters, 
 
 Till we're almost in sight of the land. 
 
 I stood on the beach at sunset. 
 
 A wonderful, roseate light 
 Shone on the waters' surface. 
 
 Its glory blinded me quite. 
 And I could see in my fancy 
 
 The gates to heaven ajar. 
 As Night sent forth her herald, 
 
 The soft, bright, evening star. 
 
 Then I thought of life at its sunset. 
 
 At the end of the strenuous fight. 
 When man's heart is filled with charity. 
 
 Ere the coming of the night. 
 The night that must come so surely. 
 
 But through which a dawn shall loom 
 Tb point our way securely 
 
 To the port beyond the tomb. 
 
 '4 
 
 17] 
 
fl 
 
 /;; 
 
 Ml 
 
 i 
 
 JOHN STEVENS' CHOICE 
 
 They were sitting on the porch of their modest 
 
 bungalow, 
 John Stevens and his bonny bride of just a 
 
 week or so. 
 His work was done, and Stevens, his heart and 
 
 pipe aglow. 
 Was glad to sit and listen to the pretty ebb 
 
 and flow 
 Of the bright conceits and fancies of her so 
 
 pure and sweet, 
 That, search the wide world over, he knew you 
 
 could not beat. 
 
 "Reading up on Grecian lore for our little club 
 
 today, 
 I came upon a fancy, John, that pleased me 
 
 mightily. 
 'Twas said the sweet forget-me-nots, the 
 
 fragrant violets, too. 
 Were ordered made of patches from out of 
 
 Heaven's own blue. 
 And, wherever a piece was taken, a new star 
 
 would appear, 
 'Twas Heaven's glory shining through, to give 
 
 us mortals cheer." 
 
 [i8 
 
"It is a pretty fancy, Kate. With your author 
 
 I agree. 
 More, there's a pair of laughing eyes that are 
 
 very dear to me. 
 I KNOW that they were fashioned out of 
 
 Heaven's own blue, 
 
 "And, brighter than the brightest star, is the 
 
 lovelight shining through. 
 I would rather have their welcome, dear, than 
 
 all the kingly power 
 Of all the gods Olympian, set forth in Grecian 
 
 lore ; 
 And, rather than the throne of him, their great 
 
 and mighty Jove, 
 I'll take my chance of happiness with the little 
 
 girl I love." 
 
 \\ '*, 
 
 
 t//'' 
 
 19] 
 
 '% 
 
gjffe^^^^ 
 
 
 IF? 
 
 If we planned, and, planning, labored 
 
 To help others on their way ; 
 If we sang, and, singing, lessened 
 
 Frets and worries of the day ; 
 If we did, and, doing, lifted 
 
 Just a shadow from a friend ; 
 Would not we, and others also, 
 
 Happier be when day should end? 
 
 If we knew, and, knowing, followed 
 
 Rules of kindness, paths of love ; 
 If we hoped, and, hoping, trusted 
 
 In the words of Him above ; 
 If we thought, and, thinking, quoted 
 
 Only good of those we know ; 
 Would not we, and others also, 
 
 Have a heaven here below? 
 
 [ 20 
 
■<:^%^ 
 
 APPRECIATION 
 
 We've censured, criticised, and blamed; 
 We've said: "His working days are o'er; 
 He's way behind the times," we've claimed; 
 "The plans he makes are new no more." 
 Perhaps, — but still 
 
 When in his prime, he did his best. 
 No work too hard ; he knew no rest. 
 In methods, plans, he blazed the trail, 
 He never knew the sound of Fail, 
 And now, he's ill. 
 
 He's lying low, his eye is dim; 
 No more the fight and fray for him. 
 Send him a rose, a line or two ; 
 Give him his praise where praise is due. 
 He's climbed the hill. 
 
 He's made mistakes, some small, some grave. 
 But to his work, his life he gave ; 
 Oh, wait not till he's gone to tell 
 He did his work, and did it well. 
 And now, he's ill. 
 
 " ^ ^i~=^. ^^ 
 
 ■y 
 
"THE WHOLE WORLD KNOWS THE 
 PORTLAND ROSE" 
 
 "The whole world knows the Portland rose." 
 
 I read it on the liner. 
 And, instantly, it brings to me, 
 Instead of endless sky and sea. 
 Instead of briny, choppy foam, 
 A vision of my Portland home. 
 
 ]^ "The whole world knows the Portland rose." 
 
 , \ I read it on the diner. 
 
 And, while I gaze on sleet and snow, 
 
 My heart grows warm because I know, 
 
 Instead of this, I soon shall see 
 
 The land of roses, dear to me. 
 
 
 "The whole world knows the Portland rose. 
 ^ The German soldier sobs it. 
 
 I "Before a cottage, boys, it grows, 
 
 j" Where wife must hope although she knows 
 
 / That many here will meet their doom, 
 
 Whose hearts are where the roses bloom." 
 
 ^ 
 
 'M 
 
 [ 22 
 
"The whole world knows the Portland rose.' 
 
 The mother softly croons it. 
 Her lot is cast on English shores, 
 Her eyes are fixed on English flowers, 
 But to the babe upon her breast. 
 She sings the flower she loves the best. 
 
 I 
 
 "The whole world knov^s the Portland rose." 
 
 In Egypt's land he sighs it. 
 His lease of life is almost gone ; 
 No more his eyes will gaze upon 
 The only flower his heart now knows, — 
 The queen of flowers, the Portland rose. 
 
 "The whole world knows the Portland rose." 
 
 For in our hearts it blooms and grows. 
 
 The bride upon a foreign shore. 
 
 The soldier where the bullets pour. 
 
 The child whose life has just begun. 
 
 The man whose race is nearly run, — 
 
 "The whole world knows the Portland rose." 
 
 For in our hearts it blooms and grows. 
 
 
 
 m.- 
 
 23] 
 
 S^^T-^ 
 
VC?' 
 
 THE CRY OF THE WIDOWED 
 
 Dear Lord, we try to bear the cross, 
 
 To say, "Thy will be done" ; 
 To feel Thou dost the best for us, 
 
 From dawn till set of sun. 
 But, while we see our fields run red 
 
 With blood of those held dear. 
 And, while our children cry for bread, 
 
 'Tis hard to feel Thee near. 
 
 We try to pray, "Thou knowest, O God! 
 
 Thou dost the right alway, 
 Oh, let Thy servant kiss the rod." 
 
 'Tis thus we try to pray. 
 But, when we know that, somewhere near, 
 
 Our husbands, — brave, not free, — 
 Are being slain, we can but fear. 
 
 And cry, "Why must this be?" 
 
 Oh, Thou, who hearest the raven^s cry. 
 
 Who knowest all our need. 
 Is it Thy will that they should die 
 
 For others' lust and greed? 
 As Thou didst still the waters wild. 
 
 Make Thou this tumult cease, 
 Through blood of Him, "the undefiled," 
 
 Bring universal peace. 
 
 [24 
 
^^ 
 
 SMILE! 
 
 Smile ! 
 
 Every road, though it be thorny, 
 
 Has a rose along the way ; 
 Every day, though it be lonely, 
 
 Has of sunshine just a ray. 
 
 Smile! 
 
 Sunshine peeps from out the shadow, 
 
 Success oftimes crowns our strife, 
 And life's worth living, if it only 
 Comes but near our dream of life. 
 
 25] 
 
:^KJ 
 
 /ill 
 
 PARTED 
 
 Once more I'm in my childhood's home, 
 
 With childhood's friends around me; 
 Familiar are the sights and scenes 
 
 That greet me and surround me. 
 Back roll the years, again I live 
 
 The day when first I met you, 
 And well I know, till time shall cease, 
 
 I never can forget you. 
 
 Though we must part, and bravely try 
 
 To live the years before us. 
 The shadow of the past will lie, 
 
 A gloomy curtain, o'er us. 
 And all the years ahead will seem 
 
 Of love bereft, forsaken, 
 And all the years behind, a dream 
 
 From which we'll never waken. 
 
 Perhaps, in years to come, we'll crave 
 
 The gifts that Fate now proffers. 
 Perhaps we'll take, with hearts that ache, 
 
 Still lesser ones she offers. 
 Perhaps, perhaps, oh, let us hope! 
 
 We'll pierce this veil of sorrow. 
 To find — the grief we know today 
 
 Bears fruit of joy tomorrow. 
 
 [26 
 
FRUITION 
 
 \) 
 
 All the ships which are out on the ocean so blue 
 
 May or may not make port. 
 But 'twill not be the fault of the captain or crew ,, 
 
 If they are the elements' sport ; /i 1 
 
 For, steady and sturdy, ready and true, 
 
 They stand by the rudder or helm, ^ 
 
 Their task to perform, their duty to do. 
 
 That disaster may not overwhelm. 
 
 All our hopes which are out on the ocean of life 
 
 May or may not bear seed. 
 But 'twill not be our fault, if, in battle and strife, , , 
 
 They are choked by thistle and weed, \\ \\ 
 
 If, always and ever, breasting the storm, ' 
 
 We stand by conviction and creed. 
 Though others may censure, our duty perform. 
 
 We will win to some port in our need. 
 
 27] 
 
 ^ 
 
THE OREGON GRAPE* 
 
 "This little sprig of it, so trim and so trig of it, 
 Makes the heart of me hunger for home." 
 
 I sing you a song of the Oregon Grape. 
 
 Its leaves, so bright, glossy, and strong, 
 Stand for the faith we have in our state. 
 
 And her power to triumph o'er wrong. 
 Its blossoms of gold, so fair to behold, 
 
 Betoken our resources grand. 
 And we love every sepal, every stamen and 
 petal. 
 
 On this dear native shrub of our land. 
 
 I sing you a song of the Oregon Grape. 
 
 The thorns that its glossy leaves wear 
 Stand for the pride that we have in our state, 
 
 And caution our foes to beware. 
 Its berries of blue, ashine with the dew. 
 
 Betoken our industries great. 
 And we love every part of it, from the root to 
 the heart of it, 
 
 This dear native shrub of our state. 
 
 *The Oregon Grape is the state flower of Oregon 
 
 ii^ 
 
 ^. 
 
 ^j^-^^ 
 
 [28 
 
'^^■ 
 
 MY FRIEND 
 
 She is but small, — my friend — 
 And slender as a lithesome reed. 
 But her thoughts are tall, and lend 
 Strength in your hour of need. 
 
 She plays on heartstrings long since dumb, 
 
 And bids ideals, thought dead, to come / , / 
 
 Forth from their hiding place, and send >• '^ 
 
 Back to oblivion the slothful word and deed. ' 
 
 She does not dream, — this one, 
 
 Whom God hath given me to know — ^^ ■, j 
 
 How life would seem, how dun ^^ / / 
 
 The path that I must go. 
 
 If she no more should light the way. 
 And bring from dark the dawn of day, \v^^ 
 
 Make strong my feet the race to run, \* ,. 
 
 And kindly heart and helpful hand on me i A i 
 
 bestow. 
 
 wi 
 
 29] 
 
 ■dO-s 
 
J 
 
 LIFE'S ROSE CYCLE 
 
 They brought my mother a rose the mom — 
 
 She oft has told me so — 
 Of the sunny day when I was bom, 
 
 In that summer long ago. 
 The rose was dainty, pure, and white, 
 
 The sweetest flower that blows. 
 And, because her heart with joy was light, 
 
 My mother named me Rose. 
 
 They placed a rose within my hand. 
 
 And bade me look serene. 
 And proudly in the limelight stand, 
 
 The day they crowned me queen. 
 It was the marvelous Portland rose, 
 
 With its wondrous shell-pink hue, 
 And, in that self-same town, there grows 
 
 A similar one for you. 
 
 [30 
 
Then, on the day a maiden deems 
 
 The sweetest of her life, 
 When earth to her a heaven seems, 
 
 And naught but joy is rife, 
 HE brought me yet another rose, 
 
 A rose of crimson red ; 
 "Its glorious heart with passion glows, 
 
 As mine for you," he said. 
 
 Today, they bring a rose to me, 
 A rose whose whiteness charms. 
 
 Then, turn the covers back to see 
 The babe within MY arms. 
 
 H \ 
 
 wl 
 
 31] 
 
MY LITTLE OLD HOME ON THE 
 ISLAND 
 
 I wish I could tell all the love that I felt, 
 For my little old home on "The Island.'* 
 
 It stood up on stilts, no basement we built, 
 For there wasn't enough of the highland. 
 
 The June waters rush, with a gurgle and gush, 
 Through, under the floor, round the piling. 
 
 And, patient, we wait for the sun to abate, 
 And cease melting the snow with its smiling. 
 
 The little home stood at the edge of the wood, 
 And I wish I were to it returning ! 
 
 'Twas there, in my youth, that I met dainty 
 Ruth, 
 And for her my heart is still yearning. 
 
 Her eyes were as blue, as tender and true, 
 As the heaven above us now beaming. 
 And the curls of her head, neither golden nor 
 red. 
 Framed a face that with mischief was 
 teeming. 
 
 [32 
 
She passed "over the way," one sweet, sunny 
 day. 
 
 And the years have been long since her going. 
 Yet, oft, in my dreams, her dear face still seems 
 
 To smile at me, tenderly glowing. 
 
 And, always, at night, when my pipe is alight, 
 And I'm sitting alone in the highland, 
 
 I long for my Ruth, and the days of my youth, 
 And the little old home on the Island. 
 
 Oh ! welcome the day when down I shall lay 
 My burden of longing and sorrow, 
 
 To meet with her there, where shadow and care 
 Shall dim not our happy tomorrow. 
 
 33] 
 
 // 
 
 Ut 
 
COULD LIFE'S NIGHT AND 
 MORNING MEET 
 
 Did you ever pause to wonder, 
 
 Traveling down Life's rocky road, 
 Seeing good men greet with hauteur 
 
 Those who bend beneath a load, 
 Tinged, perhaps, with shame or sorrow, 
 
 Bleak remorse or vain regret. 
 The result of youthful foUy, 
 
 Which the world will not forget ; 
 Hearing others condemn wholly 
 
 One who's stumbled just a mite, 
 From the path that THEY consider 
 
 Constitutes the path of right ; 
 Did you ever pause to wonder 
 
 What our words and acts would be, 
 Could we pierce the future's curtain, 
 
 And, behind it, clearly see 
 God's own plan for all the ages. 
 
 Modeled at the mercy seat? 
 Would we judge the world less harshly. 
 
 Could Life's night and morning meet? 
 
 [34 
 
Could we see our night's fulfiUment, 
 
 Of our morning's dream so fair, 
 See its joys and see its sorrows, 
 
 All its pleasure and its care ; 
 See the tears we'd shed in secret 
 
 O'er the sad mistakes we'd made ; 
 See the zigzag turns and windings 
 
 Of the game that we had played; 
 Could we see our morning's fancies 
 
 Side by side with their defeat; 
 See the blossoms, sadly blighted. 
 
 Of youth's hopes, so pure and sweet; 
 Would we not, in love and mercy. 
 
 Tenderly our neighbor greet. 
 Gloss his faults, and hide his failures. 
 
 Help him once more to his feet? 
 
 God, in mercy, let us think, then. 
 It v/ere comfort wondrous sweet ! 
 
 We would judge the world less harshly. 
 Could Life's night and morning meet. 
 
 35] -^>^, 
 
;^^^ 
 
 SOME LIVE WIRE! 
 
 Knew a boy once, 
 
 He was in my class when I was going to 
 
 school, 
 He wasn't very brilliant, and he wasn't any 
 
 fool. 
 Nine times out of ten, he'd get his problems 
 wrong. 
 But the tenth time, he got 'em right. 
 He wa'n't never discouraged, but plodded 
 right along, 
 Always put up a dandy fight. 
 We kinder laughed at him. Called him 
 
 "Plodding Turk," 
 He didn't seem to care a bit, but kept right 
 
 on at work. 
 And I'll be darned, while we've stood still, 
 
 He's kept on going higher. 
 Till now, we doff our hats to him. 
 By gosh! 
 
 He's some live wire! 
 
 [36 
 
v^ y-^6i 
 
 Knew a girl once, 
 
 She wasn't very pretty, like maybe you've 
 
 known some, 
 She wasn't very witty, and she wasn't very 
 
 dumb. 
 Nine times out of ten, she'd never a word 
 to say, 
 But the tenth time, she said it right. 
 She wa'n't very assertive, that never was her 
 way. 
 Just listened well, and thought a mite. 
 We kinder smiled at her. Called her, "Just 
 
 old Nell," 
 She didn't seem to mind a bit, not so's we 
 
 could tell. 
 But the other day a book came out. 
 
 Filled with wondrous fire, 
 And now, we bend the knee to her. 
 Our Nell! 
 
 She's some live wire ! 
 
 , / 
 
 rA 
 
 ~¥ 
 
 W 
 
 37] 
 
 VnT^ 
 
 3}i 
 
A CHILD AND A ROSE 
 
 Who, that hath glimpsed to the soul of a child, 
 
 Could ever deny God again? 
 Who, that hath gazed on the heart of a rose, 
 Could ever His wisdom profane? 
 For the soul of a child, 
 And the heart of a rose, 
 In wonder and beauty. 
 In splendor and glory. 
 Conceal depths that no human can grasp. 
 
 Who, that hath glimpsed to the soul of a child, 
 
 Could ever speak crossly again? 
 Who, that hath gazed on the heart of a rose, 
 Could talk of God's wonders as vain? 
 For the soul of a child. 
 And the heart of a rose, 
 In solace and comfort. 
 In rapture and wisdom. 
 Reveal heights to make mortal mind gasp. 
 
 -^S>^ 
 
 C38 
 
39] 
 
 THE ROSE BRIGADE 
 
 [Apologies to Tennyson] 
 
 r 
 
 Roses to right of them, 
 
 Roses to left of them, 
 
 Roses in front of them, | /^ 
 
 Blossomed and flowered; 
 Roses of every hue, 
 Gladly they bloomed and grew, 
 Welcome the sight of them, 
 Children of sun and dew. 
 
 With radiance dowered. 
 
 When can their glory fade? 
 
 All the bright bloom they made? U^ 
 
 When mem'ry 's over ; I ^ 
 
 Then, when our eyelids close, 
 Place in our hands the rose, 
 
 Rose and its lover. 
 
 !\ 
 
 e 
 
AT FIFTY 
 
 I met a woman on the way, 
 
 Her sm.ile was sweet, her hair was gray, 
 
 Her dress was fine and nifty. 
 Her face breathed forth such rare content, 
 I asked her what such radiance meant. 
 
 She said, *'Sir, I am fifty." 
 
 I knew somewhat the life of care, 
 
 That dimmed her eye, and grayed her hair, 
 
 I knew that she was thrifty. 
 I thought of battles bravely won. 
 Of work from dawn till set of sun, 
 
 From twenty up to fifty. 
 
 And then I thought of daughter fair. 
 And of the love they both would share. 
 
 Till daughter, too, was fifty. 
 I thought me of her stalwart son. 
 Whose work in life was well begun. 
 
 And wished that I were fifty. 
 
 If we could, like this woman dear. 
 
 With radiance crowned, give all good cheer, 
 
 The years when we were fifty, 
 If we could see, through good work done. 
 Our lives prolonged in maid and son, 
 
 Dear God, we'd all be fifty. 
 
 [40 
 
LET US GIVE THANKS 
 
 "Let us give thanks," the old man said, 
 "Give thanks to Him for daily bread ; 
 Gives thanks that those we hold most dear 
 Are still perm.itted to be here. 
 To sit with us around our board, 
 And join in praises to our Lord. 
 
 Give thanks that we are not at war, 
 
 As, o'er the seas, the nations are. 
 
 That we are not in daily fear 
 
 Of news something like this to hear, 
 
 'It is our painful duty to 
 
 Write from the front and say to you. 
 
 Your son John like a hero fell 
 
 Today, 'midst rain of shot and shell. 
 
 Your grief and anguish we, too, share. 
 
 Such men as he we ill can spare.' 
 
 Let us give thanks that we are still 
 
 At peace, and pray the Father's will 
 
 May be that our great, glorious land 
 
 Shall give a friendly, helping hand 
 
 To those distressed, across the sea. 
 
 In sorrow bowed ; and may it be 
 
 That, ere Thanksgiving comes once more 
 
 They shall be freed from cruel war." 
 
 November 23, 1915 
 
 41] ^' 
 
THE NEWSBOYS' CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 *T\vas the night before Christmas my story 
 
 befell, 
 And two newsboys were trying their papers to 
 
 sell. 
 In the City of Portland, they stood in the street, 
 In front of a playhouse, each eager to greet 
 The crowd that would saunter forth from the 
 
 door. 
 When the curtain was lowered, the acting was 
 
 o*er. 
 
 And while they were waiting, 'twas natural 
 
 they 
 Should fall to relating their views of the day. 
 Floating out on the breezes, they heard children 
 
 sing, 
 "To Jesus give praises, for He is our King." 
 The younger insisted that this story was true, 
 And most stoutly resisted the older lad's view. 
 
 So earnest and honest, and so eager was he. 
 So convincing his tale, that poor Mike needs 
 
 agree 
 With a half-hearted "Maybe. I'm no knocker. 
 
 See! 
 
 ^.) 
 
 '^^ 
 
 [42 
 
<^ 
 
 But you're just a baby alongside of me. 
 
 You say He loves newsboys. I'd believe that 
 
 some more, 
 If He'd send me a dollar. I'm needing it sore, 
 To give to my mother to pay for the rent. 
 'Tis due on the morrer, and she hasn't a cent." 
 
 Just then the doors opened, and the patrons 
 
 came out. 
 "Oregonian for Christmas," the urchins now 
 
 shout. 
 A couple stopped near them, and the lady 
 
 smiled. "Dear, 
 Let us give them a little to make Christmas 
 
 cheer." 
 His hand went to his pocket and, looking right 
 
 glad. 
 He brought forth two big dollars, a coin for 
 
 each lad. 
 Then, with fervent "God bless you," they 
 
 passed on their way. 
 Whereas I lingered after, and heard Mickie say, 
 "I guess you are right. Bud, and your Jesus is 
 
 King, 
 And I'll bet you that lady's his angel, sure 
 
 thing!" 
 
 43] 
 
 4^ 
 
 f 
 
i.^^^r^'^^-^ 
 
 And, you, kindly strangers, as you go on 
 
 through life, 
 Know you opened a channel that with promise 
 
 is rife. 
 That you kindled a faith which may grow with 
 
 the years, 
 And gave joy to a heart that knows more of 
 
 life's tears. 
 Bread cast upon waters to return has been 
 
 known. 
 And a love gift is oftimes the best kind of a 
 
 loan. 
 When Christ these words uttered, they were 
 
 spoken for you, 
 "What ye do to my children, unto Me, too, 
 
 ye do." 
 
 o 
 
 Jo SJ, 
 
 [44 
 
Oh, great Omniscience ! Who dost behold 
 Thy children'st every need ; 
 We entreat Thee, hear our prayer! 
 We dare not claim to know the right, 
 Nor question Thee in all Thy might; 
 We wist but that, in Thine own way, 
 Till through the dark shall dawn the day. 
 Thy strength shall us sustain. Thy hands 
 
 uphold, 
 And daily stronger grow our faith that Thou 
 
 art God indeed. 
 
 DEAR LORD, TEACH US! 
 
 Oh, great Omnipotence ! Thou who dost know 
 Thy children's every woe; 
 We beseech Thee, hear our prayer ! 
 We do not beg that there be peace, (\ 
 
 Nor yet demand that war shall cease ; ^ ' 
 
 We crave but that, through all this din, 
 Death, anguish, hate, war, rancor, sin, ,, , 
 
 Thy love shall penetrate, and to us show ^j / 
 
 That still we are the objects of Thy never- "* ^ 
 ceasing care. ' 
 
 kjj 
 
 45] 
 
 
^v.^ 
 
 WOMAN'S PLAINT 
 
 To visit lands across the seas, 
 To see the Alps and Pyrenees, 
 To know Paris and hear its din. 
 My heart's desire has always been. 
 
 To cross the ocean wide and blue. 
 And Monte Carlo visit, too ; 
 The peasants know in country home; 
 In fact, abroad I'd love to roam. 
 
 Instead, at home, I calmly sit, 
 Do housework, plan, tend babes, and knit 
 Make all the clothes for youngsters five. 
 And keep my husband's love alive. 
 
 While my mind is in fair Italy, 
 And heart and brain are o'er the sea, 
 I scrub the floors, make beds, and sweep, 
 Mend hubby's socks, put babe asleep. 
 
 Sometimes, at night, I steal away. 
 And travels read; then dream by day 
 That I am in some foreign clime, 
 With heaps of gold and scads of time. 
 
 Perhaps, some day, when I am gray, 
 And age has ta'en desire away. 
 The chance may come, — ah, cruel fate! — 
 To grant my prayer when 'tis too late. 
 
 [46 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 I've seen the mountains and the trees, 
 
 I've seen the valleys and the seas, 
 
 Castles and shrines of every style. 
 
 The pyramids, the River Nile; / 
 
 I've braved Sahara's desert glow, y 
 
 I've dwelt in Russia's arctic snow; 
 Have climbed the Alps, the Jungfrau, too, 
 Lived 'neath Italia's storied blue ; 
 
 V 
 
 I've met the Scotsman on his heather, 
 Dared London's fog, — atrocious weather, — 
 Have toured Glengary, Dublin, Cork, 
 Spent seasons, too, in old New York ; 
 
 But not one spot that is my own 
 Have I, to give the name of home. 
 No dainty girl or sturdy boy. 
 To fill my lonely heart with joy. 
 
 Oh, God ! take all the wealth I have, 
 It is not gold or fame I crave ; 
 Just grant to me the one great good, — 
 The joys and cares of motherhood. 
 
 u 
 
 \ 
 
 47] 
 
 t^' 
 
(^^ 
 
 THE PIE I DIDN'T GET 
 
 Once, when I was young and verdant, 
 
 At a wedding in our town, 
 Pie was passed me at the dinner ; 
 
 Bashfully I turned it down. 
 When, too late, I tried to get some, 
 
 Tried, alas, oh, vain regret ! 
 Every piece had then been taken 
 
 Of that pie I didn't get. 
 
 Pies I've had that were delicious. 
 Many pies I've had, you bet. 
 
 But the pie that most I've longed for 
 Is that pie I didn't get. 
 
 Boys, list to a word of caution. 
 
 On that path you all must tread. 
 Any chance you see before you. 
 
 Grab it ; nail it on the head. 
 As you travel down life's highway. 
 
 Leave no room for vain regret ; 
 Stub your toe, but come up smiling, 
 
 Have no pie you didn't get. 
 
 [4i 
 
Other men have missed their chances, 
 
 Spent their lives in sighing since, 
 Longing for the pie that's passed them 
 
 Apple, pumpkin, squash, or mince. 
 Fate, 'tis said, makes but one offer, 
 
 Knocks no more when sun has set ; 
 Take, oh, take, when she doth proffer. 
 
 Or, 'tis pie you didn't get. 
 
 \L, 
 
 f 
 
 49] 
 
THE FRUITS OF WAR 
 
 As^. 
 
 The cottage is lowly, is gloomy and dim, 
 And gloomy and awful the struggle within. 
 For here, in her anguish, a war-widowed wife 
 Is struggling to bring a new soul into life. 
 And never she knows, as Death closes her eyes, 
 That her child cries but once before it, too, dies. 
 
 Her soldier in carnage is thinking of home. 
 And wondering, in pity, if her hour has yet 
 
 come ; 
 Hoping, and praying to the God they both love 
 That strength may be given to her from above. 
 With his mind on the far-away home over 
 
 there. 
 Relaxes a moment his usual care. 
 Forgets that the bullets are pouring like rain. 
 Stops one in its progress, and — endeth his pain. 
 
 Oh, wife in the cottage, dead babe on your 
 
 arm! 
 Thank God you are safe now from hunger and 
 
 harm ; 
 Oh, man in the battle who gave up your life. 
 While dreaming of bairnie and praying for 
 
 wife! 
 Though all that is mortal is severed fore'er, 
 Let's trust that your souls are together, — 
 
 somewhere. 
 
 ^«^. 
 
 [50 
 
"^ 
 
 'Tis like watching a plant you are hoping will 
 
 flower, 
 That by lightning is struck in its blossoming 
 
 hour. 
 The plant is uprooted as its bud becomes 
 
 bloom, 
 The gardener, also, is sent to his tomb. 
 Where once was all brightness, all beauty and 
 
 joy. 
 
 Is now but the elements' discarded toy. 
 
 Of all that was promised, naught is left but a 
 
 pall, 
 And, blindly, we grope for the WHY of it all. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^\V 
 
 51] 
 

 ?^.=^^;?c:.H^ 
 
 Hr 
 
 NIGHT AND MORN 
 
 I gazed from my room, last evening, 
 At a rosebush, brown and bare. 
 
 And I thought — O, weary teacher. 
 Your work's represented there. 
 
 The day had been long and dreary, 
 A lesson, carefully planned. 
 
 Had failed to convey my meaning, 
 And some could not understand. 
 
 The quick ones had grasped it surely. 
 But the duller ones, for whom 
 
 I had thought and planned it wholly. 
 Had minds still shrouded in gloom. 
 
 And I was both cross and weary. 
 
 Almost I could have wept. 
 But I turned my head on the pillow, 
 
 Instead of the tears — I slept. 
 
 I looked at the bush this morning, 
 At a beautiful, crimson flower. 
 
 Whose bud of unfolding beauty 
 I'd missed in that gloomy hour. 
 
 [52 
 
For awhile I gazed upon it, 
 As it sparkled with the dew ; 
 
 And I thought — perhaps, O, doubter, 
 You builded more than you knew. 
 
 Then Hope, God's blessed love token, 
 Sprang up again in my breast. 
 
 Once more, I planned and studied, 
 And — teachers, you know the rest. 
 
 Dl 
 
 
 53] 
 
NOW USE IT 
 
 ["The government has given you this canal to use; 
 now use it." — Words spoken by Senator Jones, at the 
 opening of the Celilo Canal.] 
 
 This canal was given you, 
 By the government to do 
 The work it is intended to. 
 
 Now, then, use it. 
 Or, if in years that lie before. 
 You should ask for something more, 
 Uncle Sam will look this o'er, 
 
 And — refuse it. 
 
 Thus it is with every man. 
 If he do the best he can. 
 More is given on demand. 
 
 Should he need it. 
 But, if he let his talents lie, 
 If 'tis never, "Do or Die," 
 For "a chance" he'll vainly cry. 
 
 Fate's decreed it. 
 
 "Unto him that hath is given." 
 Only he who shrives is shriven. 
 Always he who drives is driven. 
 
 None excepted. 
 But reward at last is handed. 
 Unto him whose fish is landed, 
 Aught for naught is ne'er demanded, 
 
 Nor expected. 
 
 [54 
 
l^ 
 
 When, at last, you tell your story 
 Unto Him, the "king of glory," 
 Though the tale be sweet and flowery, 
 
 He'll detect it 
 If it shows no hard race run. 
 Over self no battle won, 
 Not for you the praise, "Well done," 
 
 He'll reject it. 
 
 If to you is made some gift. 
 Give another soul a lift. 
 All is value, naught is drift. 
 
 Don't abuse it. 
 Work, for work is our salvation, 
 Work enriches all creation. 
 Strength is ours but on probation, 
 
 Oh, then, use it ! 
 
 /( 
 
 55] 
 
THE VIEWPOINT 
 
 [In the skirmish before L , the company was called 
 
 upon to mourn the loss of its gallant young captain, the 
 son of General Sir John, etc., etc. The other casualties 
 were hardly worth mentioning, just two soldiers wound- 
 ed, I believe, and one killed.] 
 
 Hardly worth telling, the paper has said, 
 Just two soldiers wounded, and one soldier 
 
 dead. 
 Yet the young private soldier, — they omitted 
 
 his name, — 
 Met his fate just as bravely; the bullet that 
 
 came 
 Speeding to greet him, and bring him his death, 
 Was faced just as fairly : he gave his last breath 
 With just as much courage as his leader could 
 
 do, 
 Though he was a private whom nobody knew. 
 And, oh ! in my heart, his mem'ry's more dear. 
 Though I be the only one to give him a tear. 
 Give fame to the captain for what he has done, 
 But the poor private soldier, — HE was MY son. 
 
 [56 
 
\ 
 
 THAT'S THE WAY I LONG FOR YOU 
 
 Have you ever stood in a crowd, my friend, 
 
 And longed for one face alone, 
 A face that, back in the bygone days, 
 
 Belonged to one you'd known, 
 Whose friendship was like the stars above, 
 
 Constant and fixed and true, \j^ 
 
 Whose handclasp held a warmth of love? 
 
 That's the way I long for you. 
 
 i 
 
 Have you ever sat through a lonely night. 
 
 That seemingly had no end, 
 And, through all the pain and darkness and ^lil 
 
 woe, 
 
 Longed for a one time friend. 
 Whose very smile was like a caress, 
 
 Honest and fearless and true. 
 And whose presence would make the shadow 
 less? 
 
 That's the way I long for you. 
 
 57] 
 
 
IN THE GLOAMING 
 
 I'm sitting alone in the gloaming, and backward 
 my fancy is roaming, 
 To "The things that might have been better, 
 had they but happened thus." 
 O'er the little sins I am fretting, and the big 
 mistakes I'm regretting, 
 The little sins and the big mistakes that 
 haunt us, the best of us. 
 
 And sadly my poor heart is yearning for the 
 days that know no returning. 
 Wishing I had my chance over with the 
 knowledge I have tonight. 
 But, still, in the midst of my grieving, there's 
 a strain in me that's believing 
 Mistakes that are made in DOING are things 
 that count for the right. 
 
 [58 
 
■.-V, (Ty- 
 
 And, so, though the heart may be crying, it's 
 up to us to keep trying 
 To fight through the mists to sunshine, the 
 stronger because of the past. 
 And, oh, when our last sun is setting, pray God 
 we shall all be forgetting 
 Earth and its failures forever, to know we 
 have conquered at last ! 
 
 59] 
 
 H 
 
 That it is not so much the sinning, and it is not 
 so much the winning, 
 That marks up at last our record; it's the ,,, 
 
 striving our best to do ; \ j 
 
 It's the making a fresh beginning; it's the 
 struggling for one more inning ; 
 It's the helping some other poor beggar j 
 
 who's hoeing a hard row, too. ■ ) 
 
 ^-.v;/ 
 
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