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BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 » „.* 
 
 BENJAMIN P. FIELR 
 
 (Copyright, 1903, by Benjamin P. Field.) 
 
 New York : 
 
 J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 
 57 Rose Street. 
 
THE LIBRARY OF 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 MAY 1 1903 
 
 Copyright Entry 
 
 CLASS ft/ XXc No 
 
 ^ ^-^ hi 
 
 COPY 8. 
 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 To my amiable and devoted wife, whose companion- 
 ship has been as a light and guide to my path for more 
 than half a century, and whose sweet life has been like one 
 perpetual bloom, this book is most affectionately inscribed. 
 
 Benjamin P. Field. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Beauties of Life 1 1 
 
 Magnitude of God's Love 13 
 
 Could or Would 14 
 
 Morning, Noon and Night 15 
 
 Grandmother's Rag Carpet 17 
 
 Key to Happiness 19 
 
 The Deserted Shop 21 
 
 Chide Not the Aged 2;^ 
 
 Summer Will Come Again 24 
 
 Pleasant Strolls 26 
 
 Once in Awhile 28 
 
 Work and Play 29 
 
 Snow 30 
 
 The Sweet Old Damask Rose 31 
 
 Down in the Creek 33 
 
 The Old Wooden Cradle 35 
 
 Autumn 37 
 
 The Old Grindstone 38 
 
 Morning Beauties 40 
 
 When I Am Gone 41 
 
 Early Morn 43 
 
 The Hand of the Toiler 44 
 
 Christmas Day 47 
 
 The Whistling Boy 48 
 
 My Old Pocket Knife 49 
 
 When the Tide Is Running Low 50 
 
 Frost-Bitten 52 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Welcome Dream 53 
 
 Winnowed Thoughts 55 
 
 Widow Flynn's Christmas Experience 56 
 
 Uplifting 60 
 
 A New Year Plea 61 
 
 The Lassie Down by the Old Mill — Song 62 
 
 Down in the Heart 64 
 
 My Sweetheart Imogene — Song 64 
 
 Rain 66 
 
 Mellow the Soil 67 
 
 Then and Now 68 
 
 Oh, No 71 
 
 Summer's Pretty Nigh 73 
 
 When a Mother Feels Proud of Her Boy 74 
 
 The Meadow Mowers 76 
 
 Our Dearest Friend 'j'j 
 
 Uncle Jess and His Bicycle 78 
 
 "God Is Ever Near" 83 
 
 The Little Lame Newspaper Boy 84 
 
 Life Teachings 85 
 
 Little Joe 86 
 
 The Little Tin Pail with a Cup on the Cover 91 
 
 The Ending of the Year 93 
 
 Mother-in-Law 96 
 
 Lesson of the Cobweb 99 
 
 Thoughtlessness loi 
 
 Skim-Milk and Cream 102 
 
 Mother Is Gone 104 
 
 Sweet Little Bird 106 
 
 Man's Companion 107 
 
 The Village Church Bell 108 
 
 Oak Island by the Sea 109 
 
 My Mother's Love 112 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Passing of the Dinner Pail 113 
 
 Hopes and Joys 114 
 
 The Past 115 
 
 When the Lord Is Near 118 
 
 Looking from My Window 119 
 
 The Old Picket Fence 120 
 
 Stormy Morning 122 
 
 Labor's Limit 124 
 
 The Belle of Allentown 125 
 
 Life of Patrick Delehanty in Old New York 129 
 
 A Reverie 142 
 
 A Retrospect of Company "A," Hamilton Rifles. . . . 144 
 
 Lines to Our Dear Wallie 149 
 
 The Poet's Home 152 
 
 Tom Smith's Ambition 153 
 
 To a Friend 155 
 
 A Batch of Crazy Facts; or, This Wonderful Age. . 156 
 
 An Oak Island Reverie 165 
 
 To the Veterans of the 127th Regiment, N. Y. V 166 
 
 Old Companions 167 
 
 A Fishing Party 169 
 
 Thoughts at Christmas Time 171 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. J. B. C 180 
 
 To Our Firemen 181 
 
 Celebration of Arcanum Day 182 
 
 My Nancy — Song 186 
 
 Take Me to Thy Care 187 
 
 A Very Commendable Work 188 
 
 To the Royal Arcanum 189 
 
 Joys of Spring 191 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting this little volume to the public, the author 
 begs leave to state that the Book has not been printed 
 with the view of making it, in any sense, competitive, or 
 expecting it to be ranked with Classic Literature. 
 
 The sketches it contains were written, at different times, 
 merely to gratify the author's taste, and to follow the 
 natural trend of his mind, to give expression to some of 
 his thoughts, in verse. Some have been taken from life, 
 others from observation and experiences. He never in- 
 tended, nor expected, to have them published in book 
 form ; but at the earnest solicitation of many friends, and 
 the fact that he has passed the mark of three-score and 
 ten, he feels impressed, that, perhaps, this simple volume 
 may prove the most fitting memento he can leave behind 
 when he is gone. He has, therefore, yielded to these in- 
 fluences and has placed his verses in book form, feeling 
 that if anything contained therein can furnish an inspiring 
 or cheering thought to the reader, he will be amply com- 
 pensated for his feeble efforts in this direction. 
 
 Benjamin P. Field. 
 Babylon, N. Y., 1903. 
 
Beauties of Life and Other Poems 
 
 BEAUTIES OF LIFE. 
 
 There's beauty in summer, when, after the sowing, 
 The husbandman waits and is anxious to see 
 
 If that which he's sown is watered and growing, 
 While he's wondering what the harvest will be. 
 
 There are beautiful tones in the breezes which pass, 
 While song birds chant and in harmony sing ; 
 
 There is beauty in clover and the tall, waving grass, 
 And in rich-tinted fruits the autumn months bring. 
 
 There's beauty in winter, when snowflakes are falling, 
 Spreading a mantle o'er upland and moor; 
 
 There's beauty in hearing when poverty's calling, 
 And in feeding the hungry who comes to your door. 
 
 There's beauty in pitying the downfall of others, 
 And helping the we?'< and fallen to stand; 
 
 There's beauty in feeling that we are all brothers. 
 Ever ready to give the help of our hand. 
 
 There's beauty around when life seems worth living. 
 And prosperity plants her crown on our head ; 
 
 There's beauty in working, in earning and giving 
 To those who're not able to earn their own bread. 
 
 11 
 
12 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 There is beauty in making a self-sacrifice 
 To comfort the waif who is shivering with cold; 
 
 There is beauty in tenderly giving advice, 
 Instead of rebuke, or in anger to scold. 
 
 There's beauty where no envy nor hate doth exist, 
 Or jealousy steals our best senses away; 
 
 There's beauty in visiting the sick to assist, 
 And feeling you will reap your reward some day. 
 
 There is beauty if ill-luck cruelly haunt us, 
 When courage and patience are put to the test; 
 
 To do every duty and let nothing daunt us, 
 And feel that everything is for the best. 
 
 There's beauty in hushing the tongue that in malice 
 Would echo a scandal to blight a good name; 
 
 There's beauty in softening the heart that is callous 
 And shriveled to hardness in vices and shame. 
 
 There's beauty in screening the eyes that distinguish 
 Only the errors and the blunders we make ; 
 
 'Tis beauty to relax, release and relinquish 
 What we have claimed falsely through our own blind 
 mistake. 
 
 There's beauty in staying the hand that's uplifted 
 In rash anger to strike a fatal, foul blow; 
 
 There's beauty in winning back those who have drifted 
 Far away from the path in which they should go. 
 
 There's beauty when ourselves we've not overrated, 
 Or assumed to take more than is rightly our part ; 
 
 There's beauty in loving those whom we have hated 
 And burying the hatchet that kept us apart. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 13 
 
 There is beauty in showing a just gratitude 
 For kind favors received without any pay; 
 
 There is beauty in taking a firm attitude — 
 To dare to do right and drive wrong away. 
 
 There's beauty in having no cause for regret 
 When, retracing our steps, we gaze at the past ; 
 
 There's beauty when no dangers our pathway beset 
 And our steps are guided aright to the last. 
 
 There's beauty in thinking, in knowing and feeling 
 We brought nothing with us and can take naught away ; 
 
 And if we do wrong, there is beauty in kneeling, 
 Shut out from the world, in our closet, to pray. 
 
 Could we gather these beauties like leaflets and flowers, 
 And garland them into a fragrant bouquet. 
 
 They would perfume the life, and sweeten the hours. 
 And strengthen the hope for a bright, endless day. 
 
 MAGNITUDE OF GOD'S LOVE. 
 
 The bounteous yield of harvest field, 
 
 The fruit of tree and vine; 
 And constant flow from depths below. 
 
 Of treasures from the mine. 
 
 From shore to shore, the wide world o'er. 
 
 All Nature's realms attest; 
 In everything the seasons bring, 
 God's love is manifest. 
 
14 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 'Tis in the breeze, among the trees, 
 
 O'er valley — hill and plain; 
 Mingling with streams, and bright sunbeams, 
 
 And every drop of rain. 
 
 It meets our gaze in various ways, 
 
 Wheresoever we go ; 
 And like His care, is everywhere, 
 
 Its comforts to bestow. 
 
 God's endless chain, all things sustain. 
 
 Centering in Him above ; 
 'Tis sweet to think that every link. 
 
 Is welded with His love. 
 
 His grandest plan, is all for man. 
 
 And ever thus has been ; 
 And day by day in every way, 
 His love, is blended in. 
 
 COULD OR WOULD. 
 
 If we could do some little thing, 
 
 And do it every day, 
 Something which would help to bring, 
 
 Some good in some one's way. 
 
 Could we extend to those who grieve. 
 Something that would cheer — 
 
 To reach their hearts and help relieve, 
 And calm excited fear. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 15 
 
 If we could each day do some good; 
 
 To those whom others slight; 
 Then, indeed, we surely would, 
 
 Be doing what is right. 
 
 Could we reclaim the wandering boy, 
 Whose life is stained by sin — 
 
 Restore him to his mother's joy — 
 To home, and friends, and kin. 
 
 If seeds of kindness we could sow. 
 
 Freely along the way ; 
 In such a manner they would grow, 
 
 And bear good fruit — some day. 
 
 And could we act the better part. 
 
 To others — every day ; 
 Right from the bottom of our heart, 
 
 Without a thought of pay. 
 
 There's not a shadow of a doubt. 
 But these would all do good; 
 
 But, one thing let us not leave out, 
 Would we? — -if we could. 
 
 MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT. 
 
 I love to greet at early dawn. 
 
 The coming of the day ; 
 As the darkness in the eastern skies 
 
 Gently fades away, 
 
16 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And morning light steps softly in, 
 
 The vapor mists unfurl, 
 The golden sun peeps up and bids 
 
 "Good morning" to the world. 
 
 I love to see the gleeful child. 
 
 In the morning of its day. 
 Before a cloud or shadow 
 
 Hath been cast upon its way ; 
 I love to see him in his youth, 
 
 With life and work begun, 
 In his upward, onward course, 
 
 Like the morning's golden sun. 
 
 I love the hour of noontime. 
 
 With the sun at heaven's height, 
 When all the world is basking in 
 
 Its mellow golden light. 
 When man and beast are plodding on. 
 
 In honest daily toil. 
 And the genial rays with kindness nurse 
 
 The seed upon the soil. 
 
 I love to see the youth when grown, 
 
 Like noonday's brightest sun. 
 In the zenith of his manhood, 
 
 With half life's work well done ; 
 And feel that in his moral strength, 
 
 We safely can depend, 
 Down through the afternoon of life. 
 
 And even to the end. 
 
 I love to muse at twilight shade, 
 When the sun is seeking rest; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 17 
 
 How many a cold spot felt its warmth, 
 
 And by its rays were blest, 
 And when it is behind the hills, 
 
 The night mists softly say. 
 We'll greet thee at the early dawn. 
 
 The coming of the day. 
 
 And when the good man like the sun. 
 
 Has passed away from sight ; 
 The fragrance of his memory lingers. 
 
 Morning, noon and night. 
 Some seed of kindness he hath sown. 
 
 Or good word timely given. 
 May blossom here, and ripen there. 
 
 In the golden light of Heaven. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S RAG CARPET. 
 
 It is only a piece of rag carpet 
 On grandmother's old kitchen floor; 
 
 And there's only a bit of it left now. 
 Which serves for a mat at the door. 
 
 Its gay colors, once brilliant and blending, 
 Have faded — and the warp shows through, 
 
 And some little spots show careful mending, 
 Which only grandmother could do. 
 
 How carefully the dear woman keeps it. 
 
 Though 'tis worth neither dollars nor cents 
 
 But she thinks every time that she sweeps it. 
 Of friends which it still represents. 
 
18 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 It was made of odd garments and dresses, 
 From those who were faithful and true; 
 
 Whose sweet friendship and loving caresses, 
 Were pure as the sunshine and dew. 
 
 Grandmother has a fond recollection, 
 Of many who gave her their aid; 
 
 And who gathered rags for the collection. 
 From which the old carpet was made. 
 
 With the greatest of care she will shake it, 
 With a movement that's tender and slow ; 
 
 For she knows most of those who helped make it, 
 Went homeward a long time ago. 
 
 And the friends who helped with the sewing, 
 
 Until the rag carpet was done; 
 One by one through the years have been going. 
 
 Till she is left almost alone. 
 
 The little faint streaks of light yellow. 
 
 Woven next to a piece — once red, 
 Like herself — now looks aged and mellow. 
 
 And it clings — as if by a thread. 
 
 Ofttimes by the mat she will linger; 
 
 Though the colors may all look the same. 
 She will pick out a strand with her finger, 
 
 And lisp to herself — a lov'd name. 
 
 In the winter, when snowflakes are falling. 
 And the wind sings through the back door ; 
 
 She imagines she hears h:r friends calling, 
 From the mat on the old kitchen floor. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 19 
 
 In the whole of this world, not another, 
 
 Would carefully shake or sweep it; 
 And 'tis valued alone by grandmother. 
 
 And long as she lives she will keep it. 
 
 For it brings back a sweet recollection 
 
 Of the days in life's golden prime; 
 And is like a bouquet of affection, 
 
 With a fragrance which mellows with time. 
 
 KEY TO HAPPINESS. 
 
 Life is a bright continuous day, 
 
 When happiness is ours : 
 And either side the whole long way, 
 
 Is strewn with fragrant flowers. 
 
 But day is transformed into night, 
 When happiness hath fled — 
 
 Life's tender plants are seared by blight. 
 Their lovely flowers are dead. 
 
 Happiness is the only thing. 
 
 To make life glide along, 
 Smoothly, as birds upon the wing. 
 
 Or like a floating song. 
 
 There is a secret spring somewhere, 
 
 Which opens up the way, 
 For us to find and claim a sharej 
 
 Of life's sunshiny day. 
 
20 BEAUTIES OF LIFF. 
 
 Do not count upon your gold 
 To bring this boon to you ; 
 
 Happiness is not bought or sold. 
 But — ^given to a few. 
 
 So if you've never learned before, 
 
 This secret mystery, 
 These lines may lead you to the door. 
 
 And furnish you the key. 
 
 Go aid the sick — and help the poor, 
 
 Be kind to every man ; 
 Toward others — every day, be sure 
 
 To do the best you can. 
 
 Relax a bit your selfishness, 
 Soften your heart toward those 
 
 Who, crippled, helpless, penniless. 
 Have nothing — ^but life's woes. 
 
 Make others happy; if you do. 
 
 You cannot fail to see. 
 That this dear secret has reached you. 
 
 And happy you will be. 
 
 This simple thing — so small — ^yet still — 
 
 In every way is true; 
 Make others glad — ^this must, and will. 
 
 Bring happiness to you. 
 
 This is the secret. And you'll find 
 The whole world's wealth ne'er could. 
 
 Bring to your soul that peace of mind. 
 Which comes from doing good. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 21 
 
 THE DESERTED SHOP. 
 
 The deserted old shop looks lonely and bare. 
 For the blacksmith is gone, there's nobody there ; 
 There's a lock on the door, the windows are fast, 
 No light flickers through from a flaming hot blast. 
 
 In a prominent place, a half-broken pane 
 
 Alternately lets in the sunshine and rain 
 
 In the shop where the smith toiled day after day, 
 
 Till his shoulders were round and his hair turned gray. 
 
 The old shop was a place where many dropped in 
 For a bolt, or a nut, or an odd linch-pin ; 
 And some would remain as if bound by a spell, 
 For the smith always had a story to tell. 
 
 His hammer and sledge made the big anvil ring, 
 As he forged out many a difficult thing; 
 And the bright golden sparks delighted the eye 
 Of the children who loved to linger near by. 
 
 The old forge is now out of level and plumb, 
 
 And it speaks of the past, although it is dumb ; 
 
 The bricks have worked loose and the mortar between, 
 
 Has crumbled away till there's none to be seen. 
 
 The hood which carried the smoke from the fire, 
 Is rusted away and hangs by a wire; 
 The big water-tub and the box for the coal 
 Have acted their part, and finished their role. 
 
 The bellows, which daily performed the great feat 
 Of giving the blacksmith a good welding heat, 
 
22 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Has slipped from its bearings to quietly lay 
 'Neath a blanket of dust to moulder away. 
 
 The anvil is rusty on its hollow, worn face, 
 But remains on the log in the same old place; 
 It cants to one side, and will doubtless soon lay. 
 Out of sight — where the floor has settled away. 
 
 The blacksmith's old apron, thrown over a vise, 
 Is nibbled in bits by the rats and the mice; 
 A few broken files, and part of a wrench. 
 Are all that remain on the rickety bench. 
 
 The cobwebs hang down from the beams overhead. 
 Where spiders have fly-traps which hang by a thread, 
 And wasps build their houses almost out of sight. 
 Where they live undisturbed from morning till night. 
 
 Some old tires hanging by a chain and a string, 
 When the wind blows through often jingle and ring; 
 Sometimes in the night they sound like a bell, 
 In minor strains tolling a funeral knell. 
 
 In every dark corner, or in the sun's ray, 
 There's some little relics of a bygone day ; 
 And many small things like a pipe on a shelf, 
 Bring back to our mind the blacksmith himself. 
 
 But the old place has lost its magical charm, 
 There's no forging there by a powerful arm ; 
 No song of the anvil floats out to the street ; 
 And no blacksmith — to make the picture complete. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 23 
 
 CHIDE NOT THE AGED. 
 
 Don't censure the old for loving to tell, 
 Of that which occurred in their youth, 
 
 For down in their hearts sweet impressions must dw 
 Like the deepest convictions of truth. 
 
 For time has pencilled the pictures they see, 
 
 Far off through the vista of years, 
 Which are mellowed in tone — ^their coloring free, 
 
 From all of life's burdens and tears. 
 
 Don't upbraid, nor cause the old people pain. 
 
 For quietly loving to think, 
 Of life's brightest scenes, which reach them again. 
 
 Through memory's dear golden link. 
 
 Let the old man dream of his boyhood days — 
 
 And winters with plenty of snow — 
 His old village chums, with rickety sleighs, 
 
 As down the steep hills they would go. 
 
 The pond in the lane — with the ice so thick. 
 
 It could bear up many a ton; 
 And every boy knew some fanciful trick. 
 
 And all had a share in the fun. 
 
 What man can forget the old swimming place. 
 And the day he learned how to swim? 
 
 Such memories "Old Time" can never efface. 
 Though they may grow faded and dim. 
 
 There are grandmothers, too — with hair like snow, 
 Whose memory at times steals away. 
 
24 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 To the scenes of their childhood, long — ^long ago, 
 When life had its joys every day. 
 
 The fragrance of virtue — like a sweet balm — 
 
 Comes to them, like little sunbeams; 
 While the memory of childhood weaves a sweet charm ^ 
 
 And mingles itself with their dreams. 
 
 Then chide not the aged — ^they cannot stay long, 
 
 Their names are already enrolled ; 
 Where angels await them with voices of song. 
 
 To escort them home to the fold. 
 
 SUMMER WILL COME AGAIN. 
 
 The farmer's heart is merry; 
 
 The summer's work is o'er. 
 And grain, and fruit, and berry 
 
 Are added to the store. 
 
 The whippoorwill's done singing 
 In twilight's mellow shade; 
 
 No songbird's notes are ringing, 
 Down where the hay was made. 
 
 No insect voice is humming 
 In woodland shade or glen ; 
 
 It awaits the summer's coming, 
 With blackbird, lark and wren. 
 
 Rich meadow bloom, returning 
 The kiss of morning dew. 
 
 Now gilds the dairy's churning. 
 With fragrant, golden hue. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 25 
 
 Proud stalks with tasseled plumage, 
 
 Soft breezes loved to fan, 
 Have given up their fruitage 
 
 Of golden ears to man. 
 
 The chestnut burr is broken, 
 
 The fruit has left its cell ; 
 The Frost King's voice hath spoken 
 
 To forest, field and dell. 
 
 The crops have all been gathered, 
 
 The barns and bins are full ; 
 The birds are warmly feathered. 
 
 And lambs are clothed in wool. 
 
 The leaves are dead and falling, 
 
 The trees look bleak and bare; 
 And chilly winds are calling 
 
 To snowflakes in the air. 
 
 Summer soon will come again, 
 
 And violets drink the dew ; 
 Birds will sing their glad refrain. 
 
 And verdure spring anew. 
 
 Flowers will deck the pastures green, 
 
 Perfume the morning air; 
 Moonbeams dance in silver sheen 
 
 O'er lake and landscape fair. 
 
 Golden grain again will grow, 
 
 The farm.er bind the sheaf; 
 And the sap in time will flow. 
 
 To nurse the tender leaf. 
 
26 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Trees will bear their luscious fruit, 
 The soil bring forth her yield ; 
 
 Glowing harvests not dispute 
 The dry and fallow field. 
 
 Men will toil and sow the seed, 
 Bright blossoms fade and fall ; 
 
 Daylight, from the darkness freed, 
 Will greet the bluebird's call. 
 
 Warbling birds will rear their young 
 In bushes, hedge and tree; 
 
 Freedom's anthem still be sung 
 Over the land and sea. 
 
 Brook with river will unite 
 To join the raging main; 
 
 Noonday sing with silent night : 
 ''Summer has come again." 
 
 So the Hand that paints the flowers, 
 And tints the evening sky, 
 
 Deals its blessings with the hours 
 When they are passing by. 
 
 PLEASANT STROLLS. 
 
 How delightful for one to leisurely stroll, 
 
 Out where there's plenty of room; 
 When the hills are all green, and the valleys between, 
 
 Are dotted with daisies in bloom. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 27 
 
 To move at one's will — avoiding all haste, 
 
 In contentment — serenely at ease; 
 To let your steps be unhampered and free, 
 
 To lead you wherever they please. 
 
 How delightful to aimlessly wander along, 
 Where the meadow lark cheerfully sings — 
 
 Enraptured to stand, where on either hand 
 Are Nature's most beautiful things. 
 
 And the little wild flowers, whose blooming prepares, 
 
 A banquet for the small busy bees ; 
 While the bright summer sun inclines every one. 
 
 Toward the welcoming shade of the trees. 
 
 And down in the lane, where the footpaths meet, 
 From the fields where herds love to roam; 
 
 And the brook with its brink, where the cows kneel to 
 drink. 
 While contentedly tramping toward home. 
 
 How delightful it is to while away hours. 
 
 In the charms and romance of a glen, 
 Where the insects rejoice, and Nature's sweet voice 
 
 Is not marred by the bustle of men. 
 
 Sweet, indeed, the sleep when, after such strolls. 
 
 The valleys, the hills and the streams. 
 And soft summer skies, to our pleasant surprise. 
 
 Come strolling back to us in dreams. 
 
28 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 ONCE IN AWHILE. 
 
 Once in awhile in some new direction, 
 
 Death comes to take a loved one away, 
 One who at some time has shared our affection, 
 
 Perhaps away back in life's younger day. 
 
 Once in awhile, and all unexpected, 
 
 The sad tidings come, in a hushed, whisperM breath 
 That another dear friend has just been selected 
 
 To cross the turbulent river of death. 
 
 Once in awhile a shading of sorrow 
 
 Steals o'er the heart and we cannot tell why, 
 
 Forecasting, perhaps, that even to-morrow, 
 Somebody's loved one may sicken and die. 
 
 Once in awhile at life's early dawning, 
 
 A bright, shining mark has been taken away. 
 
 And their life's sun has set in the morning. 
 Instead of at eve, at the close of the day. 
 
 Once in awhile, without any warning, 
 
 Death steals an idol away from some home. 
 
 Plunging the household in deepest mourning, 
 Draping it all in a mantle of gloom. 
 
 Once in awhile the icy cold finger. 
 
 Points to the darlings whom no one can spare, 
 
 And all would be given could they but linger. 
 To help sweeten life, and its pleasures to share. 
 
 Once in awhile all have been taken, 
 
 Over the river to that silent shore, 
 I-eaving a mother heartbroken, forsaken. 
 
 And praying that Death may knock at her door. 
 
AND 0THER POEMS 29 
 
 Once in awhile hope seems almost stranded, 
 But as the bright sun sinks low in the west, 
 
 It carries our mind to those who have landed 
 Where they will be forever at rest. 
 
 Once in awhile it seems to us nearar 
 
 To that beautiful land so bright and fair, 
 
 And the glow of its light, makes the truth clearer, 
 That the right course in life will lead us all there. 
 
 WORK AND PLAY. 
 
 There is a time, there is a place. 
 
 Somewhere along life's road. 
 Where we should slack our quickened pace, 
 
 To rest beneath our load. 
 
 For constant wear will make the rut. 
 
 Too deep for us to mend ; 
 And like a bruised and angry cut. 
 
 Is painful to the end. 
 
 Unceasing labor, without play, 
 
 Will dull the brightest boy. 
 And cloud the sun of youth's bright day, 
 
 And lessen manhood's joy. 
 
 Then give us play — but just enough. 
 
 To make our burdens light. 
 And smooth the road where it is rough, 
 
 And make life's pathway bright, 
 
30 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 We should not let it make inroads, 
 On labor's right of way, 
 
 But those who bear the greatest loads, 
 Should have some time for play. 
 
 SNOW. 
 
 Gazing through the window pane, 
 
 Watching the falling snow; 
 Hurrying on perhaps to gain, 
 
 A hiding place below. 
 Building banks along the way, 
 
 And blocking up the lane. 
 This is what I see to-day, 
 
 Outside the window pane. 
 
 Gazing through the window pane. 
 
 The flakes go flitting by ; 
 Forming one long, icy train, 
 
 Between the earth and sky. 
 Slapping people in the face, 
 
 Disputing right of way; 
 Causing men to slack their pace, 
 
 And heed not what they say. 
 
 Watching through the window pane. 
 
 The antics of the snow ; 
 Playing tag across the plain, 
 
 And racing to and fro; 
 Waltzing 'round in little rings, 
 
 And dancing on the rills, 
 Flying off on icy wings, 
 
 To perch on window sills. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 31 
 
 Fingers numb and aching toes, 
 
 In shoes with open seam. 
 Men with crimson ears and nose, 
 
 Exhaling breaths of steam. 
 Beat themselves with swinging arms, 
 
 To keep their bodies warm, 
 So these mingled woes and charms. 
 
 Accompany each snow storm. 
 
 Snow is not a welcome guest, 
 
 To either rich or poor, 
 It puts us to a trying test, 
 
 Which some cannot endure. 
 Nature sends these cold snow storms, 
 
 To take us by surprise. 
 And they are one of many forms. 
 
 Of blessings in disguise. 
 
 THE SWEET OLD DAMASK ROSE. 
 
 Just inside the garden gate 
 
 A damask rose bush stood; 
 'Twas the most prolific bloomer 
 
 In all the neighborhood. 
 
 We nourished it with strengthening soil 
 
 And artificial showers. 
 And in return year after year 
 
 It paid us back in flowers. 
 
 We children often used to go 
 
 And linger, watch and wait, 
 For buds to follow frost and snow. 
 
 On the rose bush by the gate. 
 
32 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And when at last a blush of pink 
 
 Began to faintly show, 
 And buds from dewdrops sip and drink, 
 
 So cautiously and slow. 
 
 The little folks in childish glee, 
 Would walk up on tiptoes, 
 
 To peep in through the garden gate, 
 To see the first new rose. 
 
 And through the sunny month of J«ne, 
 
 In sunshine and the rain. 
 The birds would come with voice in tune, 
 
 To sing their sweet refrain. 
 
 Sometimes they lit upon the bush, 
 And sniffed the sweet perfume ; 
 
 Then sung their songs as if to thank. 
 The roses for their bloom. 
 
 Some, while in their sweetest bloom, 
 
 Were gathered with great ca4-e, 
 
 And placed up in the old spare room, 
 
 To shed their fragrance there. 
 
 The old vase on the mantelpiece 
 Received a generous share. 
 
 And there both clasped in fond embrace, 
 Looked like a loving pair. 
 
 Mother alone would often glean 
 Leaves from the fairest rose, 
 
 And carciiilly lay them in between 
 Her baby-s Sunday clothes. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 33 
 
 Their fragrance sweet would penetrate 
 The garments through and through. 
 
 And lead the mind back through the gate 
 To where the roses grew. 
 
 And when the roses ceased to bloom. 
 
 Their beauty fade away, 
 Our hearts were almost filled with gloom. 
 
 To think they could not stay. 
 
 The vase upon the mantelpiece. 
 
 And tidy old spare room, 
 Long retained a lingering trace. 
 
 Of mellowed, sweet perfume. 
 
 There's many dear and pretty things. 
 
 To which fond memory goes. 
 And in return it often brings. 
 
 The sweet old damask rose. 
 
 DOWN IN THE CREEK. 
 
 Where are the boys that used to go and swim down in 
 
 the creek, 
 And *'hook" a boat to take a row, and glory in the trick? 
 When one of them made up his mind to borrow some 
 
 man's boat. 
 He'd take the first one he could find, so long as it would 
 
 float. 
 
 Many an owner has gone down, to go out on the bay. 
 To find some wicked little clown, had coaxed his boat 
 away. 
 
34 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 There was nothing then the man could do but shake his 
 
 fist and swear, 
 And hear a jolly little crew, yell back — they didn't care. 
 
 And oftentimes, some three or four mischievous little 
 
 crews, 
 With borrowed skiff, and stolen oar, with neither hat nor 
 
 shoes, 
 While in their ranting, noisy fun would fairly rend the 
 
 air. 
 For none of them would be outdone, and each would have 
 
 his share. 
 
 They'd rig a mast from some old sticks, and with a piece 
 
 of sail, 
 Perform some daring, skilful tricks right in a howling 
 
 gale. 
 That's the way they learned to sail — and make a boat 
 
 work quick, 
 And no boy yet was known to fail, if schooled down the 
 
 creek. 
 
 Those boys would take some worn-out craft, and make her 
 
 forge ahead, 
 Some on the bovv% and some abaft — no matter which one 
 
 led; 
 No wine was had, no silver cup, no firing of a gun — 
 No sums of money were put up, but lots and lots of fun. 
 
 They're grown up now — and gone away, are scattered, far 
 
 and wide. 
 Upon life's broad, tempestuous bay, to stem a different 
 
 tide; 
 The navy's claimed some of those chaps, who doubtless 
 
 find it fun, 
 To answer quickly to the taps, or stand behind a gun. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 35 
 
 On board the many modern yachts, among the gallant 
 crew, 
 
 You^ll find some of those little tots — ^big men, both tried 
 and true. 
 
 They remember what they early learned, full many a cun- 
 ning trick. 
 
 Since the first stakeboat they ever turned, at home down 
 in the creek. 
 
 Or could you tread the decks of ships, or craft of any note. 
 And see proud men in blue and gold, with braided cap 
 
 and coat, 
 YouM find some mother's noble son, manly, alert and 
 
 quick, 
 Who could tell you that he first begun — with a skiff down 
 
 in the creek. 
 
 THE OLD WOODEN CRADLE, 
 
 I have been in the old kitchen garret to-day, 
 
 Up where my sister and I used to play 
 
 When we were but children, and our life scarce begun, 
 
 'Twas in the old garret we always had fun. 
 
 On a dark, stormy day it possessed a sweet charm. 
 Where free from restraint and away from all harm, 
 We could play to our liking, and conscious the while, 
 That mother was happy, for 'twas shown in her smile. 
 
 As I stood there to-day, in the humble old place. 
 Little, moist drops trickled down on my face; 
 For old family relics, of a far distant day. 
 Had lain there — since mother was taken away. 
 
36 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 ^ 'here were garments well faded and things out of date, 
 
 ^nd an old buckleless strap from my brother's first skate, 
 
 nd a long bayonet sheath, a huge cartridge box, 
 . 1 musket and pistol, with rusty flint locks. 
 
 And a little hair trunk, where they kept baby's clothes, 
 And a pair of child's shoes, well worn at the toes, 
 An old wheel in the corner which once used to spin, 
 And the old wooden cradle that I was rocked in. 
 
 And my mind it was carried far back to the day, 
 When my mother would often call me from play 
 With the injunction to see how still I could keep 
 Down by the cradle, rocking baby to sleep. 
 
 A picture seemed to come on the old chimney breast, 
 Of friends whom I knew hnd long been at rest : 
 Who were rocked in the cradle in their earliest day, 
 And the picture — then gently vanished away. 
 
 And the rain drops pattered on the old window pane, 
 And it seemed I had come to play there again ; 
 But the shutters' sharp rattle, and the wind's low moan. 
 Told plainer than words that I was alone. 
 
 Then I came softly down by the little back stairs, 
 To resume life's duties, and battle with cares; 
 But my heart it still clings, and it will always. 
 To the dear old treasures of the by-gone days. 
 
 Among all the relics in the garret to-day, 
 And which from my memory will not fade away. 
 And which seem just as dear as the nearest of kin. 
 Is the old wooden cradle I was rocked in. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 37 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 When the soft October sun its genial rays is sending 
 O'er the leaves of maple trees, with gold and crimson 
 
 blending ; 
 And gorgeous tints of autumn time bedeck the distant 
 
 wood, 
 The robins seek the cedar groves in search of dainty food. 
 
 When the golden orb at eve in the western sky sinks low, 
 We linger on the hillside slope to watch the after-glow, 
 Until the far-off purple rays in twilight shades are lost, 
 And early dews have come to be converted into frost. 
 
 The moon peeps out from 'neath the cloud, with smiling 
 
 face aglow. 
 To light us on our winding way where little brooklets 
 
 flow : 
 And crumpled leaves from chestnut trees in circling 
 
 windrows lay; 
 Where cunning squirrels have stolen nuts and hid them 
 
 safe away. 
 
 Autumn lends a dreary charm, when painted leaves are 
 
 falling, 
 And the highole from the topmost branch to its absent 
 
 mate is calling; 
 And a ripened tinge to the meadows cling where green 
 
 the grasses grew, 
 And the mellow haze of the autumn days are lighter far 
 
 than dew. 
 
38 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 When the blush of youth has faded and years have slipped 
 away, 
 
 Little wrinkles finely pencilled and dark hair turned to 
 gray; 
 
 And passions mildly softened down, it truthfully portrays. 
 
 That we have reached the noontime of lifers mellow au- 
 tumn days. 
 
 THE OLD GRINDSTONE. 
 
 When I was quite a little lad, some sixty years ago, 
 The boys had lots of work to do, and time passed very 
 
 slow. 
 To saw and split tough hickory wood required some grit 
 
 and pluck. 
 And many logs Fve tussled with, across an old sawbuck. 
 
 There was corn to shell, and pigs to feed — three times 
 
 every day : 
 A cow to drive at night and mom, about a mile each way ; 
 Then lug the groceries from the store, through rain, and 
 
 snow, or heat, 
 And bring water from an old log pump, half way down 
 
 the street. 
 
 Of all the work I had to do, which made me strain and 
 sweat, 
 
 (If I should live a thousand years, I never could forget), 
 
 It made me tired all through, and through, and almost 
 forced a groan, 
 
 That was to spend almost a da.y — to turn dad's old grind- 
 stone. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 39 
 
 Dad, he kept a carpenter's shop, and the tools he had to 
 
 grind, 
 Would fill a wagon body full — of every sort and kind ; 
 Chisels, planes, and lots of things I could not understand, 
 For carpenters in those early times did all their work by 
 
 hand. 
 
 Dad often had to grind some tools and, far as I could see, 
 No other boy he'd seem to choose — no other boy but me. 
 No matter what I had to do, or what else should be done, 
 I had to just drop everything, and turn the old grindstone. 
 
 The neighbors sometimes came to grind some odd tools of 
 
 their own. 
 And cut a great deep gully in the middle of the stone; 
 Then dad was mad, he'd have to dress its face down 
 
 evenly, 
 And that would mean another lot of grindstone work 
 
 for me. 
 
 Dad often used a lot of sand when grinding some big tool. 
 And while the sweat just rolled from me — he managed to 
 
 keep cool ; 
 And if I'd lag a little bit — just for a turn or two — 
 He'd say: "Don't slack up any, bub, or else we won't 
 
 get through." 
 
 In spite of all I had to do, sometimes I had my fun ; 
 That was always relished most when the grinding had 
 
 been done. 
 And then to make up for lost time, I quickly joined the 
 
 boys 
 In the racket which would follow, 'twas I who made the 
 
 noifc. 
 
40 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Now in the later years of life, amid far different scenes, 
 Many events of early days are hidden behind the screens ; 
 But as I journey to and fro I ache in every bone, 
 And tremble at the very sight of any old grindstone. 
 
 MORNING BEAUTIES. 
 
 The mild dews descended, through all the night long, 
 The birds called me early in the morning with song ; 
 The sun was just peeping up over the hill. 
 And the little brook danced, by the moss-covered mill. 
 
 A blanket of haze loosely covered the corn, 
 
 And the spiders had pinned their fine webs to the lawn ; 
 
 In graceful festoons, partly hidden they lay. 
 
 With braces to keep them from blowing away. 
 
 The weavers had spun while the night winged away, 
 And had gone to their homes, to seek rest for the day. 
 These little wonders — none but God understands, 
 How their intricate lace work is made without hands. 
 
 Each tiny grass blade, and the clover leaves, too. 
 Were studded with diamonds, just made from the dev/; 
 In sparkling and brilliant rich colors they shone. 
 More splendid than jewels ever worn on a throne. 
 
 No eye ever saw a more beautiful sight, 
 
 Than these bright little drops, in the young morning light ; 
 
 Made all in the darkness, by that great Power 
 
 Which gives us the sunshine, and sends us the shower. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 41 
 
 No gems from the ocean — no stones from the mine — 
 
 No emeralds or rubies — nor gold superfine — 
 
 Nor the costliest crown only worn by a few, 
 
 Can vie with these beauties, though but drops of the dew. 
 
 They were made by the Hand that molded the sun, 
 Wit 1 all the known colors closely blended in one; 
 In changeable splendor, they glitter and gleam. 
 When receiving a kiss from the morning sunbeam. 
 
 They excel every tint — but those in the sky, 
 And like them — they point to their Maker on high, 
 Who scatters these diam.onds, like rain on the lawn, 
 To remind us of Him, in the day's early morn. 
 
 And those who know not — that these beauties exist. 
 Miss something in Nature, which should never be missed ; 
 They are links in the chain of wonderful things. 
 Which God in His love to humanity brings. 
 
 We gaze on their beauty, and ponder and think, 
 How close Nature's kinship, yet different each link; 
 We are lost — for they all are beyond human reach. 
 But we can each of us grasp — the lessons they teach. 
 
 WHEN I AM GONE. 
 
 I wonder if some smiling face, 
 And willing hands will take my place, 
 And nimble feet keep up the pace, 
 When I am gone? 
 
42 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Will someone listen to each call, 
 And vainly strive to answer all, 
 And into error never fall, 
 
 When I am gone? 
 
 I wonder will some task be done, 
 Which I had hastily begun, 
 To finish ere the setting sun, 
 When I am gone? 
 
 Will the hours of toil be just as long, 
 Will they miss my voice in song, 
 Will they judge me — right or wrong, 
 When I am gone? 
 
 Will they miss me on the street, 
 Those whom I could kindly greet. 
 Will we ever, ever meet, 
 
 When I am gone? 
 
 Will there be some tear-stained eye. 
 And throbbing heart to breathe a sigh. 
 And wish again that I were nigh, 
 When I am gone? 
 
 I wonder if some heart I've blessed. 
 Will at my absence feel distressed, 
 And wish that they might be at rest, 
 When I am gone? 
 
 But will they miss me mostly where, 
 
 I found sweet rest from toil and care. 
 
 With one my every thought to share, 
 
 When I am gone? 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 43 
 
 When I have passed just over the line, 
 Which divides eternity from time, 
 Will I meet those who once were mine — 
 When I am gone? 
 
 EARLY MORN. 
 
 'Tis early morn : o'er valley and hill, 
 Sunlight is stealing silent and still ; 
 The blushing flowers are softly kissed. 
 By the tender touch of the morning mist. 
 
 'Tis early morn, and naught is heard. 
 But the warbling notes of the early bird, 
 Among the leaves on yonder limb, 
 Merrily chanting his morning hymn. 
 
 'Tis early morn; sweet perfumes greet 
 The dairy maid, with nimble feet. 
 Gleefully tripping to meet the herd. 
 Chiming in song with the early bird. 
 
 'Tis early morn; sweet lily bells 
 Have filled their cups, and perfumed cells, 
 With nectar dews, distilled by Him, 
 Who brightens the glow, or makes it dim. 
 
 'Tis early morn ; the whippoorwill, 
 Has hushed his song, and now is still; 
 And the bosom of the old mill stream, 
 Is peaceful as an angel's dream. 
 
44 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 'Tis early morn ; the silent shade, 
 
 And cooling zephyrs the night hours made. 
 
 Like snowflakes gently melt away, 
 
 In the warm embrace of the welcome day. 
 
 The most charming hours of fleeting time, 
 When Nature seems most grand, sublime, 
 And birds ring out their sweetest lay, 
 Is at early dawn of a summer day. 
 
 THE HAND OF THE TOILER. 
 
 An old man was walking the street one day, 
 
 His form somewhat bent, and his hair it was gray. 
 
 His step it was slow, he could not walk fast, 
 
 For the day of his strength long since had been passed. 
 
 A long time ago this man was well known 
 Where he lived, and worked, as a cutter of stone. 
 One of great genius, well skilled in his trade. 
 An excellent workman, so all the craft said. 
 
 And many a beautiful thing had he wrought 
 
 From the rough quarry stone — ^there's many who bought 
 
 Specimens rare, and exquisitely made, 
 
 By the hands of this man, when he plied his trade. 
 
 But now he is old, his working days past, 
 His time is most spent, and to him it went fast. 
 But few now know him, yet cheerfully greet. 
 This kindly old man, as he walks on the street. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 45 
 
 One day in his walk, he met a sweet child, 
 Vv^ho looked in his face and pleasantly smiled. 
 He held out his hand, said "How do you do," 
 But when the child saw it, she quickly withdrew. 
 
 And the child moved away as though it would sting, 
 And called the man's hand "a dirty old thing.'' 
 Refused the warm grip that came from his heart, 
 He meekly moved on, but his soul felt a smart. 
 
 He seemed quite dazed, and could not understand, 
 And he cast his eye down on his own right hand, 
 That hand through life to him was most dear. 
 And it went to his cheek to wipe off a tear. 
 
 He mused as he looked on his toil-stained hand, 
 There are thousands of such, all over the land. 
 The joints were large, and the fingers were bent. 
 But never had wrongfully taken a cent. 
 
 There's many a hand disfigured from use, 
 Through many long years they have suffered abuse, 
 From hard, dirty work, through sickness and health. 
 Contributing largely to other men's wealth. 
 
 The old dirty hand, though soiled, yet 'tis pure, 
 It makes the rich richer, earns bread for the poor. 
 It helps the load on its way up the hill, 
 'Tis faithful in doing the great Master's will. 
 
 Little thanks do they get for their years of toil. 
 In making, and building, and tilling the soil, 
 In planting the seed, in reaping the grain, 
 Ne'er stopping for trifles, an ache or a pain. 
 
46 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 No cities, no towns, no ships for the sea, 
 No artistic work chiseled out from the tree, 
 No smooth paven street, no bright gilded halls, 
 No beautiful hangings enriching the walls. 
 
 No broad thoroughfares with buildings so high, 
 And the churches whose spires point up to the sky, 
 No bell whose sweet chime rings out from the tower. 
 No clock which so faithfully tells us the hour. 
 
 No costly equipage with gold-trimmed steed, 
 
 And millions of things humanity need 
 
 In this our own, and in all other lands. 
 
 But what was wrought out by coarse, dirty hands. 
 
 'Tis the coarse, dirty hand that guides the plow, 
 And wipes the great sweat-drops away from the brow; 
 'Tis the coarse, dirty hands that garner the grain, 
 And turn up the soil, for the sowing again. 
 
 Tis coarse, dirty hands that built the great mill, 
 That made up the barrels the flour will fill ; 
 'Tis, the coarse, dirty hands that drive the strong team, 
 And send the freight train over the land by steam. 
 
 'Tis the coarse, dirty hand that swings the big sledge. 
 That clinches the nail, and that drives in the wedge; 
 "Tis coarse, dirty hands that never will rob. 
 But honestly work, and will finish the job. 
 
 'Tis coarse, dirty hands, that are able and strong. 
 That will uphold the right, and punish the wrong. 
 The coarse, dirty hand is always the doer, 
 And the heart that guides it, is apt to be pure. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 47 
 
 There's a city, we're told, that's far, far away, 
 Whose streets are of gold, and 'tis one endless day. 
 And, perhaps, the best place in all that land, 
 Is kept for the man with a coarse, dirty hand. 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 Ring out, glad bells, a merry chime, 
 
 In harmonious melody; 
 Sound the joys of the Christmas time. 
 
 Over the land and sea. 
 
 Cheer up, ye nations of the earth, 
 On this happy Christmas morn; 
 
 A Saviour of an humble birth, 
 To redeem the world, was born. 
 
 Then let the glorious anthem ring. 
 Throughout the world as when. 
 
 The angels came from heaven to sing, 
 "Peace on earth, good will to men." 
 
 To all the nations, great and small. 
 
 To the islands of the sea, 
 A "Merry Christmas" to you all. 
 
 Peace and prosperity. 
 
 A "Merry Christmas" to the rich. 
 
 May your wealth through time endure ; 
 
 So long as you do not forget 
 To aid the needy poor. 
 
48 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And sons of toil — strong men and true — 
 
 You fill a useful sphere; 
 The angels intercede for you 
 
 At Christmas time each year. 
 
 Rejoice, ye poorest of the poor, 
 
 The story is always new; 
 The Lord was patient to endure, 
 
 And Christmas was made for you. 
 
 Look up, desponding ones who mourn, 
 Take courage and hope anew; 
 
 The Saviour for such as thee was born; 
 A "Merry Christmas'' to you. 
 
 Columbia, dearest of all the lands, 
 From the mountains to the sea, 
 
 Your children join with hearts and hands. 
 In a Christmas wish for thee. 
 
 May all your offspring faithful be, 
 And true with sword and pen, 
 
 And never bring a blush to thee, 
 Now and evermore — Amen! 
 
 THE WHISTLING BOY. 
 
 There's a boy goes whistling along on the street. 
 Keeping up, all the while, good time with his feet; 
 His step is elastic, and springy and free, 
 He seems just as happy as a boy can be. 
 
 I know when he's coming — his whistle is heard. 
 Like a welcome sweet song, of the early spring bird ; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 w 
 
 A ray of sunshine seems to drop from the cloud. 
 When his whistle is heard, above the street crowd. 
 
 He's brimful of music — his pipes are in tune, 
 Be it morning — or night — or at midday noon; 
 If the same little boy is anywhere near, 
 You^ll hear a sweet strain — if you only give ear. 
 
 He is poor, so far as money is concerned. 
 And there's one little truth he never has learned, 
 ^Tis this — and, perhaps, he will know by-and-by, 
 That a light happy heart, no money can buy. 
 
 He has a good fortune, right down in his breast. 
 Hidden snugly awav, beneath coat and vest; 
 A sunshiny soul, and a well-spring of joy, 
 Is the enviable wealth of this little boy. 
 
 Give me the boy, when he has hard work to do. 
 Who can whistle and sing until he is through; 
 It sharpens the ax — and it greases the saw. 
 Ah, yes ! and it does a great many things more. 
 
 Then give me the boy who can whistle away, 
 Though he's quiet of tongue, with but little to say ; 
 There is joy in the life of such a bright lad, 
 Which goes out to others, and makes them feel glad. 
 
 MY OLD POCKET KNIFE. 
 
 I've an old pocket knife, and the blade is nearly gone, 
 And the rivet at the hinge is rusted fast; 
 
 I have had it many years, and have carried it so long, 
 That 'tis linked with many pleasures of the past. 
 
 It has played the "Mumble peg," and won many games 
 for me, 
 
50 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 On the grass plot by the little kitchen door; 
 It has made us many whistles — from the weeping willow 
 tree; 
 Which made a shady playground near the shore. 
 
 It has been a close companion, through all my boyhood 
 days ; 
 
 It has cut my name up in the apple tree ; 
 It has added to my pleasure, in a thousand different ways, 
 
 And 'tis growing dearer every day to me. 
 
 ^Twas given me by mother — when I was but a lad, 
 And I thought it was most beautiful and grand; 
 
 And I treasured it more dearly than anything I had, 
 'Mong the many things which came from her dear hand. 
 
 I've a corner in my pocket, where I keep the dear old knife. 
 And I handle it with tender, loving care; 
 
 And should I chance to lose it, ^twould cloud my future 
 life. 
 So rU try to keep it ever safely there. 
 
 Oh! do not think me childish, for clinging to it so, 
 Though it may look like a worthless little thing; 
 
 For it takes my mind back to the dear old long ago, 
 And the sweetest recollections round it cling. 
 
 WHEN THE TIDE IS RUNNING LOW. 
 
 When the northwest wind is blowing hard, and the tide is 
 
 running low. 
 And the bottom of the creek is bare where the water used 
 
 to flow, 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 61 
 
 Where oftentimes 'tis deep enough to sail the biggest 
 
 boat, 
 But when the tide is running low a ''dinkey" wouldn't 
 
 float. 
 
 Beyond the creek, along the shore, the sand flats are all 
 bare, 
 
 And men with baskets, spades and hoes are busy working 
 there, 
 
 Digging the big, fat, luscious clams that on the sand flats 
 grow, 
 
 And a jolly time the clammers have when the tide is run- 
 ning low. 
 
 The wind blows over the meadows cold and touches with 
 
 a sting, 
 But the men heed not, and the winter gulls are soaring 
 
 on the wing ; 
 They scream and watch with eager eyes, and when the 
 
 clammers go. 
 They have a feast among themselves where the tide is 
 
 running low. 
 
 And tired men, with fingers cold and shoulders with a 
 load, 
 
 Are wending toward their quiet homes, along the frozen 
 road. 
 
 Kings might envy them their feast, but a man must dig 
 to know. 
 
 The sweetness of the clams he gets when the tide is run- 
 ning low. 
 
52 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 FROST-BITTEN. 
 
 The white frost kissed the goldenrod, 
 When the autumn sun went down; 
 
 And the lofty beauties hung their heads 
 And bhished, till they were brown. 
 
 The tiny flowers that loved to hide, 
 
 In the lap of summer's green, 
 Received the same cold kiss and died, 
 
 Forsaken and unseen. 
 
 Petals which brewed the honey — sweet, 
 
 For the little, busy bees, 
 Look up through frosty tears, to greet 
 
 The naked, leafless trees. 
 
 The bloom which made the meadows bright 
 
 In the soft September days; 
 Gave their tints to the chilly night, 
 
 Their life — to the morning rays. 
 
 The flowery hedge that lined the stream. 
 
 And drank the evening dew ; 
 Like sentries stand in the moon's pale beam, 
 
 Frost-bitten — thraugh and through. 
 
 The brown thrush sings no more his song. 
 
 In the branches near his nest. 
 The white frost came, the leaves are gone — 
 
 To mother earth — to rest. 
 
 We soon forget the buds of spring. 
 And the summer sweets are lost, 
 
 But tender recollections cling, 
 
 To the flowers — destroyed by frost. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 63 
 
 A WELCOME DREAM. 
 
 While the moon was softly beaming, 
 Sweetly sleeping, I was dreaming 
 
 Of the days I spent at home so long ago; 
 I was back again in childhood, 
 At the old home by the wildwood. 
 
 With dear friends that in my youth I used to know. 
 
 There I met my dear old mother, 
 All my sisters and my brother, 
 
 And my father with his faithful old farm team ; 
 The birds among the heather. 
 Made sweet melody together. 
 
 And soft music echoed from the woodland stream. 
 
 The cows were homeward coming, 
 And the little bees were humming, 
 
 'Mong the hollyhocks, with colors all aglow; 
 The dairymaid was churning, 
 My sisters busy learning, 
 
 As the country girls did in the long ago. 
 
 The woodbine and clematis, 
 Tightly hugged the old green lattice. 
 
 Where for years they had no other place to climb; 
 The corn-crib had been mended. 
 The old sleigh hung suspended, 
 
 And was waiting for the snow and winter time. 
 
 It was in the mild September, 
 I very well remember, 
 
 For the birds were flocking to go south again; 
 
54 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 The corn was turning yellow, 
 And the apples getting mellow, 
 
 And the katydids were singing in the lane. 
 
 The days were getting shorter, 
 The well was scant of water, 
 
 And the folks were waiting for the autumn rain ; 
 The cunning quail were knowing, 
 Where the young buckwheat was growing, 
 
 And were watching for the brown and ripening grain. 
 
 The dew down in the meadow. 
 Just beyond the hillside shadow, 
 
 Like diamonds shone in the golden autumn sun ; 
 A haze was over yonder. 
 Where I often used to wander, 
 
 Hunting game with my old faithful dog and gun. 
 
 It was in the days of childhood, 
 At the old home by the wildwood, 
 
 That I spent the happiest hours Fve ever known ; 
 Then the future I was gilding, 
 And air castles often building. 
 
 Which crumbled ere to manhood's years Fd grown. 
 
 I was light and happy hearted, 
 For with friends Fd never parted. 
 
 And no voyage ever taken down life's stream; 
 The dear old home I miss it, 
 And now my only visit, 
 
 Is when Fm carried back there in my dream. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 65 
 
 WINNOWED THOUGHTS. 
 
 Oh, could we but live a life that is pure, 
 
 And free from continual sin, 
 It would strengthen our hopes, and help us secure, 
 
 A reward not easy to win. 
 
 Through weakness I fear we cannot arise, 
 
 To those realms where virtues increase, 
 And grasp for ourselves the coveted prize, 
 
 Of joy, contentment and peace. 
 
 To approach the ideal there is so much to do, 
 
 We despair of reaching the goal ; 
 The proneness to evil is hard to subdue. 
 
 For its germs Hve near to the soul. 
 
 Could we winnow our thoughts and free them from chaflF, 
 
 Our passions keep under control, 
 And think less of self, we could have at least half 
 
 Of a perfect and beautiful whole. 
 
 'Tis the good things men do, not what they pretend, 
 
 Which places the warp in the loom ; 
 And little kind deeds make a filling to blend. 
 
 And life a continual bloom. 
 
 We should never allow ourselves to descend. 
 
 To speak evil of friend or of foe, 
 For we're apt to misjudge, and may, in the end, 
 
 Receive a rebound of the blow. 
 
 Promises made should be faithfully kept, 
 For there's much depends on a word, 
 
56 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And o'er broken pledges so many have wept, 
 Where their sorrowings never were heard. 
 
 It is well to carefully hoe our row clean, 
 And meet facts both calmly and cool ; 
 
 On the old rod and staff in confidence lean, 
 And live close to the golden rule. 
 
 WIDOW FLYNN'S CHRISTMAS EXPERIENCE. 
 A Sketch from Real Life. 
 
 Over the hills of New Jersey the wind blew cold, 
 
 On a gloomy December day, 
 And the little dry snowflakes fitfully rolled 
 
 In the ruts on the frozen highway. 
 
 The trees on the mountains, and the shrubs in the dale, 
 
 Had lost their bright autumnal tints; 
 And the sportsman had hunted the partridge and quail, 
 
 *Til nothing was left but footprints. 
 
 From the neat cozy homes on the hillside slope, 
 
 Could be seen in the valley below, 
 A poor lonely woman Avas trying to grope. 
 
 Her way through the cold, drifting snow. 
 
 She was not warmly clad, for her garments were thin. 
 
 And her shoes were out at the toes ; 
 'Twas Margaret — better known as poor Widow Flynn, 
 
 With a basket of clean laundried clothes. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 57 
 
 She was taking them up to a house on a hill, 
 To some folks ''who were rich,'^ they say; 
 
 And she had in her pocket a full month's bill, 
 Which she hoped they surely would pay. 
 
 For 'twas near Christmas time — the birthday of her boys, 
 And she prayed, while ascending the hill. 
 
 She might raise enough money to buy them some toys, 
 And their stockings be able to fill. 
 
 We will leave her awhile — and go back to the years, 
 
 When she was younger, and fair; 
 Before she ever had cause to shed tears — 
 
 Or her share of lifers burdens to bear. 
 
 She was then known as "Maggie," a bright winsome girl, 
 
 With hair of a deep chestnut brown ; 
 With exactly enough of the natural curl, 
 
 To make it a beautiful crown. 
 
 She had many suitors, but out of them all, 
 
 But one — her affections could win ; 
 And he was a handsome man, graceful and tall. 
 
 And his name was Timothy Flynn. 
 
 Now Timothy was saving, but not close nor mean, 
 
 He worked at odd jobs by the day; 
 But whatever he earned, 'twas phiin to be seen 
 
 He could put but little away. 
 
 Time swiftly went by — on the first Christmas day, 
 
 Their home was the center of joy. 
 For ''Santa Claus" called- — as he traveled that way, 
 
 And brought them a fine baby boy. 
 
58 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 It made them both happy — and surely it ought, 
 
 For all of the neighbors came in, 
 To see the fine present, old "Santa Claus" brought. 
 
 To the home of Timothy Flynn. 
 
 Strange things will happen, in a very queer way, 
 
 Do what we may to prevent; 
 The tide ebbs and flows, and night follows day, 
 
 And the arrow goes where it is sent. 
 
 Several times, it happened, that on Christmas Day, 
 
 Instead of his bringing a toy, 
 Old "Santa Claus" came, and he stopped on his way. 
 
 To leave them another fine boy. 
 
 Until six they could count, all chubby and well ; 
 
 But to feed them and keep them all neat, 
 Was a task which none but the parents could tell, 
 
 As they struggled to "make ends'* meet. 
 
 They both seemed content with their station in life, 
 
 While sharing each other's joys, 
 He was a fond husband, and she, a true wife. 
 
 Both proud of their six little boys. 
 
 They managed to save up a little at least. 
 As the weeks and the months slipped away, 
 
 That they could be merry and have a good feast. 
 Once a year, on their children's birthday. 
 
 But events will occur, which may seem strange — 
 As a pruning knife severs the vine — 
 
 So our joys are cut off — we meet with a change, 
 And clouds take the place of sunshine. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 69 
 
 It happened a fever seized poor Mr. Flynn, 
 
 Like an e^gle grasping its prey; 
 And it soon laid him low, and wasted and thin, 
 
 He quietly passed away. 
 
 But our Father, who made the sea and the land, 
 
 And abides with us everywhere, 
 Reached forth His arm, and His great helping hand, 
 
 In answer to the poor widow's prayer. 
 
 She soon became reconciled to her sad fate, 
 
 With a firm and womanly will, 
 Toiled harder than ever, both early and late. 
 
 The six little mouths to fill. 
 
 She was faithful, and thought her case might be worse, 
 
 But her anguish — nobody knows. 
 The only money which came to her purse 
 
 Was for washing and ironing clothes. 
 
 She had a near neighbor, not far from her door. 
 
 Who was feeble and partially blind, 
 Whose husband had died just six months before. 
 
 And left not a penny behind. 
 
 It may sound very strange, when the story is told. 
 
 How this woman gave birth to a son, 
 That she died when her child was scarce a day old — 
 
 And her work in this life was done. 
 
 When the Widow Flynn heard that her neighbor was 
 dead, 
 
 And the little babe left all alone, 
 She felt that the Lord had a way to send bread. 
 
 Should she take it, as one of her own. 
 
60 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 She reasoned — I have six already, it is true, 
 
 And this one will bring it to seven, 
 But what in the world will the little one do, 
 
 With its mother away up in Heaven? 
 
 As the Christmas bells chimed, and snowflakes came 
 down, 
 
 And there was much for some to enjoy; 
 The question was echoed throughout the whole town. 
 
 Who would care for this poor orphan boy ? 
 
 Only one answer came, from th valley or hill. 
 
 Only one, who would take the child in; 
 Only one, who a mother's place offered to fill, 
 
 And that one was poor Widow Flynn. 
 
 She took the child in with the tenderest love, 
 
 Feeling that she must obey 
 The mandate, which seemed to come down from above, 
 
 For it came on a Christmas Day. 
 
 No doubt, when the heavenly gates open wide, 
 
 For the chosen to enter therein, 
 There will be a great many who must stand one side. 
 
 To make way for the poor Widow Flynn. 
 
 UPLIFTING. 
 
 There is nothing more manly than an honest ambition, 
 To perform every duty the best that we can, 
 
 To benefit others and improve our condition, 
 Is exalting, ennobling, and uplifting to man. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 61 
 
 There is much one can do if he's anxious to find it — 
 For hands were not made to be idle and still. 
 
 We should fathom each problem and see what's behind it, 
 And forget not the adage — of the way and the will. 
 
 'Tis the small things in life which need our attention — 
 And these, if neglected, grow great in the end, 
 
 And cause us anoyance, though 'twas not our intention, 
 To have them do this when 'tis too late to mend. 
 
 Things often transpire which challenge our choosing, 
 And outwit us to know what course to pursue ; 
 
 For what promises gain often proves to be losing. 
 And the best chosen friends sometimes are untrue. 
 
 He who performs every unpleasant duty, 
 
 Promptly, with patience, and with cheerfulness, too. 
 Weaves into his works a shading of beauty, 
 
 Which graces the lives of only a few. 
 
 In the things which pertain to this earthly existence. 
 To the impulse for good we should cheerfully yield ; 
 
 And encouragement give instead of resistance, 
 And strive to make life like a rich harvest field. 
 
 A NEW YEAR PLEA. 
 
 I wish — nay, wishes are but air — 
 That I could raise one fervent prayer, 
 
 Which would be heard on high; 
 IM wish my friends, both far and near, 
 Through all the hours of this new year, 
 
 Might never breathe a sigh. 
 
BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 I wish — nay, wishes are in vain — 
 That joys may come to them like rain, 
 
 While the days fast disappear; 
 May no misfortune come to you, 
 And lure the heart to be untrue. 
 
 Or make you shed a tear. 
 
 I wish — nay, wishes bringeth naught — 
 Yet still I'll cherish a hopeful thought;^ 
 
 While time, the silent thief. 
 Is stealing all the weeks away, 
 That you may never, never stray. 
 
 Nor feel the pangs of grief. 
 
 I wish — nay, I will make a plea — 
 That God may still abide with thee, 
 
 As the months and years grow old. 
 If closely to Him you will cleave, 
 Then in your daily life He'll weave 
 
 A thread of heavenly gold. 
 
 THE LASSIE DOWN BY THE OLD MILI^SONG. 
 
 Far down in old Ireland, one fine summer day, 
 
 The cattle were grazing near by. 
 The birds in the thicket were singing their lay. 
 
 And the summer sun shone in the sky. 
 A sweet Irish lassie came tripping along. 
 
 As gay as a bird — and as free ; 
 And humming the air of a quaint Irish song, 
 
 She cast a sweet glance upon me. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 63 
 
 This maid — it was Mollie — she lived o'er the hill, 
 
 And was fairest of all the girls 'round ; 
 Her father was miller, down at the old mill, 
 
 Sure, many a grist he had ground. 
 And many's the lad, when he came to the mill, 
 
 Would linger and loiter awhile; 
 And take a short stroll just over the hill. 
 
 To catch from sweet Mollie a smile. 
 
 Her eyes — faith they shone like a jewel that's bright, 
 
 Her cheeks looked like roses put there, 
 And her voice it was soft, like a flute in the night, 
 
 And like the ripe chestnut her hair. 
 And when to the fair in the county she'd go. 
 
 She would win with her smiles and good will. 
 The hearts of the laddies, for each of them knew. 
 
 Sweet Mollie from over the hill. 
 
 'Tis now a long time since I've seen the old place. 
 
 Sweet Mollie, the old man and the mill ; 
 And the boys who all loved to see that sweet face, 
 
 In the door at the foot of the hill. 
 I'm a long time away, and I'm growing quite old, 
 
 )[et my heart sometimes it will thrill, 
 With the love which T had that's never grown cold, 
 
 For the lassie down by the old mill. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 My heart's in old Ireland, wherever I go. 
 My affections cling close to her still, 
 
 But what I love most I'll not tell, for you know, 
 'Tis the lassie down by the old mill. 
 
64 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 DOWN IN THE HEART. 
 
 Down in the heart, where the beating keeps time 
 
 To the tune of the delicate strings, 
 Pure thoughts and emotions flow sweetly in chime, 
 
 Like drops from the pure mountain springs. 
 Oh, keep the heart pure, let harmony reign. 
 
 No discord ever mar its sweet tune ; 
 But a love for the good be its constant refrain, 
 
 In December as well as in June. 
 
 Tis down in the heart that the germs take root. 
 
 And will grow, regardless of fate, 
 And truly the planting must bring its own fruit, 
 
 And mature, either early or late. 
 Oh, see that the germ comes down from above. 
 
 And is planted both deep and secure ; 
 That when the fruit ripens ^twill ripen in love, 
 
 For the noble, the good, and the pure. 
 
 Down in the heart our dear friends have a place. 
 
 Where their image may constantly dwell; 
 And we can call back the smile of their face. 
 
 With a pleasure that tongue cannot tell. 
 There secrets are safe from man's rude gaze. 
 
 And only the Omnipotent Eye 
 Can see the fine strings, while tuning to praise 
 
 Their maker and Preserver on high. 
 
 MY SWEETHEART IMOGENE— SONG. 
 
 In a small New England village I first met sweet Imogene, 
 
 And I thought no lily ever bloomed so fair ; 
 It was in the budding springtime, when all Nature wears 
 the green. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 65 
 
 And the fragrance of the lilacs fills the air. 
 She wore a sprig of these next to her gentle, loving heart, 
 
 Which she loosened, and then pinned it close to mine; 
 I have the withered floweret still, and will never with it 
 part, 
 
 But will keep it as a cherished little shrine. 
 
 Oh, we loved each other fondly, but I had to haste away, 
 
 Never dreaming of a shadow or a gloom ; 
 I expected to return again, next year in early May, 
 
 And meet my love when lilacs were in bloom. 
 But the fever stole the roses from her sweet, angelic face, 
 
 And hushed that voice of music, sweet and low; 
 The angels came and took her, and her final resting place, 
 
 I hope, is where the fragrant lilacs grow. 
 
 It's no matter where I wander now, I dream of Imogene, 
 
 And the pressure of the hand she gave to me. 
 And her form it seems to mingle in most every pleasant 
 scene. 
 And her lovely face all wreathed in smiles I see. 
 When winter's gone and springtime comes, and the birds 
 are here again, 
 And the blossoms sweet are mingled with the green, 
 ril try hard to find her equal, but the search will be in 
 vain. 
 For there's none on earth to me like Imogene. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 I love my Imogene so much, it almost breaks my heart. 
 When I think that she can never more be seen, 
 
 My hopes almost forsake me, and sometimes I wish they'd 
 take me. 
 Where I can meet my sweetheart Imogene. 
 
66 BEAUTIES OF UFE 
 
 RAIN. 
 
 Peeping through the window pane. 
 Watching Httle drops of rain; 
 Speeding down from toward the sky. 
 Before the wind they fairly fly. 
 
 How they come, and how they go, 
 Hurrying on their way below, 
 Some with all their might and main. 
 Dash — against the window pane; 
 
 Then rush down in little streams, 
 Washing out the grooves and seams ; 
 Rushing on until unseen, 
 Leaving all their pathway clean. 
 
 Peeping through the window pane. 
 Sunshine has returned again; 
 And God's gifts on every side. 
 By the rain — are magnified. 
 
 THE LEAVES ARE TURNING RED. 
 
 Only a few short months ago, 
 
 The hills with white were crowned; 
 
 And cold winds chased the drifting snow. 
 Over the frozen ground. 
 
 Only a few short months ago, 
 
 We saw the first "Bluebell" ; 
 And south winds melted all the snow. 
 
 And buds began to swell. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 67 
 
 Tis but a little while ago, 
 
 The apple blooms were seen; 
 And trees, and hills, and meadows low, 
 
 Put on their garb of green. 
 
 Only a few brief weeks have gone 
 Since summer brought sweet flowers; 
 
 And song birds chanted in the mom, 
 And evening brought us showers. 
 
 Only a few short days ago. 
 
 The roses dropped their leaves, 
 And harvesters in the summer glow, 
 
 Were gathering in the sheaves. 
 
 Only a few fast-fleeting hours, 
 
 And summertime has fled; 
 And blight is haunting tender flowers. 
 
 And leaves are turning red. 
 
 Where'er we look a thousand things 
 
 Show how the time hath fled; 
 And summer, too, hath taken wings, 
 
 And leaves are turning red. 
 
 Only a few more weeks, and lo! 
 
 The present will have fled; 
 The hills again be wrapped in snow. 
 
 The little leaves — all dead. 
 
 MELLOW THE SOIL. 
 
 I planted some seed and awaited the rain, 
 They did not grow ; so I planted again. 
 Then — slender and weak, they sprouted at last, 
 Too late — for the season for growing was past. 
 
68 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 My neighbor had vines, growing thrifty and tall, 
 Which covered the lattice and garden wall, 
 With emerald leaves and scarlet flowers. 
 Which shed their fragrance over the bowers. 
 
 I asked this friend, one day, did he know 
 Why my vines refused to grow? 
 While his, luxuriant, graceful and tall. 
 Hung clusters of flowers all over the wall. 
 
 Said he, "'Tis plain, and you should know, 
 Why your vines refuse to grow ; 
 You planted and waited, but vain the toil. 
 Unless you carefully mellowed the soil. 
 
 'Mellow deeply the soil, and then, should you sow, 
 The seed will sprout, and the vines will grow ; 
 And birds can mate, and sing or coo, 
 Among the flowers that bloom for you." 
 
 The heart that is mellowed by affliction or love, 
 Has tendrils which cling to the growing above; 
 Its unselfish beat sheds a fragrance for all. 
 Like sweet blooming flowers, on the lattice and wall. 
 
 THEN AND NOW. 
 
 How often my memory steals back to the hours, 
 
 Of childhood's long, bright summer's day ; 
 To the woods and the fields, the nooks and the bowers,- 
 
 The green where the boys used to play. 
 The old wooden benches carved up by the boys, 
 
 In the low schoolhouse on the hill — 
 The swift-running stream, and queer rumbling noise 
 
 That came up from the old grist mill. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 69 
 
 The old apple orchard — the path through the lane, 
 
 Which led to the meadow below ; 
 The fields where in summer grew tall, golden grain, 
 
 And the brooks where the watercress grow. 
 To my old grandfather in his stately chair. 
 
 As he sat by the broad fireplace. 
 While the bright hickory blaze, and the back-log fire, 
 
 Would send the warm glow to his face. 
 
 The tall cherry tree by the back kitchen door, 
 
 Which grandfather planted there; 
 The old pippin tree which annually bore, 
 
 Rich fruit that was golden and fair. 
 Where the old faithful dog — the best of his race — 
 
 Would tell when a stranger was near ; 
 A sentinel true, he would guard the whole place. 
 
 At his post each night in the year. 
 
 'Twas pleasant in springtime to hear the lark sing, 
 
 'Twas pleasant in summer's cool shade; 
 And when, in her bounty, rich autumn would bring, 
 
 Gay colors kind Nature had made. 
 On a bright winter day, from the old barn floor, 
 
 The tune of the flail we could hear. 
 As honest hands labored, increasing the store, 
 
 By threshing the grain from the spear. 
 
 Ah ! that was the time, when the day it seemed long. 
 
 And night slowly came to an end ; 
 When boys and girls were all healthy and strong. 
 
 And each one we knew was a friend. 
 But all things have changed — the past is a dream. 
 
 And time passes swifter each day. 
 Both scholars and school, and the mill on the stream. 
 
 Have all long ago passed away. 
 
70 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 The schools now are "high schools" — and the flour we use. 
 
 Is a product soon made by steam; 
 And early each morn we get all the world's news, 
 
 To have with our coffee and cream. 
 Men talk by machine, and 'tis speed everywhere. 
 
 They make light as bright as the day. 
 And they build the railroads high up in the air. 
 
 And span both the river and bay. 
 
 And what, some years ago, would make a man rich, 
 
 Is now looked upon with a sneer, 
 'Tis by millions they count, and the strife seems which 
 
 Can show the best figures each year. 
 And the crops they are bought before they are grown, 
 
 All under monopoly's rule; 
 And the man who steals most, and don't make it known, 
 
 Can use honest folks for a ''tool." 
 
 Let me step out one side while the world moves on, 
 
 I'll steal softly back in my dream ; 
 Let me see the old spot the schoolhouse stood on, 
 
 And the green banks, down by the stream. 
 I'll go to the place where in bright, sunny June, 
 
 Barefooted I played in the brook, 
 And heard the sweet notes of the bobolink's tune, 
 
 And fished with a pin for a hook. 
 
 Let me ride in the cart behind honest old Dick — 
 
 The good old drudge horse of the farm ; 
 Let me climb o'er hedges, blackberries to pick, 
 
 And bring home a load on each arm. 
 Let me hunt through the mow and old wagon shed, 
 
 For the eggs in the hidden nest; 
 Let me run for a tow behind the old sled, 
 
 AVhile old gray is trotting his best. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS tl 
 
 Let me trace out the name I cut up above, 
 
 In the willow tree near the mill, 
 Of her who excited a bashful boy's love, 
 
 Whose memory I'm cherishing still, 
 ril gather wild roses that bloomed on the brink, 
 
 Near the old boiling spring, so cool, 
 Where, down on the knee the cool draught we could drink, 
 
 While going and coming from school. 
 
 In the shady churchyard Til softly walk through. 
 
 And read on the tablets in rhyme, 
 Many names long forgotten, of those whom I knew. 
 
 In the days of my boyhood time. 
 A child let me be for an hour or two, 
 
 I'll go back to the good old past, 
 Though I come back again and join in with you. 
 
 And the age that's moving so fast. 
 
 OH, NO. 
 
 Who made the sun and moon to shine. 
 Who placed the wealth deep in the mine. 
 Who made the springs and rivers to flow. 
 Did man do all these things? Oh, no. 
 
 Who made the mountain range and hills. 
 Who made the soil the farmer tills. 
 Who sends the rain and drifting snow. 
 Does man do any of these ? Oh, no. 
 
 Who makes the earth bring forth her yield. 
 And scatters daisies o'er the field; 
 Who makes the fruit in the orchard grow, 
 Pray tell — does man do this? Oh, no. 
 
72 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Who made the sea and all the land, 
 Who formed the layers of clay and sand; 
 Who makes the tide to ebb and flow, 
 Does man help make these things? Oh, no. 
 
 Who makes the fish that swims the sea, 
 First to the windward, then to lee. 
 And feeds them all where'er they go. 
 Does man take part in this ? Oh, no. 
 
 Who makes the saplings grow to trees, 
 And flowers yield honey for the bees, 
 Who sprays the dew where wild flowers grow. 
 Are these the work of man? Oh, no. 
 
 Who tells the birds to come in spring, 
 Near our door to warble and sing; 
 Who tells them when to come and go, 
 Does man tell them do this ? Oh, no. 
 
 Who changes day into the night. 
 And bids time speed its onward flight; 
 Who is it makes the wind to blow. 
 Does man take part in these? Oh, no. 
 
 Who sends the lightning from the cloud. 
 And echoes thunder long and loud. 
 Then charms us with a bright rainbow, 
 Are these the work of man? Oh, no. 
 
 Who paints the splendid autumn tints, 
 To cover Jack Frost's chilly prints, 
 And sets the landscape all aglow, 
 Does man assist in this? Oh, no. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 73 
 
 Who makes the gorge and shady glen, 
 With beauties far beyond our ken ; 
 Where mosses green and tall ferns grow, 
 Are these the work of man? Oh, no. 
 
 Who makes the earth yield wheat and grain, 
 And seasons to return again? 
 Answering the question as they go, 
 That man cannot do these — Oh, no. 
 
 Why should man of himself be proud. 
 And vainly boast in accents loud ? 
 His life's a thread, and he must go. 
 For his Maker wills it so. 
 
 SUMMER'S PRETTY NIGH. 
 
 When the frogs are croaking in the pond, and a haze is in 
 
 the air. 
 And the grass looks green down in the lane, and the 
 
 horses shed their hair; 
 When wild geese, honking overhead, are flying toward 
 
 the north, 
 And water freezes no more nights in the barnyard water 
 
 trough ; 
 When the urchins' marble time has come, and kites are 
 
 flying high, 
 'Tis safe to say that winter's gone and summer's pretty 
 
 nigh. 
 
 When potatoes in the cellar sprout, and winter apples rot. 
 And 'tis time to drive the milking cows out to the pasture 
 lot; 
 
74 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 When the old sleigh hangs up in the shed, its shoes all red 
 
 with rust, 
 And wagons going along the road raise up clouds of dust ; 
 When warm showers fall from little clouds that passes 
 
 through the sky, 
 Tis safe to say that winter's gone and summer's pretty 
 
 nigh. 
 
 When birds down in the garden sing, and "pair off'' two 
 by twos, 
 
 And boys go slyly to the brook to wade without their 
 shoes; 
 
 When the sun at night and morning shows the lengthen- 
 ing out of day, 
 
 And dock and dandelions grow along the old highway ; 
 
 When boys are digging artichokes, and bees begin to fly, 
 
 'Tis safe to say that winter's gone and summer's pretty 
 nigh. 
 
 WHEN A MOTHER FEELS PROUD OF HER BOY. 
 
 Nobody can see the vibrating strings. 
 
 Encased in a mother's warm heart; 
 And nobody knows of the difficult things, 
 
 In which she must take a full part. 
 There are none who can feel the weight of her cares, 
 
 Or share in her sorrow and joy; 
 And only God knows the volume of prayers, 
 
 She breathes unto Him for her boy. 
 
 When Nature gives to her that priceless boon, 
 
 The gift of her own darling son. 
 Her life seems nearing its bright sunny noon. 
 
 And the sweets of it has begun. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 75 
 
 Her motherly love defies everything, 
 
 Which would dare step in to destroy, 
 The harmony of that sensitive string, 
 
 Which fastens her heart to her boy. 
 
 When the bright little one, just budding in youth, 
 
 And eager for frolic and play. 
 Confides in his mother with innocent truth, 
 
 In that childlike, sweet simple way; 
 It tunes her heart to its tenderest praise, 
 
 And cleanses her love from alloy, 
 And makes a picture on which we may gaze. 
 
 While a mother feels proud of her boy. 
 
 When a lad from home hath taken his leave. 
 
 To seek a new field far away, 
 'Tis left for the mother to sorrow and grieve. 
 
 Should he perchance go astray. 
 But, oh! how that mother's heart will be stayed, 
 
 And no fears steal in to annoy. 
 When she knows he will keep the promises made, 
 
 So she may feel proud of her boy. 
 
 When letters come to her laden with love, 
 
 Which is pure as the morning dew, 
 A sweet, gentle voice comes down from above. 
 
 Which tells her he's faithful and true. 
 Her heart beats quicker as she feels the bliss. 
 
 While her soul overflows with joy — 
 No comfort on earth can e^er surpass this. 
 
 When a mother feels proud of her boy. 
 
 And when the boy grows to a stalwart, strong man, 
 And the form of the mother is bent. 
 
76 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And life seems to her as if only a span, 
 As she wonders where the days went, 
 
 Her mind skips the years, and goes back again, 
 When nothing e'er came to decoy; 
 
 And her faint voice lisps the sweet old refrain, 
 I am proud — yes — proud of my boy. 
 
 THE MEADOW MOWERS. 
 
 The old mowers came from over the bay. 
 To mow the salt meadows and gather the hay ; 
 Strong men — with brawny arms, and brown. 
 To gather and glean, till the sun went down. 
 
 With well-measured stride, all in a row. 
 
 Over the marshes, with their forms bent low. 
 
 Worked the mowers, away out to the line, 
 
 With keen blades glistening in the bright sunshine. 
 
 They gave the true scythe an old-time swing, 
 
 And it cut its way with a musical ring; 
 
 Great sweat-drops rolled from each sun-tanned face, 
 
 As they gracefully laid the swarth in its place. 
 
 The green grass turned to a rich mellow brown, 
 Soon after the mowers had cut it down; 
 And ripening there — in the glow of the noon, 
 It gave to the breeze a fragrant perfume. 
 
 The mowers toiled through the long August day. 
 Raking, and stacking, and carrying hay, 
 To yonder barege, that was lying in wait, 
 To carry safe home the harvested freight. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 77 
 
 They gathered and gleaned the russet-brown hay, 
 While the meadow larks sang the hours away ; 
 The barge sailed back with the men to the town- — 
 The haying was done — and the sun went down. 
 
 Anon — when the cold winds of winter shall blow. 
 And the air and crevices are filled with the snow ; 
 And hay-making time is a thing of the past — 
 The song in the meadow — a cold, cheerless blast — 
 
 When the gales chants a dirge, through the old barn door, 
 And the rats are han^esting under the floor; 
 The cattle all housed — both brindle and brown, 
 Can lazily chew, till the sun goes down. 
 
 Then the mowers, with big, brawny arms, and brown, 
 'Round their own firesides — when the sun is down, 
 Can boast of their mowing and gathering hay, 
 Through the long hours of a warm August day. 
 
 OUR DEAREST FRIEND. 
 
 Dear Lord, our best and dearest friend, 
 
 To Thee we humbly pray; 
 In mercy let Thy grace descend, 
 
 To cheer us on our way. 
 
 Thou art our hope, our strength, and shield, 
 
 In every trying hour; 
 Incline our hearts to ivMy yield. 
 
 To Thy free grace and power. 
 
78 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Should'st Thou withhold Thy tender love, 
 
 We could but go astray ; 
 No light would then come from above, 
 
 But darkness cloud the way. 
 
 Oh, take us to Thy fond embrace, 
 And may we feel Thy love; 
 
 And see our Heavenly Father's face. 
 Whene'er we look above. 
 
 Where'er we are, whate'er we do. 
 
 Or what our fate may be, 
 Lord, help us to be always true. 
 
 And lean alone on Thee. 
 
 Through all the changing scenes of life, 
 
 Until we reach the end, 
 In joys and sorrows, toil and strife. 
 
 Thou art our dearest friend. 
 
 UNCLE JESS AND HIS BICYCLE. 
 
 Everything moved slowly in grandfather's day, 
 And folks lived happy in a plain, simple way ; 
 There were no railroads, nor mad hissing steam. 
 The fastest of traveling was with a slow team. 
 
 Work not done to-day — then to-morrow would do, 
 And clothes out of date were made over anew ; 
 We may laugh when we hear of old-fashioned ways, 
 But people were not driven wild by a craze. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 79 
 
 But the years speed away, and changes take place, 
 And wrinkles will come to the handsomest face; 
 All things pass away like the frost and the dew. 
 The old IS removed to make room for the new. 
 
 Some funny things happen in these modern days. 
 And they daily occur in various ways ; 
 For fashions will change, and folks "tumble to" 
 Very many odd things, because they are new. 
 
 When I was a lad, if, perchance any horse, 
 
 Could trot in three minutes on the very best course. 
 
 It was thought a great feat, indeed, very fast, 
 
 But a three-minute gait belongs to the past. 
 
 Now, the fleetest horses the world can produce, 
 Are too slow for men, and of but little use ; 
 For a cannon-ball speed suits some of them best, 
 And lightning might, possibly, do for the rest. 
 
 So some man, with brains from his head to his heels, 
 Invented the cycle with only two wheels. 
 The craze is world-wide, though 'tis only begun, 
 And I think every man but myself has one. 
 
 Now, all over the world bicycles are seen. 
 Just cutting the air like a flying machine; 
 And many men think that the time will soon be, 
 When they'll ride their machines right over the sea. 
 
 The wheel craze has reached here, and captured the 
 
 town. 
 Old and young have it, even Jones, Smith and Brown, 
 Except Uncle Jesse — for he frankly told me, 
 He would never ride one — no, never — not he. 
 
80 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Everyone knows Jesse, and they all told him, 
 He should learn how to ride and be in the "swim'' ; 
 For he walked all the day while others w'ould ride, 
 And he found he was pulling up stream against tide. 
 
 And whenever he went to his home for a meal. 
 His children kept at him to go buy a wheel ; 
 Uncle Jesse could find no comfort or rest, 
 His wife at last told him, she thought it was best. 
 
 He said to himself, I'll learn how to ride, 
 I will go out of town where the highway is wide; 
 And then should I fall, or balk like a mule. 
 There will be none to laugh or call me a fool. 
 
 So he bought him a wheel and soon learned to ride, 
 It added five hundred per cent, to his pride. 
 For, with head up he's seen almost every day, 
 Gliding swiftly along the streets and highway. 
 
 He handled his wheel with commendable skill. 
 And rode it in every way, up and down hill ; 
 The wheel was his pet, it seemed really to know. 
 Which way its master would have it to go. 
 
 But accidents happen, yes, happen they will. 
 The quickest of motions must cease and be still ; 
 And fashion, and pride, yea, the highest of all, 
 Are humbled sometimes by the saddest downfall. 
 
 As Jesse one day rode along by a stream. 
 
 He spoke to his cycle as if in a dream; 
 
 And these were his words as his eye glanced beyond : 
 
 I believe I could ride you across this mill pond 1 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 81 
 
 Next day he was riding up toward the old mill, 
 And as he commenced to ascend a small hill, 
 His wheel jumped out sideways, and great was the fall, 
 As it leaped in the pond, with rider and all. 
 
 The hat of the rider sped on down the stream. 
 Like a little tug-boat with full head of steam ; 
 And the man had to wallow, and wade, and swim, 
 But he caught the old hat at last by the brim. 
 
 Then they pulled out the man, and fished out his wheel, 
 They were both water-logged from head to the heel ; 
 And poor Jesse he scarcely knew what to do, 
 And the mill hands called it a bicycle stew. 
 
 It beat Uncle Jess how the wheel understood, 
 When its master had said he believed that he could, 
 Ride it over the pond and yet keep it dry ; 
 He supposed the wheel thought it a good time to try. 
 
 Then he quickly went home and nobody knows, 
 What sv/eet language he used while changing his 
 
 clothes ; 
 He was still as a mouse, and mute as a lamb, 
 Except some low words 'bout the pond and the dam. 
 
 When his dear wife saw what a plight he was in, 
 She almost fainted, saying, where have you been? 
 He stood wringing wet, with his arms a-kimbo, 
 As he managed to whisper, blamed if I know. 
 
 Well, if you do not know, I think that I do; 
 That dream — Oh 1 that horrible dream has come true ! 
 I know of' your*. wheel you are exceedingly fond, 
 I dreamt you were riding across the mill pond- 
 
5 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And, then, when I saw your pet wheel take a leap, 
 And it, and yourself, mixed up in a heap, 
 I then wondered why you would not pause to think, 
 That yourself and your wheel would certainly sink. 
 
 But accidents happen, and dreams will come true, 
 But husband, my dear, I feel sorry for you ; 
 And then as she mopped the wet from the floor, 
 He promised he'd never do so any more. 
 
 Sometimes Uncle Jesse will talk pretty loud. 
 And in a few minutes might draw quite a crowd. 
 But let some one mention the pond by the mill, 
 In less than a second he's perfectly still. 
 
 But his friends are planning a pleasant surprise, 
 Which will make Uncle Jesse open his eyes ; 
 The village brass band has promised to play. 
 So we'll meet at the dam on this Christmas Day. 
 
 Then we'll march down to Jesse's, in Indian file, 
 The procession will reach almost half a mile ; 
 Jesse's wife, Aunt Ruth, will detain him at home. 
 But I think when he hears the sound of the drum. 
 
 He will put his hat on and rush out of doors. 
 Squire Green will be dressed like old Santa Claus ; 
 In a speech he will tell how happy we feel, 
 To present Uncle Jesse with a handsome new wheel. 
 
 To Jesse it will be a pleasant surprise, 
 And I know the tears will flow from his eyes ; 
 Though unable to speak, yet still as he weeps. 
 His thanks will be shown by the silence he keeps. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 83 
 
 Then the band will play and the people all sing. 
 The whistles will blow and the church bells ring, 
 We will keep up the fun, even to nightfall, 
 And join in a wish — Merry Christmas to all. 
 
 "GOD IS EVER NEAR." 
 
 Early in the morning, Lord, I look to Thee, 
 When the day is dawning, Thy dear face I see ; 
 While the hours are fleeting, Thou art everywhere, 
 Soft winds bring Thy greeting. Thou dost hear my 
 prayer. 
 
 At the glowing noontide, from Thyself above, 
 Comes to all the world wide, gifts of tender love. 
 When the day is waning, Thou art always near, 
 By Thy grace sustaining, calming every fear. 
 
 When the sun in splendor gilds the evening sky. 
 Lovingly and tender. Saviour, Thou art nigh; 
 When soft dews are falling, over land and sea. 
 Thou art sweetly calling, calling us to Thee. 
 
 When at silent midnight, all is calm and still*. 
 Under Heaven's starlight, Earth obeys Thy will; 
 Whether sleep or waking. Lord, we never fear, 
 We are in Thy keeping. Thou art ever near. 
 
84 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 THE LITTLE, LAME NEWSPAPER BOY. 
 
 Sketch from Life. 
 
 "P-a-p-e-r-s \" A song floats out on the evening air ; 
 It comes from a near-by place somewhere. 
 
 From a Httle, lame newspaper boy. 
 And it reaches the ear like musical chimes, 
 As he cries out, "Evening World" and "Times," 
 
 This little, lame newspaper boy. 
 
 He is ever alert, with his watchful eye, 
 Catching a glimpse of the passers-by, 
 
 Who all know the little lame boy; 
 His clear, sweet voice every night you can hear. 
 If you're going that way and chance to draw near. 
 
 To the little, lame newspaper boy. 
 
 If the night comes dark and brings with it a storm. 
 Some doorway shelters the shivering form. 
 
 Of the little, lame newspaper boy; 
 But his voice can be heard in spite of the rain, 
 And storms echo back the sn^eet refrain. 
 
 Of the song of the newspaper boy. 
 
 And men homeward bound often stop and give ear. 
 When *T-a-p-e-r-s !'' is heard, distinctly and clear. 
 
 From the boy who is working for dimes; 
 A ''Thanks, sir," follows each paper he sells, 
 His voice has a ring like sweet jingling bells. 
 
 In his *' World" and "Brooklyn Times!" 
 
 No matter how few or how many he sells, 
 There's something about him which pleasantly tells. 
 That his heart is in the right place; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 85 
 
 If busy or not, you can see all the while. 
 
 Like dancing sunbeams, a sweet little smile, 
 
 Is always at home on his face. 
 
 As the days flit by and the years roll away, 
 Sometime — somewhere — at no distant day. 
 
 Where nothing can ever annoy; 
 Where plenty abounds in a sunshiny place, 
 May bright smiles dance on a fair, manly face, 
 
 Once owned by this newspaper boy. 
 
 LIFE'S TEACHINGS. 
 
 Oh, why should we worry oursefves about things. 
 
 Over which we have no control ? 
 Let us gladly receive just what the day brings. 
 
 For the body, the mind, or the soul. 
 
 Nature's plans were well laid a long time ago, 
 
 And are all in existence still; 
 Like all the great things in this wide world below, 
 
 Are controlled by the Master's will. 
 
 Contentment and peace are the true sweets of life. 
 
 Far better than all else beside ; 
 They cool heated passions — and calm evil strife, 
 
 And check the growth of vain pride. 
 
 There's enough in this world and plenty to spare. 
 
 And we learn in life's daily school ; 
 That not a man lives — but could have his full share, 
 Did we cling to the golden rule. 
 
86 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Could we limit our wants and make them but few. 
 
 And endeavor to be satisfied; 
 The river of Hfe 've could safely wade through, 
 
 Or drift down along with the tide. 
 
 Could we value in life — those things which are meant, 
 
 To be for our portion and share ; 
 They would aid us by far to feel more content. 
 
 And lighten our heaviest care. 
 
 Could we hear Nature's voice in harmony blend, 
 
 As she whispers what we should do ; 
 Her music would be like the voice of a friend, 
 
 And aid us in life to be true. 
 
 Could we rise above things which vex and annoy, 
 
 From the evils of life could we flee; 
 We might grasp and retain a good share of joy. 
 
 And the right way readily see. 
 
 If the impulse for self we could calmly subdue. 
 
 Our good will to others extend, 
 Contentment and peace would accompany us through 
 
 The voyage of life to the end. 
 
 LITTLE JOE. 
 
 A Sketch from Real Life. 
 
 Little Joe was the brightest lad I almost ever saw. 
 
 He had two brothers, like himself, and they all lived next 
 
 door 
 To a cobbler's shop, where one could see — almost every 
 
 day — 
 This trio, full of fun and mirth, in cunning tricks and play. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 87 
 
 They were up to all the mischief that boys could ever be, 
 And nothing in the neighborhood but what their eyes 
 
 could see. 
 They would hunt in holes and corners, go poking into 
 
 nooks. 
 Full of fun as an egg of meat — they showed it in their 
 
 looks. 
 
 You could see them walking on a fence, or climbing on a 
 
 shed, 
 Then playing tandem in the street with little Joe ahead; 
 And up to all the tricks and pranks that boys could ever 
 
 know — 
 A constant circus all day long — with Ike, and Tom, and 
 
 Joe. 
 
 The biggest puddle and deepest mud, out upon the street, 
 Had a perfect fascination for their mischievous feet ; 
 They'd leave the best and dryest walk or most convenient 
 
 path. 
 And wallow in the deepest ditch, to give their shoes a 
 
 bath. 
 
 They had a little sister, too, the tiniest little thing, 
 Cunning as a little *'chick," she would prattle, laugh and 
 
 sing. 
 The little fellows often rode her in their poor old cart — 
 Run like horses in a race, when she motioned them to 
 
 start. 
 
 Their father was a laboring man, was poor, and times 
 
 were hard; 
 No full coal bin or stacks of wood were seen in his back 
 
 yard. 
 
88 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Sometimes their children's clothes were thin, their shoes 
 
 were worn most through ; 
 Sometimes their gloveless little hands looked pinched and 
 
 cold — ^and blue. 
 
 But tough and strong, these lively boys they feared net 
 
 rain or snow, 
 But played outdoors most all day long, led on by little 
 
 Joe. 
 Their mother often pulled their hats close down upon 
 
 their head, 
 And put into their little hands a great big slice of bread. 
 
 Twould do you good to see them eat ; 'twould make some 
 
 rich folks wish 
 That they had such an appetite for their expensive dish. 
 And what lessons they could learn, and how ^twould seem 
 
 to bless 
 Them with a more contented mind — ^be satisfied with less. 
 
 Quickly disappeared the bread, though the butter it was 
 
 thin. 
 They'd no time to stop and see if a little dirt went in, 
 But licked their little fingers off, and did it pretty quick — 
 I wonder if any other child did such a funny trick. 
 
 Their father thought as much of them as men do of their 
 boys, 
 
 He had no money to give away or buy expensive toys ; 
 
 They had to do the best they could, 'twould touch a ten- 
 der heart, 
 
 To see the three go tinker up their little home-made cart. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 89 
 
 Their mother's hands were pretty full, for they'd tear the 
 
 buttons off; 
 Sometimes at night, with cold, wet feet, they'd have a 
 
 threatening cough. 
 Their father, likely out of sorts and working on half time, 
 And rent was due, the coal was out, and he vv^ithout a 
 
 dime. 
 
 And so he felt discouraged-like, and didn't seem to care, 
 And, perhaps, in their presence, he'd forget himself and 
 
 swear ; 
 The youngsters being quick to learn, and Joe, the little 
 
 scamp, 
 Soon learned to swear as easy as most any common tramp. 
 
 The other two were most as bad, and so, between the three, 
 Their mother's hands were busy kept and full as they 
 
 could be; 
 But being full of love and hope, to a mother's duties true, 
 She meekly bore her burdens all as many mothers do. 
 
 A woman from the "Ladies' Aid" called at the house one 
 
 day 
 To read and talk of higher things, and with the family 
 
 pray; 
 The little fellows listened close to what the lady said, 
 And little Joe thought he could pray before he went to bed. 
 
 And soon from helping hands there came hats, shoes and 
 
 overcoats. 
 And mittens, gloves, and mufflers, too, to warm their little 
 
 throats ; 
 The parson's wife she lent her aid and kept the golden 
 
 rule, 
 And soon she had the little boys go to the Sunday School. 
 
90 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 She put them in the mfant class and placed them in a row. 
 And soon all eyes were turned upon Ike, Tom and little 
 
 Joe; 
 The parson's wife prayed in her heart, "God bless these 
 
 little boys, 
 And keep them safe within the fold to share His sacred 
 
 joys." 
 
 They were the brightest boys in school; it did not take 
 
 them long, 
 To learn the many tunes they sing, and almost every song; 
 They soon were out the infant class, into a higher gr.ade, 
 And none could fail to note the change which in these 
 
 boys was made. 
 
 Their father was severe at times, but he had a tender heart, 
 Which beat in kindness for his boys — ^those little boys so 
 
 smart ; 
 'Twas plain to see they had improved, they were not so 
 
 rude in plays, 
 And it set him to thinking of himself — of his own sinful 
 
 ways. 
 
 One night — he could scarcely sleep for his conscience 
 
 smote him so — 
 He dreamed he'd lost his little boys, Ike, Tom and little 
 
 Joe; 
 His heart was heavily burdened, and filled with deep 
 
 despair. 
 Something seemed to speak and say, "Take it to the Lord 
 
 in prayer." 
 
 One night he went up to the church, along with neighbor 
 Jim; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 91 
 
 It seemed that each and every prayer was aimed right 
 
 straight at him ; 
 And every speaker in the room, as soon as he would rise, 
 Would pick out all the faults he had and stare him in the 
 
 eyes. 
 
 He felt so very guilty like, he knew not where to look, 
 So kept his eyes just riveted — upon an old hymn book. 
 And when the parson's wife got up and tenderly did speak, 
 A tear was seen to trickle down across his whitened cheek. 
 
 He seemed to lose his self-control, and stood upon his feet, 
 And tried so hard to pray or speak — but just broke down 
 
 complete. 
 A change had come — the chord was touched — and he had 
 
 been redeemed, 
 The load had quickly left his heart, and bright the whole 
 
 world seemed. 
 
 And now his little family all seem at perfect ease, 
 
 A pretty picture, too, they make at evening on their knees. 
 
 The parson's wife she feels so glad, she goes and tells 
 
 them so, 
 And prays that G«d will always be with them and little 
 
 Joe. 
 
 THE LITTLE TIN PAIL WITH A CUP ON THE 
 COVER. 
 
 'Tis not the high places that the most pleasure give, 
 It is not the rich who the happiest live; 
 'Tis not always plenty which makes the best feast, 
 For 'tis often the sweetest where there is least. 
 
92 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 A king may have power, be exalted and grand, 
 
 And luxuriantly live on the fat of the land ; 
 
 He may robe him in purple and crown his proud head, 
 
 But he knows not the sweetness of a plain loaf of bread. 
 
 When bought with the earnings of a hard-working man, 
 And molded in shape by a kind, loving hand; 
 There is no such sweet meal among kings the world over. 
 As comes from the pail with a cup on the cover. 
 
 Sweet, because earned by hands without gloves, 
 And nicely fixed up by the wife whom he loves; 
 The mother of his children, his hope and his pets. 
 Who through the day's toil he never forgets. 
 
 And who from their fond mother like little prayers learn, 
 To watch every night for their father's return, 
 To meet him half way, when his day's work is over. 
 And help carry the pail with a cup on the cover. 
 
 They may tell of bright wines both sparkling and old, 
 Drank in high places from goblets of gold ; 
 But a workingman's thirst can relish more sweet. 
 The beverage his faithful wife gives him with meat. 
 
 And an honest thanksgiving from his heart may go up, 
 While he drinks his cold coffee from a common tin cu]:-. 
 And contentment serene in his bosom may hover, 
 As he feasts from the pail with a cup on the cover. 
 
 And when after dinner the pipe has been lighted, 
 And the napkin and spoon and the little cup righted. 
 And the smoke rises up in the form of a ring, 
 Ah, such comforts might be envied by the world's great' 
 est king! 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 93 
 
 But a king cannot have it — he doesn't know how. 
 To earn daily bread by the sweat of the brov/, 
 Or to eat a cold dinner, and smack his lips over, 
 A feast from the pail with a cup on the cover. 
 
 Could the little pail speak, it would whisper most sweet, 
 Of something more lofty than plain bread and meat; 
 For between man and wife it has something to do, 
 And who knows but it helps to keep them both true. 
 
 For fier heart beats for him when she fills the pail up, 
 And his throbs for her as he lifts off the cup ; 
 It may keep their love fresh until life is over. 
 The little tin pail with a cup on the cover. 
 
 THE ENDING OF THE YEAR. 
 
 The wheels of time fly swiftly on, through every night and 
 
 day, 
 And never stop or slack their speed at the stations by the 
 
 way; 
 But on ak)n^ their endless course, the track is always 
 
 clear, 
 And mile posts gray along the way are numbered by the 
 
 year. 
 
 When one is passed we look behind, and lo! 'tis out of 
 
 sight ; 
 The days flit by as if on wings, closely followed by the 
 
 night. 
 The hurrying wheels of time soon bring the distant future 
 
 near, 
 "When Christmas bells and memory tells the ending of 
 
 the year. 
 
94 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Scarcely can we pause to count, we speed along so fast, 
 And wonder, when one's left behind, if the next will be 
 
 our last ; 
 For many whom we knew so well are not with us to-day. 
 They heard the call — that was all — and dropped off by 
 
 the way. 
 
 The fields put on their green in May, the roses bloom in 
 June; 
 
 Sweet odors from the new-mown hay perfume the sum- 
 mer noon. 
 
 The wee wild flowers in modest bloom, and stately *'gold- 
 enrod," 
 
 But briefly stay — ^then haste away to join the withering 
 sod. 
 
 Autumn with her great arms full of fruit and golden 
 
 grain, 
 Steps softly in and fills the bin, then speeds away again ; 
 For shadows gray are gathering o'er, there's another mile 
 
 post near, 
 The glad refrain is heard again, wishing a "Happy New 
 
 Year." 
 
 While time is being measured off by the daily setting sun, 
 How often memory brings to mind so much we left 
 
 undone ! 
 To-morrow is often loaded down with the burdens of 
 
 to-day, 
 And soon we find we are behind and the year has slipped 
 
 away. 
 
 Memory's casket then unfolds to our astonished ^jew. 
 Broken pledges, sad regrets and errors not a few ; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 95 
 
 We Stand amazed, recall to mind, and muse and ponder 
 
 o'er, 
 And enter here another year as we have done before. 
 
 Though we deplore the flight of time, yet there comes a 
 
 joy. 
 
 When Santa Claus remembers the little girl and boy ; 
 Youth and age forget them not — the hallowed hours so 
 
 dear. 
 And little things that friendship brings at the ending of 
 
 the year. 
 
 Tis then the heart doth long and yearn for those who 
 
 went astray, 
 And hoping they may soon return, we wait, and watch, 
 
 and pray. 
 That they may hasten back to us and the friends who love 
 
 them dear, 
 And swell the strain of "home again" 'midst feasting and 
 
 good cheer. 
 
 The wheels of time go swiftly on, we cannot stop their 
 
 going, 
 Then let us do whatever we find, let us keep on sowing; 
 Do not let us leave behind a dry and fallow field. 
 That other men may gather when the Master gives the 
 
 yield. 
 
 Seeds of kindness we can sow along life's thorny way. 
 Upon the waters cast our bread — it will return some day ; 
 'Tis little things that make the great, years by moments 
 
 fly, 
 
 How much, 'tis true, we all may do while the days are 
 going by ! 
 
96 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Let lis more unselfish be, tlie time we have to stay. 
 With liberal hand we'll scatter free along life's rugged 
 
 way, 
 That flowers may bloom with fragrance sweet, our mem- 
 ory be enshrined. 
 In the hearts of some when we've gone home and they 
 toil on behind. 
 
 And as we pass the mile post by we wish, but wish in vain, 
 That we could check the flying wheels and turn them 
 
 back again; 
 But He who gave them power to move according to His 
 
 will. 
 In His own love, from Heaven above, whispers, "Peace, 
 
 be still." 
 
 MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 Some people have too much to say about other folks' 
 affairs, 
 
 And meddle with their neighbors' business, just as though 
 'twas theirs ; 
 
 Some tell the most outlandish yarns, till they think of 
 nothing more, 
 
 Then *'fish up" some small, silly thing about a mother- 
 in-law. 
 
 A mother-in-law — as far as I see — is the same as other 
 
 folks, 
 And I ain't learned just why it is they're made the "butt" 
 
 of jokes; 
 I can't see where the laugh comes in, as I've often said 
 
 before, 
 When I've heard some people making fun about a 
 
 mother-in-law. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 97 
 
 Now, if a woman's daughter marries another woman's 
 
 son, 
 And they'd like to live as man and wife, as other folks 
 
 have done. 
 And they can't agree on little things, now wouldn't it be 
 
 nice. 
 To have a mother-in-law come in, to give some good 
 
 advice ? 
 
 When funds are gone — and victuals scarce — the husband 
 lost his place. 
 
 With all hands sick and starvation seen.s to stare them in 
 the face; 
 
 And the neighbors are all strangers, too, — even the folks 
 next door, 
 
 Wouldn't it be quite handy, then, to call in a mother-in- 
 law? 
 
 Now, I don't care what people say ; I know a thing or two ; 
 Some married folks get quite hard up, and don't know 
 
 what to do ; 
 And when it gets right down to "rock" — why they'd go 
 
 upon the town. 
 If they couldn't send up to have — their mother-in-law 
 
 come down. 
 
 There's Jesse Johnson — don't earn much — and he spends 
 it all for rum. 
 
 His poor wife works her fingers off in trying to keep a 
 home; 
 
 And ain't I seen her shedding tears over an old washtub, 
 
 Her fingers all worn through and bleeding from the con- 
 stant rub. 
 
98 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 There's big Tim Smith — now, I don't s'pose Tim draws 
 
 a sober breath, 
 I thought his family long ago would all been starved to 
 
 death ; 
 They would — if it hadn't been for things sent in from the 
 
 store, 
 If youM like to know who paid for these, go ask his 
 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 Eph Jones' case was worse than that, for he couldn't work 
 for years, 
 
 And I've often seen his little wife, with both eyes filled 
 with tears ; 
 
 Eph's all right, now, and I've heard him tell the story 
 o'er and o'er. 
 
 No doctor put him on his feet — it was his mother-in- 
 law. 
 
 There's old Joe Sparks — he's some good traits — ^but Joe, 
 
 you know, will steal; 
 He's got a real nice family — I often wonder Bow they 
 
 feel. 
 Joe'd gone to jail along 'fore this — he'd surely gone last 
 
 year. 
 But his wife's old mother sold her home, just to get him 
 
 clear. 
 
 When Harry Jenkins broke his leg, his wife was sick in 
 bed. 
 
 The children down with measles and none could raise 
 their head : 
 
 His wife and he had never been in such a fix before, 
 
 They'd either died or been there yet, but for his mother- 
 in-law. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 99 
 
 The other morning I met Jane Jones, a Httle after four, 
 You know Ki Lane? — they call him the "Brute," well — 
 
 Jane's his mother-in-law; 
 Ki was sick, and sent for Jane — he thought he was going 
 
 to die, 
 And Jane was off before daylight, to nurse that old brute 
 
 Ki. 
 
 After this, when I hear folks talk a lot of silly stuff 
 About their poor old mother-in-law, and use her kinder 
 
 rough ; 
 ril just tell them to shut right up — till I get out the door, 
 Then they can say just what they like, about their mother- 
 in-law. 
 
 LESSON OF THE COBWEB. 
 
 There is many a spot in palace and cot, 
 
 Unseen by the eyes of the throng. 
 Where, could they but look in the corner and nook. 
 
 They would see that something was wrong. 
 The little byplace and vacated space, 
 
 At the top, midway and below ; 
 Each one within reach a lesson may teach — 
 
 'Tis the place where the cobwebs grow. 
 
 The little cobweb with delicate thread, 
 
 That hangs itself up in the air, 
 And festoons the wall of parlor and hall, 
 
 Is skilfully made, and with care. 
 We may close the room tight and shut out the light, 
 
 God intended to shine therein; 
 But darker the place the greater the pace 
 
 Of the little wee weavers who spin. 
 LofC. 
 
100 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 To sly little nooks behind trinkets and books, 
 
 That the careless housewives often shun, 
 These weavers they go, and never work slow, 
 
 But hang up their webs and move on. 
 Through careless neglect the cobwebs collect — 
 
 'Tis this that invites them to grow; 
 These weavers know this, and seldom they miss. 
 
 Such a chance their own works to show. 
 
 To drive them away you must work each day, 
 
 And exercise vigilant care, 
 Else the ambitious dust, moth and the rust. 
 
 With cobwebs their lot they will share. 
 To keep the webs down, on labor don't frown, 
 
 But work on yourself with a will; 
 Don't think the work done when only begun — 
 
 Don't falter, but keep working still. 
 
 Labor and thrive like the bee in the hive. 
 
 To provide for a distant day; 
 For every drone will surely have none, 
 
 And soon will be pushed out the way. 
 The cobwebs of sin ! how soft they steal in, 
 
 And wind themselves close round the heart! 
 In goodness then sow, and webs will not grow. 
 
 Endangering life's better part. 
 
 And try to make hay in the sunshine to-day. 
 
 And to-day, when it comes on the morrow, 
 You'll have of your own, and reap what you've sown- 
 
 Full measure of joy or of sorrow. 
 You can foster the germ that will help you be firm. 
 
 In doing what you think to be right ; 
 And the impulse to wrong, no matter how strong. 
 
 You can crush in the bud, and blight. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 101 
 
 Unto another be as a brother, 
 
 Do as they should unto you; 
 Deal justly and fair, give each one his share — 
 
 Honor to whom honor is due. 
 You can do a good deed, plant choice seed, 
 
 And keep the rows clean with your hoe; 
 Forget not the poor, and keep the soul pure, 
 
 And these cobwebs never can grow. 
 
 THOUGHTLESSNESS. 
 
 Thoughtlessness holds over many a sway, 
 And thwarts their most favorite plans ; 
 
 The fruits of their toil somehow slip away, 
 And fail to fall into their hands. 
 
 Men often through thoughtlessness fail to reach. 
 
 The acme of life's sweetest bliss; 
 And heed not the lesson their own failures teach. 
 
 And the best opportunities miss. 
 
 Thoughtlessness turns us away from the road 
 Which would lead to joy and success, 
 
 And adds more weight to our burden and load, 
 Instead of making it less. 
 
 Thoughtlessness changes success to defeat. 
 And brings us chagrin and remorse, 
 
 While thoughtfulness makes it far more complete, 
 And lessens the chances for loss. 
 
 Small things grow large like the acorn and tree, 
 And will sweeten our life, and bless ; 
 
 If, at the sprouting, their value we see, 
 And nurse them with true thoughtfulness. 
 
102 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Thoughtlessness changes the course of some things, 
 And shatters our Hfe's fondest dream; 
 
 Like the smallest obstruction placed in a brook, 
 May change the whole course of a stream. 
 
 Thoughtlessness wrecks many men who are brave. 
 Its victims you can count by the score ; 
 
 Thoughtfulness throws out its life-line to save. 
 And bring them safe back to the shore. 
 
 Some fruitless life may learn in the end, 
 
 That the menace to its success, 
 And the worst thing with which it had to contend, 
 
 Was its own constant thoughtlessness. 
 
 More thoughtfulness at a little cross-road, 
 
 An ear to the small voice within, 
 Might make the way clear and lighten the load. 
 
 Of care, disappointment and sin. 
 
 SKIM-MILK AND CREAM. 
 
 There's a number of things in this wonderful world, 
 
 That in kinship are closely allied; 
 You may notice quite soon, like the sun and the moon, 
 
 They are drifting apart far and wide. 
 When a cow gives the milk it is put in the pans — 
 
 Nothing strange about that, it may seem; 
 But when scarce out of sight there's a terrible fight, 
 
 In the pans between skim-milk and cream, 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 103 
 
 For the cream it is rich and the milk it is poor, 
 
 And that's where the trouble begins, 
 So they have a big fight, they are both of them right, 
 
 But we notice that cream always wins. 
 So some men may struggle till they get to the top, 
 
 And then, crazy to make a big show. 
 They will try to grasp all, but down they will fall, 
 
 To the skim-milk region below. 
 
 Twin brothers that come from the very same source, 
 
 And who look near alike as two peas. 
 May perhaps be as near as yonder and here. 
 
 Or the fish that swim in the seas. 
 One is pushing ahead, and he gathers the gold, 
 
 He is like the best horse of a team ; 
 One goes slow but sure, so he always keeps poor, 
 
 And they get to be skim-milk and cream. 
 
 And among the great crowds that throng the main 
 streets. 
 
 And are seen on the great thoroughfares; 
 Often sandwiched between, are poor beggars unclean, 
 
 In a race with the proud millionaires. 
 And the man with a mule at the crossing may halt, 
 
 And blockade the fine carriage and team. 
 Then the whole line must stop, while a big burly *'cop," 
 
 Separates skim-milk and cream. 
 
 You may build a big palace, almost to the sky. 
 
 And then move to the very top floor; 
 And perhaps your poor kin, the next day, may move in 
 
 The little low shanty, next door. 
 And the smoke from his kindlings may rise in a cloud, 
 
 To disturb your sweet slumber and dream^ 
 
104 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 But you can't get away, and so you must stay 
 Close together, like skim-milk and cream. 
 
 Mrs. Diamonds and Furs, with her trinkets and kids, 
 
 Takes a car for a little short ride; 
 But at the next block, Mrs. Calico Frock, 
 
 Plants herself right down by her side. 
 She has an old faded hood, a piece of a shawl, 
 
 And her dress is all ripped at the seam; 
 There's an odor of gin, and the passengers grin, 
 
 At this sample of skim-milk and cream. 
 
 You may fly to the mountain, or sail out to sea. 
 
 Or be buried in satin or silk ; 
 But you may as well try to climb up to the sky, 
 
 As to avoid contact with skim-milk. 
 You may hide safe away from the tornado's storm, 
 
 Or escape from the mad-rushing stream 
 Although the world's wide, you will find on each side, 
 
 This mixture of skim-milk and cream. 
 
 MOTHER IS GONE. 
 Lines Suggested by the Death of an Aged Mother. 
 
 The old home is changed — there's a vacancy there, 
 
 Since mother was taken away ; 
 Her Bible and specs, and the empty arm-chair. 
 
 Are relics of a happier day. 
 Her voice is now hushed, and her presence is missed. 
 
 There's a stillness in every room; 
 The old-time cheerfulness which used to exist. 
 
 Gives way to a feeling of gloom. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 105 
 
 Along through the parlor and the charming old hall, 
 
 I thoughtfully wander and stray, 
 And gaze on the picture which hangs on the wall, 
 
 Of dear mother in life's early day. 
 That affectionate smile she carried through life. 
 
 No trials ever drove it away; 
 From girlhood to maiden — and fond loving wife, 
 
 And she wears it in heaven to-day. 
 
 I sit in the chair where she loved to recline, 
 
 And I look through the same window-pane ; 
 Down on the green meadows I see the sun shine. 
 
 And the shadows flit over the plain. 
 Sweet odors come from the new-mown hay, 
 
 With the gentle south winds o'er the lawn, 
 And the little birds sing — but their song seems to say, 
 
 That mother — dear mother is gone. 
 
 The evergreens gracefully bow to the breeze. 
 
 And the swallows fly home to the barn ; 
 The lazy herds languidly graze at their ease. 
 
 And the brooklet flows merrily on. 
 A peaceful calm hovers around the old place. 
 
 In the evening and at the day-dawn ; 
 But the charm is not there, it was the sweet face, 
 
 Of mother — dear mother who is gone. 
 
 Although she has gone, there will always remain, 
 
 A fragrance which her pure life has shed ; 
 And it helps to relieve the anguish and pain, 
 
 Of those who mourn her as dead. 
 Like a halo her virtues illumined life's sphere. 
 
 And brightened its thorny pathway; 
 And she daily could rf'ad her own title clear. 
 
 To mansions where 'tis fairer than day. 
 
106 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 When the night stars shine, and the pale moon is new, 
 
 I can see, far beyond in the sky, 
 Visions of mother and the gates she passed through, 
 
 To that beautiful land on high. 
 The distance from the earth to heaven is short. 
 
 And the way unobstructed and clear ; 
 If we follow the lessons she lovingly taught, 
 
 And the example she set us while here. 
 
 SWEET LITTLE BIRD. 
 
 What are you saying, sweet little bird? 
 
 What are you saying to me? 
 Every morning your song is heard, 
 
 Up in yonder tree. 
 
 Up among the boughs of green. 
 And blossoms bright and fair. 
 
 Your little form is scarcely seen, 
 While you are singing there. 
 
 Your sweet voice rises high and higher, 
 
 In your morning song ; 
 I could listen on and never tire, 
 
 Listen — all day long. 
 
 And listen on till evening comes, 
 
 And sunlight steals away; 
 And through the hours of silent night. 
 
 Until the dawn of day. 
 
 Sing your anthem, loud and long, 
 
 And God, as well as me, 
 Will listen to your happy song, 
 
 Up in yonder tree. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 107 
 
 MAN'S COMPARISON. 
 
 The least among the grains of sand. 
 Along the ocean^s boundless strand ; 
 An atom in the world's broad span. 
 May well be likened to a man. 
 
 Like a withering blade of grass, 
 Down in the meadows' tangled mass; 
 Or unseen speck in yonder cloud, 
 Is man — though he be rich and proud. 
 
 Small as a tiny grain of wheat, 
 In summer's harvest, full, complete, 
 Or struggling wisp of new-mown hay, 
 Soon dies, and hastens to decay. 
 
 Like a falling flake of snow, 
 Hurrying to its place below ; 
 Fitful, baffling in the chase, 
 Until it finds a resting place. 
 
 Like a leaf in the forest tree, 
 Man fills a space too small to see ; 
 And like a haze in early mom. 
 So soon forgotten when 'tis gone. 
 
 One little drop down from the shower, 
 
 A second in a fleeting hour; 
 
 A bubble on the passing tide, 
 
 Is man — with all his pomp and pride. 
 
 Why should man of himself feel proud? 
 He is but one in this world's crowd ; 
 In Nature's work he lends no hand. 
 And cannot make one grain of sand. 
 
108 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 THE VILLAGE CHURCH BELL. 
 
 How sweet are the tones of the village church bell, 
 When greeting the calm Sabbath morn ; 
 
 Stealing softly along, the sweet story to tell, 
 Of rest for the weary and worn. 
 
 How sweet are the tones of the village church bell, 
 
 As they ride on the evening breeze; 
 And echo far down through valley and dell, 
 
 And over the hill tops and trees. 
 
 How joyful the sound of the village church bell. 
 
 When it rings the glad jubilee; 
 And joins with the cannons the anthem to swell. 
 
 Of our country — the land of the free. 
 
 How cheerful its voice at the Christmas time, when 
 
 It tells that a Saviour was born, 
 Peace reigneth on earth, and that "good will to men," 
 
 Is echoed at night and at morn. 
 
 How merry the peals of the village church bells, 
 When they welcome the new-born year; 
 
 And their gladdening voice in the midnight tells, 
 Of holiday joys and good cheer. 
 
 I love the sweet tones of the village church bell, 
 
 As it chimes the gay marriage peal ; 
 When young hearts unite under love's magic spell, 
 
 And their life has been stamp'ed with its seal. 
 
 But how wild are its cries on the midnight air, 
 When it summons the firemen brave; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 109 
 
 While the fire fiend is spreading — death and despair, 
 And there are helpless ones to save. 
 
 And solemn the tones of the village church bell. 
 
 When it tells of a loved one gone; 
 Its music then turns to a funeral knell, 
 
 And pierces the hearts that mourn. 
 
 How oft at such times, when I hear the sad peal. 
 
 My soul feels the plaint melody; 
 And down deep in my heart, the thought it will steal, 
 
 That it soon will be tolling for me. 
 
 OAK ISLAND BY THE SEA. 
 
 Away from the din of the busy street. 
 Away from the town and sultry heat. 
 To find a quiet, cool retreat, 
 
 I come to thee. 
 
 Dear Oak Island by the sea. 
 
 Away from trials that oft annoy, 
 And pain the heart or mar my joy, 
 To pleasures sweet without alloy, 
 
 I come to thee, 
 
 Dear Oak Island by the sea. 
 
 Away from the office, the desk and store. 
 Away from the same tasks o'er and o'er, 
 Away from the clamor for *'more and more,'* 
 
 I flee. 
 
 Our dear Oak Island, to thee. 
 
110 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Away from the toiler's burdened fate, 
 Away from envy, strife and hate, 
 No haste for fear of being late, 
 
 Here with thee, 
 
 Little island by the sea. 
 
 Away from scenes of anxious care, 
 Away from constant "wear and tear," 
 I come, glad song birds, here to share. 
 
 With thee, 
 
 Oak Island's solace by the sea. 
 
 Away from sin's polluted sphere. 
 
 To a purer, better atmosphere — 
 
 Our vision heavenward seems more clear, 
 
 Looking from thee, 
 
 Fair island by the sea. 
 
 Where as we gaze far, far away, 
 Over the ocean, over the bay, 
 The wind and vv'aves in harmony say : 
 "We welcome thee. 
 To this island by the sea." 
 
 Where no high house-top mars the view. 
 No darkened windows to look through, 
 And Heaven's own broad expanse of blue, 
 
 Shelters thee. 
 
 Dear Oak Island by the sea. 
 
 On thee the south winds gently blow, 
 From the "murmuring sea," sweet and low ; 
 Choice berries on thy meadows grow. 
 
 Full and free. 
 
 Thou favored island by the sea. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 111 
 
 Varied tints of matchless green, 
 Wild roses interspersed between, 
 Holly and cedar, and sedge grass clean. 
 
 Abide with thee, 
 
 Nature's island by the sea. 
 
 Surrounded by a sylvan stream, 
 That shimmers in the morning beam, 
 While lazy sea gulls idly dream, 
 
 Close to thee. 
 
 Little island by the sea. 
 
 The wild birds wing their morning flight, 
 To the sand-bars bare at the dawn of light, 
 And seek a refuge late at night. 
 
 Under the lea 
 
 Of dear Oak Island by the sea. 
 
 I tread thy graceful lines of shore, 
 
 And on thy beauty ponder o'er, 
 
 Each day, each hour, see more and more, 
 
 To excite in me, 
 
 A love for this island by the sea. 
 
 I muse, as on thy peak I stand, 
 
 And view the breadth of sea and land — 
 
 This charming scene would be less grand. 
 
 Without thee. 
 
 Dear Oak Island by the sea. 
 
 The waves' sweet music on the beach, 
 The hills far away as the eye can reach. 
 And stillness — all unite to teach, 
 
 More of Thee, 
 
 Maker of all the land and sea. 
 
112 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 MY MOTHER'S LOVE. 
 
 A business man in the city of New York spent Sunday 
 with his parents in the country whenever he could. One 
 stormy day, his mother regretted the day was so unpleas- 
 ant on his account. He remarked: ''My dear mother, 
 it is gloomy without, but pleasant in here, as it always is, 
 when you are present." 
 
 Though the clouds look leaden, and are tinged with gloom, 
 
 And a heavy gray fog fills the air ; 
 There's a dear little home, and a light, cheerful room, 
 
 Which to me always looks bright and fair. 
 
 For my mother is there — with a love so pure, 
 
 Tis above and beyond everything ; 
 It dispels all the gloom and brings me a cure. 
 
 For the "blues" which the stormy days bring. 
 
 There is no place like home when the storm rages wild, 
 Or when the sun shines bright and clear; 
 
 There's no love like that between mother and child, 
 And there is nothing on earth so dear. 
 
 So let the storms rage, I am home once again. 
 
 In the sunlight of mother's sweet smile; 
 And a halo of love pervades the domain, 
 
 For there's nothing which tends to beguile. 
 
 Oh, I love to go home — be it stormy or clear. 
 
 For, in spite of the wind or the rain, 
 Things long forgotten seem again to be near, 
 
 And for a time — it is cli'ldhood again. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS llS 
 
 When my mind soars heavenward, it rests upon Him, 
 
 Who in mercy looks down from above ; 
 But on earth, there is much to my vision grows dim, 
 
 In the light of my dear mother's love. 
 
 PASSING OF THE DINNER PAIL. 
 
 Faded and vanished is the dinner pail's glory, 
 It has gone out of use the working men know ; 
 
 Could it speak it might tell a wonderful story, 
 
 Of scenes which it passed through, a long time ago. 
 
 It is dear to the heart of many an old one, 
 When fond recollection presents it to view ; 
 
 With the dinners it served, though each was a cold one, 
 Placed in it by hands which were loving and true. 
 
 Although it looked dingy, corroded or rusty, 
 Or battered and dented, disfigured in form ; 
 
 Choice little morsels to its keeping were trusted, 
 And jealously guarded, through sunshine and storm. 
 
 It has spent many years in useful employment, 
 Along with its master his pleasure to share; 
 
 The sweet hour at noontime, in perfect enjoyment, 
 Of a respite from labor, turmoil and care. 
 
 Its value at midday was graciously heeded. 
 For welcome surprises 'twould often reveal, 
 
 And give to poor mortals the food which they needed, 
 To make them feel happy, though humble the meal. 
 
114 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Good-by, dinner pail, you are now a back number, 
 We cherish with pleasure your useful career; 
 
 With valued old relics in peace you can slumber, 
 Until you completely at last disappear. 
 
 From your old, favored haunts you have surely departed, 
 To hide in seclusion we hardly know where ; 
 
 You have mingled with strong men, big, tender-hearted. 
 And many poor weaklings have relished your fare. 
 
 You were faithful to millions, true sons of labor, 
 You'll not be forgotten although out of date ; 
 
 Things grander than you, may be your next neighbor. 
 With other back numbers to share your own fate. 
 
 Although your successors assumed your old station. 
 And many may think through all time they will stay; 
 
 But just like yourself, your kin and relation. 
 Will be cast aside and in time pass away. 
 
 HOPES AND JOYS. 
 
 The little boys and little girls. 
 
 Some with cropped hair, and some with curls, 
 
 Some look quite careless, and some look neat. 
 
 And others absolutely sweet; 
 
 Some have deep gray, or jet black eyes. 
 
 And some as blue as summer skies ; 
 
 But every one's a human toy — 
 
 Their mama's hope and papa's joy. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 115 
 
 Some look as though they were well fed, 
 And some as if they needed bread ; 
 Some look downcast, and pale, and sad, 
 And others buoyant — joyous — glad. 
 Some move in haste, and others slow, 
 In single file, or in a row; 
 All happy — for no cares annoy. 
 Their papa's hope and mama's joy. 
 
 Some show the marks of tender care. 
 In others, no such marks are there ; 
 Some wear the richest garments made, 
 And some the poorest, cheapest grade. 
 And so this young and motley crowd, 
 Are all as one — for none are proud ; 
 And each and every girl and boy. 
 Is a mother's hope or a father's joy. 
 
 So every household in the land. 
 
 Is interested in this band 
 
 Of bright young hopefuls going to school, 
 
 Each learning to obey the rule. 
 
 Which fits him for life's struggling race. 
 
 And helps to gain a favored place — 
 
 And then — a home, with girls and boys. 
 
 To bless their hopes — increase their joys. 
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 In the early days of childhood, in the long, long ago. 
 When tiny things looked monstrous big, and the wheels of 
 time moved slow, 
 
116 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Miles of happy rides I've taken, swinging on the gate, 
 And the keenest pangs of hunger felt when a meal per- 
 chance was late. 
 
 'Twas a heavy cross for me to bear, when mother made 
 
 me mind, 
 And bitter were the tears I shed if I were left behind ; 
 I wondered would I grow as big as brother Tom and Jim, 
 And what a happy day ^twould be when I could skate or 
 
 swim. 
 
 'Twas an age before glad Christmas came to cheer the 
 
 girls and boys, 
 And make them happier far than kings with a few of the 
 
 cheapest toys; 
 My childish yearnings naught availed — the time would 
 
 not go fast, 
 But now, when I recall those days, they are far back in 
 
 the past. 
 
 The glowing, growing days of youth soon brought me in 
 
 my teens, 
 When deeper hues and brighter tints pervaded all life's 
 
 scenes ; 
 The little toys had lost their charm — I had learned to skate 
 
 and swim, 
 And felt myself almost a match for brother Tom and Jim. 
 
 I could run a race and take my part in all the bolder sports, 
 
 And a wish that I could be a man at times crept in my 
 thoughts ; 
 
 And even when the play was high, and free and wild the 
 fun, 
 
 Like gentle winds a wish would come that I were twenty- 
 one. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 117 
 
 My boyish fancy pictured all beyond that time as gold, 
 And did not even hint to me that young men could grow 
 
 old; 
 But I learned, anon, that boyhood days do not always last, 
 For now, as I look back to them, they are far back in the 
 
 past. 
 
 I stood upon the threshold of manhood's fruitful years, 
 A glimpse of the wide world filled my soul with mingled 
 
 hopes and fears; 
 I stepped across — the door was closed — my boyhood days 
 
 were gone. 
 And I began to climb life's hill unaided and alone. 
 
 Ere long a little Cupid came, and whispered unto me, 
 Saying do not plod thy way alone, a maiden waits for thee ; 
 Ah, Love! it was my portion then; the maiden's hand I 
 
 won, 
 The nuptials o'er, all sail was set — life's voyage had begun. 
 
 Little children came to us, free from sin and guile, 
 To cheer our home as nothing could so well as a little 
 
 child ; 
 Their prattling tongues and presence bright a rainbow 
 
 shadow cast. 
 Throughout our home of earlier days in the silent past. 
 
 They soon were swinging on the gate; they learned to 
 
 skate and swim, 
 And tried to catch the older boys, as I did Tom and Jim ; 
 Now they are men and settled down ; they have children 
 
 of their own, 
 And wife and I, at the old home still, are living all alone. 
 
118 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Our boys, proud fathers, bring to us, in gorgeous dress 
 
 and gown, 
 Trophies, saying, ''Grandpa, see; the lovehest child in 
 
 town." 
 Then wife and I, with knowing look, assent to what they 
 
 say, 
 For we had ''trophies" of our own, in life's younger day. 
 
 Blessed children, ties of love, changing as they grow, 
 What the future has for them 'tis best they do not know ; 
 But o'er life's threshold they will cross, their lot in life 
 
 be cast, 
 When wife and I have gone to join the forgotten of the 
 
 past. 
 
 WHEN THE LORD IS NEAR. 
 
 Sometimes the Lord seems far away, 
 Hidden — somewhere on high ; 
 
 Just like the sun's bright golden ray, 
 Behind a cloudy sky. 
 
 And then again He is so near, 
 
 The radiance from His face; 
 Makes the way toward heaven look clear, 
 
 Through His abounding grace. 
 
 There is a time, when closer still. 
 
 He lingers by our side ; 
 'Tis when we know and do His will, 
 
 Free from vain show and pride. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 119 
 
 And often nearer yet He stands, 
 
 'Tis when with motives pure; 
 We go with willing heart and hands, 
 
 To help the needy poor. 
 
 And when misfortune's child we bless, 
 
 With purse, and prayer, and cheer; 
 We have the sweetest consciousness, 
 
 That then — the Lord is near. 
 
 LOOKING FROM MY WINDOW. 
 
 I'm sitting by the window, looking on the bay, 
 Over toward the seashore, the surf and silvery spray ; 
 Where the lighthouse rays beam out, like a beacon star, 
 Signaling the dangers of old *'Fire Island" bar. 
 
 All along the beach land, long miles of sandy shore, 
 Wears bright jewels every day, from ocean's boundless 
 
 store ; 
 Boisterous gales are often lulled into a gentle breeze, 
 Bringing deep-toned harmony, from the distant seas. 
 
 I'm there ofttimes in dreams — in quiet reverie, 
 Wondering what the wild waves are saying unto me ; 
 The murmuring of the sea, and voices of the waves, 
 Seem to bring sad tidings, from hosts of watery graves. 
 
 I'm sitting by the window, looking on the bay, 
 Where the white-winged seagull flies, searching for its 
 
 prey; 
 Soaring with his keen eye on his unsuspecting game. 
 Then darts — like rifle shot, sent with unerring aim. 
 
120 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 His desperate charge secures the game ; he dips the wing 
 And mounts upon the breeze again, his song to sing; 
 Soaring off with lofty mien, calmly to survey, 
 The scope of his dominions, out upon the bay. 
 
 Vm sitting at my window, looking on the bay, 
 
 Where the proud brant ride the waves — where the sea-bass 
 
 play; 
 Where the water just from sea — clear as crystal brook, 
 Where the blackfish waits to play with the angler^s hook. 
 
 I'm sitting at my window, looking on the bay. 
 Thinking of the bluefish time — latter part of May ; 
 Waiting for the tidings — the first bluefish is caught, 
 Then — off upon the bay — enraptured with the sport. 
 
 Winter's gone and little birds, sweetly sing near by, 
 The sun shines warm again — the blue is in the sky ; 
 Nature toils with unseen hands, through the bright spring 
 
 day. 
 While Fm looking from my window — out upon the bay. 
 
 THE OLD PICKET FENCE. 
 
 The old picket fence at the little front yard, 
 Is worm-eaten, moss-covered and gray; 
 
 They are most of them gone, and some of them loose, 
 And the bottom boards rotted away. 
 
 And for many long years no paint it hath seen, 
 And the nails make a long, rusty stain; 
 
 The fingers of time have cut furrows between 
 The intricate lines of the grain. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 121 
 
 Nature has trimmed it with garlands of green, 
 And she washes them clean with her showers; 
 
 And the bees and humming birds often are seen, 
 Sipping honey from sweet little flowers. 
 
 And the wild ivy crowns the weather-worn posts, 
 Trailing vines help support the weak rails, 
 
 And throw out young tendrils which lovingly cling, 
 To the lonely and rusty old nails. 
 
 There is tall, stately dock, and thistles in bloom. 
 
 And there's wee little flowers untold. 
 And white clover dwarfed for the want of more room, 
 
 And there's buttercups yellow as gold. 
 
 And there's greedy burdock with coarse, spreading leaves, 
 Frowning down the young sprigs of spearmint ; 
 
 There's scattering grain, not enough to make sheaves, 
 And wild balsam of pale olive tint. 
 
 There's runaway robbin distilling perfume, 
 
 From the dew at the dawn of the day ; 
 While catnip and daisies and dandelions bloom 
 
 Where the bottom board rotted away. 
 
 Four names were engraved on the moss-covered rail, 
 Which the storms of the years have effaced ; 
 
 And like the faint lines of a once winding trail, 
 They at present can scarcely be traced. 
 
 There was '']/' for John, he was killed in the war; 
 
 Brother Joe, he was shipwrecked at sea; 
 The fever took Dan — that was three of the four — 
 
 And the only one left now is me. 
 
122 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 When I see the old fence, sometimes Httle tears, 
 
 Will come like the summer simshovvers ; 
 For, like the grave mounds, it has welcomed for years, 
 
 The return of the vines and sweet flowers. 
 
 STORMY MORNING. 
 
 On a dark and stormy morning, 
 Some begin the day with yawning, 
 
 And of finding fault because it rains so hard; 
 They wear long and gloomy faces. 
 While the water seeks low places. 
 
 On the highway and into the private yard. 
 
 Could they cease their useless fretting, 
 And go out and get a wetting, 
 
 Like the throngs who go to earn their daily bread, 
 It would help them drown their sorrow. 
 And feel hopeful that to-morrow, 
 
 The sun may shine in brightness overhead. 
 
 Countless people are complaining. 
 Every day when it is raining. 
 
 And they cannot understand His for the best; 
 They will never cease to murmur. 
 Till they leave old "Terra Firma," 
 
 And are in the land of everlasting rest. 
 
 Oh, I love a stormy morning. 
 When the raindrops are adorning, 
 
 The barn roof and the lonely helpless trees ; 
 When the streams are softly flowing. 
 And they care not where they're going. 
 
 As they scamper down the gutters as they please. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 123 
 
 Far above the shutters' clatter, 
 I hear the raindrops patter, 
 
 As they speed to fill the brooklet and the springs; 
 If we could not have the showers. 
 There would be no fruits or flowers, 
 
 And the countless things which nature kindly brings. 
 
 But I love to see the raindrops, 
 Wash the streets as well as tree tops, 
 
 As they chase each other from the cloudy skies; 
 While the thirsty earth is drinking, 
 In my mind Vm always thinking, 
 
 That they're often heaven's blessings in disguise. 
 
 MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Dear memories of childhood, they cling to me still. 
 And lose none of their sweetness through years; 
 
 I dream of them often and ponder until 
 My eyes often moisten with tears, 
 
 Which unbidden start, as I think of the past, 
 When a child — I was dear mother's pet; 
 
 I never knew then — that the time could go fast, 
 Or I ever have cause for regret. 
 
 There were so many things down at the old farm. 
 The green meadows, the orchard and lane; 
 
 And everything there possessed a sweet charm, 
 Which will never entice me again. 
 
 The hollyhock bloomed near the old kitchen door, 
 
 I remember the favorite rose ; 
 The well and the bucket — a thousand things more. 
 
 That I loved, and which no one else knows. 
 
124 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 The old kitchen garden where the boys in the spring, 
 
 Used to spade — and lay out into beds ; 
 And it seemed as if all the birds used to sing, 
 
 In the branches just over their heads. 
 
 Fve mother's old clock, with its coarse wooden wheels, 
 Which I'd never exchange for the best ; 
 
 It serves to remind me, how swift the time steals, 
 And of she — who has gone to her rest. 
 
 But those days have all gone, and old age is near. 
 
 There's a great many things tell me so ; 
 But the truth of life's teachings speak plainly and clear, 
 
 To do my part and be ready to go. 
 
 I know I must live for the present, and do 
 
 All my tasks with a cheerful good will ; 
 My cares may be many — but yet they are few, 
 
 To the thousands who have greater still. 
 
 So, I'll cheerfully toil, over and over again. 
 
 But will cherish my tears, for forsooth. 
 They are like little birds with their sweetest refrain, 
 
 For they come with the thoughts of my youth. 
 
 LABOR'S LIMIT. 
 
 We should not undertake to do. 
 The work beyond our strength; 
 
 For nature only wishes us. 
 To give each day its length. 
 
 And not o'erstep the bounds of time, 
 Nor crowd too much in space ; 
 
 For this, if followed — will soon throw. 
 Something out of place. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 125 
 
 There's surely much for us to do, 
 
 Within the sphere we move; 
 To do it well, we must not go, 
 
 Beyond our narrow groove. 
 
 We should not fail to do to men, 
 
 As we would be done by ; 
 This law is just as fixed as when 
 
 God made the earth and sky. 
 
 And yet we tramp this sacred law. 
 
 Beneath our very feet; 
 And through the hungry greed for more, 
 
 Make life all else but sweet. 
 
 We should not undertake to do. 
 
 More than strength can bear, 
 And thus curtail our usefulness. 
 
 And fail — to cope with care. 
 
 THE BELLE OF ALLENTOWN. 
 
 O'er Penns3dvania's rugged hills, in quiet Allentown, 
 Many years ago there lived black-eyed Kitty Brown ; 
 And Kitty was the fairest flower to be found in all the dell, 
 And everyone that knew her said she was the village belle. 
 
 There was not a girl for many a mile, each way from Al- 
 lentown, 
 
 One-half as fair, and who had charms, like those of Kitty 
 Brown ; 
 
 The apple blossom and the rose, were painted on her 
 cheek. 
 
 Her heart with goodness overflow^ed, and she would kindly 
 speak. 
 
126 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 To all she met upon the way, whatever their station be, 
 A pleasant greeting- met their ears in sweetest melody ; 
 And many a silent prayer was breathed that the angel 
 
 might come down, 
 And watch the fate and bless the life of the Belle of 
 
 Allentown. 
 
 And many a swain in the old town there, whose heart 
 beat loud and fast. 
 
 When Kitty's graceful step and form would chance be 
 going past ; 
 
 But not a beau in all the town dare go and plainly tell. 
 
 Their love, and try to win the heart of the handsome vil- 
 lage belle. 
 
 A stranger came to the little place — his name was Albert 
 
 Lee — 
 A man of wealth, of lofty mien, but gentle, kind and free ; 
 He kindly took with the village folk, and the people of 
 
 the town, 
 Wondered not that he should fall in love with Kitty 
 
 Brown. 
 
 So, when the little church bell rang the merry marriage 
 
 peal, 
 Many came to see them joined, and many a heart could 
 
 feel 
 Sad to lose so dear a friend they may never see again, 
 And many an honest prayer went up, "God bless them," 
 
 and "Amen." 
 
 For many years they happy lived in their pleasant city 
 
 home. 
 With all to please luxurious taste, for Albert Lee's income 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 127 
 
 Was ample ; he loved his wife, and none could happier be, 
 Than the little belle of Allentown— the wife of Albert Lee. 
 
 And often in the silent hours she would offer up to God, 
 A fervent, deep and thankful prayer for no chastening of 
 
 the rod; 
 Little did she think that soon a cloud would dim the sky. 
 That she a different fate would meet ; her husband doomed 
 
 to die. 
 
 An overwhelming panic came, like the wave of an angry 
 
 sea. 
 And ruined many a worthy man, among them Albert Lee ; 
 It broke his heart and crushed his hopes ; no voice his soul 
 
 could cheer, 
 He pined, and died, was laid away — all in one short, sad 
 
 year. 
 
 Sweet Kitty Brown, kind Mrs. Lee, now a widow lone 
 
 and poor, 
 As time rolled on her friends forsook; the wolf came to 
 
 her door. 
 On poverty's stream she floated down, and drifted with 
 
 the tide. 
 Until she reached the beggar's strand, whose gates are 
 
 open wide. 
 
 And then in the streets of rich New York, each day there 
 
 could be seen, 
 A poor old ]:)eggar v/oman who, with face so wan and lean, 
 Was reaching out a pauper's hand, and plead with tearful 
 
 eye, 
 For a penny from the busy throng, who rudely passed 
 
 her by. 
 
138 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Scarce one there was who paused to look upon that 
 
 wa-inkled face, 
 Or drop a pence into her hand, but on with rapid pace; 
 /Viid if, perchance, some kindly heart, would leave a small 
 
 "good cheer," 
 llcr lips would lisp a soft **God bless'^ — her eye would 
 
 show a tear. 
 
 And as the winter winds would blow, filled with icy sleet, 
 
 She sought a shelter on some stoop — a cold stone step 
 her seat ; 
 
 The angry gales but mocked her prayers, the storms beat 
 ceaseless down, 
 
 And showed no mercy to the wreck of the Belle of Allen- 
 town. 
 
 And as the piercing blasts swept by, and chilled her poor 
 old frame. 
 
 There was no pitying eye to gaze — no tongue to speak her 
 name; 
 
 Yet she in meek submission bowed to cruel fate's decree, 
 
 And longed to hear the angels say — "Come join your Al- 
 bert Lee." 
 
 And was that beggar on the street — Oh, God ! how could 
 
 it be, 
 Sweet "Kitty Brown" of Allentown — the wife of Albert 
 
 Lee? 
 None can tell how life will end — we draw the curtain 
 
 down, 
 And shed a tear for her we loved — the Belle of Allentown. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 129 
 
 LIFE OF PATRICK DELEHANTY IN OLD NEW 
 
 YORK. 
 
 At a time when New York City was small, 
 
 And the most of it laid below City Hall, 
 
 And the old-fashioned packet ships moored at the docks. 
 
 And away up-town there was nothing but rocks. 
 
 And the village of Chelsea was far out of town — 
 'Twas reached by the stages of Sol Kipp and Brown; 
 Then Yorkville and Harlem was far, far away. 
 Where Ryersons' stage made two trips a day. 
 
 From the Old Tree House, corner Bowery and Pell, 
 An old-fashioned tavern, but not a hotel. 
 The place was well known by the sports of the day, 
 But like most of them it has now passed away. 
 
 From the East to the North rivers, above Murray Hill, 
 There was scarce an acre of ground you could till ; 
 There were boulders and rocks and unsightly ravines, 
 The soil was too poor to raise common white beans. 
 
 One could get lots of land, and without any pay ; 
 Just claim it and hold it, and there you could stay. 
 It was said there were spooks and much of it haunted ; 
 'Twas mostly such land that nobody wanted. 
 
 Then a "Paddy" was often seen walking that way, 
 He'd no home of his own and no place to stay ; 
 He took quite a fancy to a lone little spot. 
 He put down a stake and laid claim to the lot. 
 
 Then he went to a store and bought a large box. 
 And fastened it down right between two big rocks; 
 Then he built all around it a wall of rough stone, 
 He then had a home, 'twas entirely his own. 
 
130 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 There he lived in retirement for many a day. 
 Nobody molested him or had aught to say ; 
 And he worked for the city in sweeping the street, 
 He laid up some change and had plenty to eat. 
 
 Then he wrote to brothers and sisters in Cork : 
 ''I've a home of my own up-town in New York ; 
 And sure, faith, 'tis meself that the city employs, 
 And a very nice living your brother enjoys." 
 
 The sons of old Ireland began to come over, 
 Where every one lived on honey and clover ; 
 Where the gold could be gathered from off of the trees. 
 And an Irishman live and do as he please. 
 
 The upper part of New York was not then in blocks, 
 'Twas a wild stretch of waste of briers and rocks ; 
 And the Irish all over these barrens would squat. 
 And each one would swear that he owned his own lot. 
 
 All the land was so poor and encumbered by stone, 
 That many real owners just left it alone; 
 It was not worth the holding, they did not much care. 
 And some of the squatters now had a good share. 
 
 A big brawny fellow came along there one day. 
 He had but one eye but could see a long way; 
 He staked out a spot and then built him a shanty; 
 His name was Patrick O'Brien Delehanty. 
 
 He got married, ere long, to a stout Irish maid. 
 She could handle a pickax, shovel or spade ; 
 And no matter the weather, or what he was at, 
 Faith, Bridget was ready to always help Pat. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 131 
 
 So they soon had the geese that were running in flocks, 
 And goats that were dimbing all over the rocks ; 
 They had pigs of all sizes without any pens, 
 And fat ducks and chickens, both roosters and hens. 
 
 And as time quickly passed they increased all their stock, 
 And bought some land that was nothing but rock; 
 For 'twas Patrick's delight to stand in his own door, 
 To view what he owned, and then wish he had more. 
 
 They had little ones, too — a good many at that — 
 Twas Nellie, and Katie, and Dennis and Pat, 
 There was Johnnie and Mike, and then two or three more^ 
 Who played in the puddles just outside the door. 
 
 And the faithful wife, Bridget, would do all she could. 
 She'd feed the pigs and chickens, and cut all the wood ; 
 She sold all the hens' eggs and the money she saved, 
 For, like Delehanty, 'twas wealth that she craved. 
 
 Now Pat was not silly, he was quite quick and smart. 
 He kept not a horse, but he owned a hand cart ; 
 He was seldom at home, but was most always out, 
 And dragging his cart on his long daily route. 
 
 Some folks in big houses, there was not then a flat. 
 Would save all their swill and cold victuals for Pat; 
 And so Pat with his cart would go every day, 
 And take all the swill and cold victuals away. 
 
 As the young Delehantys grew up big and stout, 
 They purchased more carts and extended their route. 
 To gather the victuals and drag home a load. 
 To their shanty near by the Bloomingdale Road. 
 
132 BEAUTIES OF UFE 
 
 The old woman and girls would sort it all over, 
 And live on the best — 'twas honey and clover; 
 There was plenty for the old man, Dennis and Pat, 
 And enough to make all the children grow fat. 
 
 And enough of good swill to feed each little pig, 
 And it did not take long for all to grow big; 
 And the hair of the goats were as glossy as silk, 
 And they filled the tin pans with beautiful milk. 
 
 Now Bridget and the girls were each of them big. 
 
 And plump and as fat as their prettiest pig; 
 
 They had eyes sparkling bright, their complexion was 
 
 fair, 
 But each one of them had the brightest red hair. 
 
 And they sold tons of chickens, and ducks and fat geese. 
 And loads of big hogs, and soap fat and grease ; 
 They were always as busy as bees at the shanty, 
 No lazy hairs grew on one Delehanty. 
 
 Sure their hens would lay eggs most all the year round, 
 And their ducks were so fat they'd lie on the ground ; 
 And the geese made the feathers which brought in the 
 
 gold. 
 And many a bag of them Bridget had sold. 
 
 And it cost them but little to live at the best ; 
 Every cent that they could get they'd quickly invest, 
 In the land which joined theirs, for a very long way — 
 'Twas Patrick who knew that in time it would pay. 
 
 The city was growing very fast all the while, 
 Delehanty knew this, and often would smile, 
 For the avenue pointed right straight to his door, 
 And the land being cheap he often bought more. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 133 
 
 Then new streets were laid out, houses built up by blocks, 
 Encroaching quite fast on the squatters and rocks; 
 They would reach his own shanty, and that he well knew — 
 He saw more with one eye than many with two. 
 
 So he called to his Bridget one fine summer day: 
 *'Now, listen, me darlint, to what I would say; 
 We will move out of this in less than two years, 
 And 'tis your Patrick will shed but few tears. 
 
 "Land rises each moment, I'll be rich as a Jew, 
 And we'll have a fine house on some avenue; 
 The young Delehantys will all go to college, 
 Back home they will come with their heads full of knowl- 
 edge." 
 
 Then the times being good Delehanty soon sold. 
 Enough land to bring him a million of gold ; 
 And his spirits rose up to a very high pitch. 
 He felt and he knew 'twas himself that was rich. 
 
 Avenues were laid out and new streets were cut through, 
 Delehanty's rough lands were cut right in two ; 
 He was made very rich from^ the lots which he sold, 
 And the balance was worth their full weight in gold. 
 
 Then they moved across town in a house of brown stone — 
 Of course, by their neighbors entirely unknown — 
 Then they bought them nice dresses, house goods and all 
 
 that, 
 And stylish new clothes for Dennis and Pat. 
 
 Then dressmakers and tailors a rich harvest had, 
 And the heart of Pat Delehanty was glad ; 
 And he paid all his bills with no sign of a sigh, 
 And he bought for himself a handsome glass eye. 
 
134 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And diamonds for Bridget, and a cloak of sealskin, 
 And a handsome landau that she could ride in ; 
 And a team of black bays that would match at the pole, 
 And hired a big coachman as black as a coal. 
 
 They had butlers and cooks, and chambermaids, too, 
 Then the daughters each one had nothing to do, 
 But to learn to go shopping and to study the style, 
 And help make a hole in their father's big pile. 
 
 One day a green cousin who was fresh from the bogs, 
 With a Kilkenny coat and real Irish clogs, 
 Came to pay them a visit — to make quite a stay — 
 He was from Castle Garden that very same day. 
 
 He came over to see where his cousin Pat staid ; 
 He'd heard of the wonderful fortune he'd made. 
 He would write to his friends over home, and would say: 
 "Every one of you come, and come right away." 
 
 Delehanty then turned very red in the face, 
 And whispered to Bridget, " 'Twould be a disgrace, 
 To have their poor kin from old Ireland come here," 
 And Bridget, the first time in her life, shed a tear. 
 
 And the family gathered together that night, 
 
 To study a plan to avoid such a plight; 
 
 Should their kindred come here it would kill all their joys, 
 
 Disgrace all their daughters and shame all the boys. 
 
 Then said Pat Delehanty, *T know what I'll do, 
 I will buy a nice home up on Fifth Avenue ; 
 The best one I can find and a long way up-town. 
 The name Delehanty I'll change into Brown. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 135 
 
 *'And my name shall be John, now that's understood, 
 And Catherine for Bridget will sound pretty good; 
 Then I'll have a name plate with 'John Brown' on the door, 
 My cousins will not find me out any more/' 
 
 And then they soon moved into a beautiful house, 
 
 And for a long time they were still as a mouse ; 
 
 They were training themselves to the new name of Brown, 
 
 Their blunders and antics would do for a clown. 
 
 They all dyed their hair black and they powdered their 
 
 face, 
 And poor Delehanty felt much out of place ; 
 But he was bound to evade the hosts of poor kin — 
 So he shaved off his whiskers close down to his chin. 
 
 And none of his neighbors from the old shanty town. 
 Would know Delehanty in Mr. John Brown; 
 And then Catherine, his wife — from being housed in — 
 Began to grow pale and was getting quite thin. 
 
 The daughters were sent to a fashionable school, 
 Where etiquette, music and French was the rule ; 
 They were used very kind by the grand ladies there, 
 But often were envied their pretty black hair. 
 
 When at last they came home they were cultured and 
 
 bright, 
 Could play the piano and poems recite ; 
 They could entertain friends with the grace of a queen, 
 As none more charming girls than the Browns could be 
 
 seen. 
 
 And then old Mrs. Brown was so proud of her girls, 
 That she loaded them down with diamonds and pearls ; 
 And she gave big parties again and again, 
 ^Twas only the best they would entertain. 
 
136 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Then the girls took a notion to travel abroad, 
 To marry, quite likely, a count or a lord ; 
 To see all the wonders, and with noblemen talk, 
 Then be ferried back again to New York. 
 
 So they all began hunting the city around. 
 
 And at last a suitable maiden was found, 
 
 Who could speak many tongues, and was chaste and pure, 
 
 Just suited to go with the girls on their tour. 
 
 So the outfit completed and the trunks all packed. 
 At last they were ready, and their brains well racked; 
 The old man looked on, but had little to say, 
 For he thought of the bills which he had to pay. 
 
 And the rooms on the steamer were quickly engaged, 
 And soon the gay party on board were all caged ; 
 And the vessel was ploughing her way through the sea, 
 And the girls were as happy as happy could be. 
 
 Then to Glasgow and London, and down through the 
 
 Isles, 
 Quite often bewitched by attention and smiles ; 
 For a wealthy man's daughter when traveling abroad, 
 Makes a good target for a count or a lord. 
 
 And then over to Paris, they traveled through France, 
 Where Americans all are known at a glance ; 
 Where manners are soft, and the fashions so gay, 
 Tis natural for many to linger and stay. 
 
 And down over the Rhine, through the old land of song. 
 Where the slaves of fashion in multitudes throng, 
 Where everyone sings of the old Fatherland, 
 Inspired by scenes bewitchingly grand. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 137 
 
 And at last to old Ireland and "Erin go Bragh/^ 
 
 To frolic and ride in a real jaunting car; 
 
 Down through the old country, through the very same 
 
 town, 
 Before Delehanty was changed to a Brown. 
 
 He had played with the laddies and learned to dance jigs, 
 To raise the fat chickens, and geese, ducks and pigs 
 And went with his daddy to the big county fair, 
 When an Irishman all in his glory was there. 
 
 There were some Delehantys still in the old town. 
 And many of them saw the sweet Misses Brown 
 With their black wavy hair and their transparent skin, 
 Not dreaming these beauties were some of their kin. 
 
 They saw all in old Ireland there was to be seen. 
 The bogs and the castles and all in between ; 
 From Donegal down to where the Skibbereen ends, 
 They stopped at each place and they made many friends. 
 
 Then good-by to old Ireland and all her green isles, 
 Good-by to kind friends whose good wishes and smiles. 
 Each followed them ever far away from the shore. 
 While they sang the old song of ''Erin go Bragh." 
 
 When the girls returned home and their journey was done, 
 The letters came over almost by the ton ; 
 From the bankers and merchants, the duke and the lord, 
 And acquaintances made while traveling abroad. 
 
 Then one was soon married to the son of an earl, 
 And her parents thought her a fortunate girl ; 
 To be married in rank and abundance of wealth, 
 That she never need labor and injure her health. 
 
138 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Mrs. Brown she felt sad on that bright wedding day, 
 Her first married daughter was going away ; 
 Many strange forebodings and a feeling within, 
 Whispered : her troubles were about to begin. 
 
 But she kept up good cheer, and she filled her place well; 
 The wedding was grand, full of fashion and swell ; 
 There were many young girls, the elite of the town, 
 Fairly envied the joy of Miss Nellie Brown. 
 
 And the big steamer sailed on the same afternoon, 
 Which carried the pair on their sweet honeymoon ; 
 Loads of flowers and presents were sent to the bride, 
 Who would live like a queen on the other side. 
 
 ^Twas the wish and the prayers of old Mr. Brown, 
 That his boys should all equal the best in the town; 
 So he sent them to college, where each one could learn, 
 And be polished gentlemen on their return. 
 
 When they came home from college both genteel and tall, 
 
 They talked of athletics, of cricket and ball ; 
 
 And of rowing and sculling, of poker and pool, 
 
 And things that's not taught in a common high school. 
 
 There was much Mr. Brown could not well understand, 
 Which he thought meant something both noble and grand ; 
 Twas a full, and a flush, and three of a kind, 
 And of somebody's ante going it blind. 
 
 And the boys very soon became men of the town, 
 And well known as the sons of wealthy old Brown ; 
 With plenty of money and nothinj^ to do, 
 But follow the fashions and learn something new. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 139 
 
 Very soon they had friends they could count by the score, 
 Almost every hour they seemed to gain more; 
 And a Hfe of gilt edge and sweet pleasure was theirs, 
 They were strangers as yet to its treacherous snares. 
 
 Mr. Brown overrated his boys, every one, 
 Just as many a doting father has done. 
 They were all very wise, so he firmly believed, 
 But just wise enough to be often deceived. 
 
 By the cunning and tricks of some bad scheming men. 
 Who seek only to plunder, to rob, and then — 
 Kick out the poor victims who were honest and pure. 
 To help swell the ranks of the lowly and poor. 
 
 The boys coaxed the old father to sell off his blocks, 
 
 And to let them invest the proceeds in stocks ; 
 
 It would double tenfold in a very short time, 
 
 And old Mr. Brown thought the scheme was sublime. 
 
 And he said to himself, "Well, my boys are all smart, 
 They want to make money; I'll give them a start; 
 I will grant them their wish, sure they know what is best, 
 I'll give them what money they want to invest. 
 
 "But ril wait a short while — for indeed pretty soon, 
 
 Miss Katie will marry a royal dragoon; 
 
 And will go to the Indies, far over the sea, 
 
 Only one daughter then will be home with me." 
 
 Then the wedding took place, and in less than a year. 
 The last one was claimed by a rich Irish peer, 
 Whom she'd met at a banquet while over in Cork, 
 And now she'd soon leave her old home in New York. 
 
140 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 When the daughters were married and all gone away, 
 
 The old folks had nothing to do but to pray — 
 
 That the saints might go with them, and keep them in 
 
 peace, 
 Their joys and their fortunes forever increase. 
 
 And then their affections were all placed on the boys, 
 Just like little children bestow on their toys ; 
 And the boys they were spending more money each day. 
 Every dollar of which old Brown had to pay. 
 
 As the swift fleeting hours hastened by, day by day, 
 The Brown boys were going in the same old way; 
 In the well-beaten trail of the hordes of the past, 
 They were killing themselves to maintain their caste. 
 
 Making heavy drafts daily on Mr. Brown's wealth. 
 To squander away with their strength and their health ; 
 And to all their weak points their old father was blind, 
 For he could not see they were going behind. 
 
 And he sold off his lots and he gave them his gold. 
 And that was the last — and the tale is soon told. 
 For the nets had been set and the boys were drawn in 
 A whirlpool of gambling, dishonor and sin. 
 
 But the whole truth at last came to old Mr. Brown, 
 And with sorrow and shame his head was bowed down ; 
 By his own dearest boys whom he always believed, 
 He'd been cheated and wronged and badly deceived. 
 
 And his poor heart it gave way to the terrible shock, 
 He had now but one lot instead of a block ; 
 And that was full mortgaged for all it was worth. 
 He prayed to be swallowed right up by the earth. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 141 
 
 And his mind would go back, and the scalding tears start, 
 V/hen he thought of his goats and his old hiind cart, 
 Which he often dragged home with cold victuals and 
 
 swill, 
 To his humble low home beyond Murray Hill. 
 
 In visions and dreams he could see his old shanty, 
 While voices would call to Pat Delehanty ; 
 He would talk in his sleep, and the only refrain, 
 Was : "Oh ! Give me back the old shanty again/^ 
 
 And the poor man he went away out of his head, 
 He turned pale, and was sick, and took to his bed; 
 And in his delirium would motion to write. 
 Which filled his poor wife with a terrible fright. 
 
 She carefully one day put a pen in his hand, 
 
 And placed ink and paper upon a low stand ; 
 
 Then she raised him in bed and she asked him to write, 
 
 And his color came back and his eyes looked bright. 
 
 Then he wrote off some lines and the letters were true, 
 He folded the manuscript when he was through ; 
 Said : ''Keep it, dear wife, 'tis my own epitaph, 
 Though it speaks a great deal it don't tell half.'^ 
 
 The color forsook him, he was choking with pain, 
 And dropped his head back on the pillow again ; 
 His wife tried to listen to the words which he said, 
 But his lips moved not, Delehanty was dead. 
 
 Then poor Bridget herself she was left all alone. 
 And with what there was left she bought a tombstone, 
 For her husband and self, for she said when she died. 
 She hoped they would lay her close down by his side. 
 
142 * BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 But she died long ago, and her wish it was done. 
 The graves are so close they're oft taken for one ; 
 And there's many a one who'd have had a good laugh, 
 To read poor Dlehanty's own epitaph. 
 
 ^ ^K ^: Jj? >li ^ ^ 
 
 'TIere lies Pat Delehanty, this life he passed through. 
 Was poor at the start, but got rich as a Jew; 
 Then he bought a nice house in the best of the town, 
 And he changed his old name to that of John Brown. 
 
 "But his own boys, they robbed him and spent all his 
 
 wealth, 
 That broke his poor heart and he died of bad health; 
 The saddest misfortunes he was called to endure, 
 And his happiest days were when he was poor.^' 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 Affectionately inscribed to D. L. Wing, Vassar Home, 
 Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 
 
 The past years hastened by, and I have grown old, 
 
 Like a dream the truth comes to me; 
 The days I have spent are like waves which have rolled, 
 
 To the distant shores of the sea. 
 
 Life has not the charm which it had long ago. 
 
 When young I was supple of limb ; 
 The cup of my joy would at times overflow. 
 
 And was always full to the brim. 
 
 I have mounted the crest in prosperous times, 
 I have sailed when the waters were still ; 
 
 With scarcely a thought of the dollars and dimes. 
 For plenty was in the old till. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 143 
 
 I've received the warm love of those who were dear, 
 
 Kind wishes of neighbor and friend; 
 But they all went away — there's none of them near. 
 
 They await me down at the end. 
 
 I have basked in the light of fortune's sweet smile. 
 
 Which I thought would always abide ; 
 Not thinking, perhaps, in a very short while. 
 
 There could be a change in the tide. 
 
 But the tides can recede, and when they run low, 
 
 The richest of bottoms will drain ; 
 And that which came in on the flood long ago, 
 
 May never come to us again. 
 
 I ascended life's hill, and reached the apex. 
 
 The way had been sprinkled with gold ; 
 I glanced down beyond, and I saw many wrecks, 
 
 Of men, who had lived and grown old. 
 
 I scanned them all closely in trying to find 
 
 Old friends of an earlier day, 
 They'd gone from the ranks and were left far behind, 
 
 Somewhere on life's rugged highway. 
 
 I thought I would like to remain at this place, 
 
 But old Father Time, grim and gay, 
 Cried, *'Move on — move on, and quicken your pace, 
 
 For none other but I can stay.^' 
 
 I cast my eyes back with a fond, lingering look. 
 
 As I thought of many a friend ; 
 Then like opening the leaves of a new-found book, 
 
 I began at once to descend. 
 
144 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And now I am close to the foot of the hill, 
 With life's sun low down in the west; 
 
 Fm watching and waiting, and shall be, until 
 I am bidden to go to my rest. 
 
 This dear charming place, which I cherish and love, 
 
 Suggests this thought every day ; 
 'Tis closely akin to that sweet home above, 
 
 In the land of Eternal Day. 
 
 ril keep a warm heart and a smile on the face, 
 
 And chant all my prayers ev'ry day; 
 And strengthen my hope with the aid of God's grace, 
 
 Till the mists and the clouds roll away. 
 
 When the Gates stand ajar for me to pass through. 
 
 The angels a welcome will sing. 
 To the happy old man who will be born anew, 
 
 And whose name will still remain "Wing.'' 
 
 A RETROSPECT OF COMPANY "A," HAMIL- 
 TON RIFLES. 
 
 Affectionately Inscribed to Capt. Geo. B. Roe, 
 Flushing, N. Y. 
 
 January, 1893. 
 
 'Tis many years ago, dear John, that you and I were 
 young, 
 
 We often met together, then, for frolic and for fun, 
 
 With all the "Hamilton Rifle" boys, in dear old Com- 
 pany A, 
 
 Who often from the gunhouse marched, through Bridge 
 Street and Broadway, 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 145 
 
 In neat and handsome uniforms and waving plumes of 
 
 blue, 
 And bell-crowned hats, all richly trimmed, which weighed 
 
 a pound or two ; 
 Proud and graceful each would step, with a rifle in his 
 
 hand, 
 To sweetest music ever heard by Shelton's famous band. 
 
 And as the clear strains floated out upon the balmy air, 
 The boys were cheered along the way by men and maidens 
 
 fair, 
 And every pace was just as true as if measured with a 
 
 rule, 
 And won the approbation of the pupils at the school. 
 
 You remember, John, how oft we marched to Carolina 
 Hall? 
 
 Where the genial, generous host opened his doors to all ; 
 
 And wines most rare, and viands choice, were free as flow- 
 ers in May, 
 
 All these — and higher compliments — were tendered Com- 
 pany A. 
 
 And, then, do you remember, too, the "Rifle's" Social 
 Balls, 
 
 When music, merriment and mirth, would fill the old- 
 time halls ; 
 
 And soldiers with their sweethearts trip the light fantastic 
 toe. 
 
 And the whole throng drink a bumper to the health of 
 Captain Roe? 
 
 The guests from far and near who shared those gay and 
 
 festive joys. 
 Always seemed the happiest when mingling with the boys ; 
 
146 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 The hours of mirth went flitting by like a mist before the 
 
 moon, 
 And the wee small hours, and time to part, always came 
 
 too soon. 
 
 The Glee Club, John, who sang so sweet, was always in 
 
 demand, 
 And the music they so often gave, alternate with the band. 
 To memory now is just as fresh as green leaves on a tree, 
 And in my dreams I often hear their strains of melody. 
 
 The dear old songs they used to sing, sometimes most 
 
 all night long. 
 And everybody in the town would listen to their song; 
 I try, at times, to sing them now — there's a tremor in the 
 
 tone. 
 The weighty truth comes home to me, that I'm almost 
 
 alone. 
 
 I miss the other voices, John, and all the different parts, 
 I miss their smiling faces, too — those ^oys with great 
 
 big hearts ; 
 I miss the magic of the drill, the music of the band. 
 The elbow-touch at the left — the grip of a comrade's hand. 
 
 There's not a happier band of men that live on earth to- 
 day, 
 
 Than those who wore the uniform of gallant Company A ; 
 
 And if each one could be recalled, he would to strangers 
 tell. 
 
 Of many happy hours he spent at old '* Saint Ronan's 
 Well." 
 
 You remember, too, the old gunhouse, where night after 
 night 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 147 
 
 We went to drill and drill again, to learn a movement 
 
 right, 
 And where beloved Captain Roe would meet with one 
 
 or ten, 
 To teach us to be soldier-like — to teach us to be men. 
 
 His keen eye glanced along the line, when all was going 
 
 well, 
 And when our Captain Roe was pleased, the boys could 
 
 always t Jl ; 
 His orders prompt, his tones were clear, and dignified his 
 
 pace. 
 And the kindest heart the boys e'er knew, beamed through 
 
 his genial face. 
 
 When Company A was at its best and in its neatest trim, 
 The heart of every man went out with gratitude to him ; 
 For he was faithful, kind and true, and generous to a 
 
 fault, 
 And when the heavy drafts were made he never called a 
 
 "Halt." 
 
 It taxed his patience and his time, it taxed his little store, 
 But all was given cheerfully, he was willing to give more ; 
 And all the recompense he had for sacrifices made, 
 Were the honors paid to his command, when on a dress 
 parade. 
 
 T visit, John, the dear old town, and go from street to 
 
 street. 
 There's scarce an old-time face I see, but strangers whom 
 
 I meet; 
 And if, perchance, a few I see, who once were young and 
 
 gay, 
 They are perhaps some bended forms, with locks long 
 
 since grown gray. 
 
148 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And when we speak of olden times, when absent ones 
 were here — 
 
 There's a pause — and, at the good-by, perhaps a silent tear. 
 
 But, John — pray tell me, do you know — where are the 
 boys to-day, 
 
 Who once could fill their stations well in dear old Com- 
 pany A? 
 
 A number, Ben, have left the town, to seek a better place, 
 
 And some have been away so long, of them I've lost all 
 trace ; 
 
 And if alive, where'er they be — though many miles 
 away — 
 
 They'll not forget the happy hours they spent in Com- 
 pany A. 
 
 There were some who left our village fair, and never to 
 
 return, 
 And hearts are here to-day, dear Ben, who for the absent 
 
 yearn ; 
 Their country called them, do you know? and they died 
 
 by gun or sword, 
 They've gone where all the good must go, to reap a just 
 
 reward. 
 
 There's a place, dear Ben, beyond ''Long Lane," it was a 
 
 poor old farm 
 With scarce a tree, or shrub or bush, to give to it a charm ; 
 'Tis a cemetery now, where trees and shrubs and flowers 
 
 ever grow. 
 And 'tis there a full platoon, at least, sleep beneath the 
 
 snow. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 149 
 
 The uniforms and plumes of blue, which looked so bright 
 
 and gay, 
 Were claimed by moth and rust long since, and passed into 
 
 decay ; 
 The bell-crowned hats, with trimmings rich, were left to 
 
 mold and must, 
 And, doubtless, most have found their way back to earth 
 
 and dust. 
 
 And voices that once loudly cheered, when all with joy 
 
 were flushed. 
 Have ceased their praises long ago — and are forever 
 
 hushed ; 
 And eyes which gazed upon the scenes which made their 
 
 warm hearts thrill, 
 Are sightless now — in the long, last sleep — motionless 
 
 and still. 
 
 You and I — and a few more, Ben — are the only ones now 
 here. 
 
 We both were in the front rank, once, but now are in the 
 rear; 
 
 We will not forget the lessons learned back in life's young 
 day. 
 
 And the genial fellowship that graced the ranks of Com- 
 pany A. 
 
 LINES TO OUR DEAR WALLIE. 
 
 As we look back upon your life, 
 
 No blemish can we see, 
 No sin, nor evil, jealous strife, 
 
 But perfect — purity. 
 
150 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Your wisdom was profound, for youth; 
 
 Your language chaste and pure ; 
 Your words were all inlaid with truth. 
 
 You were patient to endure. 
 
 Your virtues will forever shine 
 As bright as the evening star; 
 
 Oh! would such lovely traits were mine, 
 I would richer be — by far. 
 
 We loved to have you always near, 
 And often have we thought, 
 
 Your presence purified the sphere. 
 And sweetest comfort brought. 
 
 We could not look upon your face 
 
 Without a thrill of joy, 
 For no dishonor — no disgrace — 
 
 Had come to you, our boy. 
 
 Just verging into young manhood. 
 
 And years of usefulness, 
 Ambitious for the true and good, 
 
 Accepting nothing less. 
 
 Your brothers now in manhood years, 
 Long since have left our home ; 
 
 They come with sympathizing tears — 
 We do not weep alone. 
 
 Your face, sometimes, I almost see. 
 Your presence seems quite near ; 
 
 But little tear drops — silently 
 Say no — you are not here. 
 
 I hear your footsteps on the stair, 
 And almost feel your breath ; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 151 
 
 I gaze — and, oh ! you are not there — 
 But sleeping still, in death. 
 
 And, then ! my eyes fill up with tears, 
 
 My heart beats loud and fast, 
 As I recall the days and years 
 
 Now numbered with the past. 
 
 Older heads than yours might bow, 
 
 To reverence much you said. 
 Whose meaning lingers — even now, 
 
 Though you — sleep with the dead. 
 
 Obedient to the Master's will, 
 
 Faithful in your prayers. 
 Often wearied, faithful still. 
 
 Never tired of cares. 
 
 Faithful to your brothers — all 
 
 Your love for them was deep; 
 Faithful to stern duty's call, 
 
 And promises — to keep. 
 
 Faithful to your father's wish. 
 
 And to your mother's love ; 
 Faithful, even to the last. 
 
 Faithful still — above. 
 
 We grieve for you — the greatest 
 
 Loss, which ever had befel 
 Our lot — and oh ! the painful cross — 
 
 None but we can tell. 
 
 We miss you every hour each day. 
 
 We know you would be here; 
 But angels beckoned you away 
 
 To fill a higher sphere. 
 
152 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 You cannot come to us, 'tis true, 
 No boat comes from that shore, 
 
 But we may come, our boy, to you, 
 To be for evermore. 
 
 I 
 
 THE POETS HOME. 
 Respectfully inscribed to Bloodgood H. Cutter, 
 
 On a green-crested hill near the Long Island Sound, 
 
 Overlooking the landscape fair 
 And the shores down below, where the rock weeds grow, 
 
 Under Nature's perpetual care — 
 
 An old homestead stands amid bowers of shade. 
 
 Near by is a patchwork of farms, 
 Which glimmer and gleam, in the morning sunbeam, 
 
 While Nature reveals her sweet charms. 
 
 From the crown of the hill, in the distance dim, 
 
 Graceful wooded outlines are seen ; 
 And acres untold, like bracelets of gold, 
 
 Clasp all which lies in between. 
 
 The cherry trees down by the mossy stone wall 
 
 Are almost lifeless and bare, 
 And like the old well — no person can tell 
 
 How long they have been standing there. 
 
 The mansion itself, the barns and the sheds, 
 
 And the gateways leading thereto, 
 Show signs of decay, and have seen their best day 
 
 Since they were bright-colored and new. 
 
 And here lives tlie farmer, the poet and bard, 
 Amid relics and curious things 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 153 
 
 From every known clime, through ages of time, 
 To which he lovingly clings. 
 
 And here in the lap of Nature's romance 
 
 He lives almost a recluse, 
 To enjoy the sweet breeze and the visions he sees 
 
 While in his poetical muse. 
 
 Though the crutches and cane have come to his aid, 
 
 His face is rosy and fair; 
 And his mind just as clear as the June atmosphere, 
 
 In spite of the frost in his hair. 
 
 He loves dearly to tell of his travels abroad, 
 
 With a voice melodious and clear, 
 And recite to his friends, who pleasantly lends 
 
 An attentive, and listening ear. 
 
 His time is much given to musing and rhyme, 
 In which there's a thread of pure gold ; 
 
 And the voice of his pen speaks plainly to men, 
 Although he is feeble and old. 
 
 His hopes for the future he anchored long since — 
 
 His life's guiding star has been truth; 
 And now he awaits to enter the gates, 
 
 To rejoin the wife of his youth. 
 
 TOM SMITH'S AMBITION. 
 
 Tom Smith, that lived on the old village road. 
 Was a wonderful man, and he knew it; 
 
 He could lift many pounds, or carry a load. 
 For he had the ambition to do it. 
 
 No matter what task would fall to his lot, 
 He had his own way to get through it ; 
 
154 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 He managed to strike — while the iron was hot, 
 And he had the ambition to do it. 
 
 He was prompt at the polls to put in his vote, 
 He was a prominent man at the fair, 
 
 And nothing transpired which was worthy of note, 
 But "Uncle Tom" was quite sure to be there. 
 
 Should it chance that a story of scandal was told, 
 Tom Smith was the first one that knew it ; 
 
 He could charm the ears of the young and the old, 
 He had just the ambition to do it. 
 
 His peas and potatoes, his beans and his corn. 
 Were the largest and the best to be found. 
 
 And no man in the town was ever yet born, 
 Who could surpass him in tilling the ground. 
 
 And he seemed to have everything written down, 
 Or had learned it by heart, for he knew it; 
 
 He could talk to a child, or govern a town, 
 His ambition would help him to do it. 
 
 One day he was sick — people thought he would die ; 
 
 He was spunky — and so — he lived through it, 
 And oft used to tell — with a wink of his eye. 
 
 How he had the ambition to do it. 
 
 But at last the messenger knocked at his door, 
 And he knew there was deep meaning in it ; 
 
 So he drew himself up — and dropped on the floor, 
 And he died in less than a minute. 
 
 When the story was told how quickly he died, 
 It was easy enough to see through it, 
 
 For he did it like everything else that he tried, 
 And he had the ambition to do it. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 155 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 On the Anniversary of her Birthday. 
 
 When one can look back o'er the years which have flov/i- 
 
 Like a bird, on its feathery wing; 
 And can consciously reap that which they have sown, 
 
 In the days of life's budding young spring. 
 
 Sweet, indeed, it must be, to one whose whole life, 
 Hath received neither blemish nor stain. 
 
 While passing through scenes of unenviable strife, 
 They have never caused anyone pain. 
 
 And whose unselfish love and constant good will, 
 
 Have illumined their pathway along, 
 Until it appears as a light on a hill. 
 
 And as sweet as the echo of song. 
 
 Such virtues are gems which embellish a crown, 
 
 More splendid than diamonds or gold; 
 Adorning a life till its sun goes down. 
 
 And its warm friendly touch hath grown cold. 
 
 There is one happy day in each passing year. 
 
 When — fond memory loves to recall 
 The things of the past, which we treasure so dear. 
 
 And of loved ones — the nearest of all. 
 
 'Tis our own natal day, for it usually brings 
 
 The kind wishes of friends and of kin, 
 Encased in affection, which tune the heart strings, 
 
 Till sweet harmony reigneth within. 
 
156 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 May this day, which cometh to you in its course, 
 
 Help the joys of your life to increase, 
 And bring a sweet message from that high source, 
 
 Of all consolation and peace. 
 
 May your pathway be strewn with friendships sweet 
 flowers, 
 
 And perfumed with the essence of love; 
 And may you receive through all of your hours, 
 
 Benedictions from heaven above. 
 
 A BATCH OF CRAZY FACTS; OR, THIS WON- 
 DERFUL AGE. 
 
 Composed and read at a Royal Arcanum Entertainment. 
 
 In this wonderful age 
 
 The old-fashioned stage 
 Is long out of use and forgotten ; 
 
 The stage horse is dead, 
 
 And now, in his stead, 
 Locomotives do most of the trotting. 
 
 For speed is the cry 
 
 And many would fly 
 Were it not for the trouble of lighting. 
 
 The machme is begun, 
 
 And when it is done 
 Why, then, we can all go *'a-kiteing." 
 
 How oft, in these times, 
 
 The worst sort of crimes, 
 Right near our own door are committed; 
 
 The rascals are smart, 
 
 They get the first start. 
 And the officers they are outwitted. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 157 
 
 And the lightning train, 
 
 That is run for gain, 
 It hastens them over the border; 
 
 Then newspapers tell 
 
 Of great men who fell, 
 In spite of the law and good order. 
 
 Some editors choose 
 
 The filthiest news. 
 To fill up the daily and weekly; 
 
 It seems that each try 
 
 To tell the best lie. 
 And the readers believe it so meekly. 
 
 We're oft led astray 
 
 By what newspapers say, 
 Of events on both land and water; 
 
 And often deceived, 
 
 For sure, we believed 
 The yarns of some silly reporter. 
 
 In these wonderful times 
 
 The wickedest crimes, 
 Are so common, they no more alarm us; 
 
 We don't look behind. 
 
 And sure, we don't mind. 
 So long as these crimes never harm us. 
 
 There's hardly a court 
 
 But is easily bought 
 By the "boodle" some thief has been stealing; 
 
 We oft think it queer, 
 
 That men will get clear 
 Of crimes that shock our best feeling. 
 
 In these wonderful days 
 Of fashion and craze, 
 
158 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 That rapidly follow each other; 
 
 The boys are all men — 
 
 Nine girls out of ten, 
 Know very much more than their mother. 
 
 They learn how to cook 
 
 From some patent book, 
 And "take it all in" by light reading; 
 
 But few of them know 
 
 How to mix up the dough, 
 Or that bread is made good by the kneading. 
 
 Feathers and frills 
 
 And delicate ills 
 Belong, in these days, to the fashion; 
 
 An affectionate hug 
 
 To an English pug 
 Amounts almost to a passion. 
 
 Young men, knowing this. 
 
 And envying the bliss, 
 They part their hair straight in the middle ; 
 
 And trim up their ''mug^' 
 
 To look like a pug — 
 But often to play second fiddle. 
 
 There's one thing that pays 
 
 In these modern days — 
 'Tis very soon after the marriage; 
 
 The Irish-French nurse 
 
 Have claims on the purse, 
 In addition to a nice baby carriage. 
 
 For babies, you know, 
 
 Are made up to show 
 On the streets by these imported ladies; 
 
 Who all look alike — 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 159 
 
 Some day they may "strike," 
 Then, what will become of the babies ? 
 
 The taste for high art 
 
 Has a place in each heart. 
 All over the land and the nation; 
 
 Queen Anne and Eastlake, 
 
 They both "take the cake,*' 
 In the matter of home decoration. 
 
 The ugliest things 
 
 A Chinaman brings. 
 Are just too lovely — "a daisy" — 
 
 Anything from Japan, 
 
 Be it only a man, 
 Sets some of our ladies half crazy. 
 
 The boys are worse yet; 
 
 A cheap cigarette 
 Is the height of their youthful ambition; 
 
 And what is more queer, 
 
 They learn to drink beer. 
 And get in a shaky condition. 
 
 They cunningly shirk 
 
 Honest labor and work, 
 And think it disgraceful to do it; 
 
 But a new slang phrase. 
 
 In these wonderful days, 
 How quickly they will "tumble to it.'* 
 
 We often hear say 
 
 "It will be a cold day, 
 When I get left, don't forget it ; 
 
 Well, now I should smile, 
 
 You may go your whole pile 
 And win every time, should you bet it.*' 
 
160 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Say, can you "catch on" 
 
 The gist of my song-, 
 But don't think I am giving you *'taffy"; 
 
 For it's ''chestnuts'' you'll get, 
 
 So, "sonny, don't fret," 
 For what's the odds 'long as you're happy? 
 
 And this is the age 
 
 Of the bicycle rage, 
 I wonder what next is to follow? 
 
 The lawn tennis fun 
 
 Has a wonderful run 
 By the dudes, whose heads are quite hollow. 
 
 A game of baseball 
 
 Will oftentimes call 
 Large crowds, who think it quite clever ; 
 
 To see the boys strain 
 
 Low honors to gain. 
 And get marks they may carry forever. 
 
 In old-fashioned times 
 
 When there were less crimes, 
 And saint was thought better than sinner; 
 
 At twelve until one 
 
 The day was half done, 
 And men would then have their dinner. 
 
 But now they take lunch — 
 
 A sandwich and punch. 
 Or a bite and some kind of toddy; 
 
 Have dinner at night — 
 
 I suppose it is right. 
 For 'tis practiced by most everybody. 
 
 Men slept during night, 
 Were up at daylight 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 161 
 
 And off to their work in good season; 
 
 Then no ruling powers 
 
 To dictate short hours, 
 And incite men to riot and treason. 
 
 And no unions then 
 
 To bother the men, 
 And take half their earnings for booty; 
 
 For workmen were free, 
 
 On both land and sea. 
 To do what they thought was their duty. 
 
 Of mercantile goods 
 
 It was well understood. 
 Merchants could buy what they wanted; 
 
 And not be annoyed, 
 
 And often decoyed. 
 Or by the bold drummer be haunted. 
 
 But now a gripsack. 
 
 Leather bags and a hack 
 Are as thick as flies in midsummer; 
 
 And merchants are bored. 
 
 Their warerooms are stored. 
 Through the wily intrigues of a drummer. 
 
 Ringlets and curls 
 
 Were worn by the girls 
 When my manhood was at its beginning; 
 
 And a young lady's hair, 
 
 Curled nicely with care, 
 Had a charm most bewitching and winning. 
 
 But now the dear girls 
 
 Destroy all the curls 
 That should be gracefully hanging; 
 
162 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 They cut them crosswise, 
 Just over their eyes, 
 And their hair has a fashionable banging. 
 
 When our country was new 
 
 And ladies were few, 
 Housekeeping was woman's first duty; 
 
 And the one that did best, 
 
 Outshone all the rest. 
 And her usefulness made her a beauty. 
 
 But work is too low — 
 
 'Tis not "nice'' to sew, 
 So machines are made to do stitching; 
 
 And, just like a fool. 
 
 Folks obey the "home rule" 
 Of Bridget, the queen of the kitchen. 
 
 How many dear wives 
 
 With unhappy lives, 
 Whose trouble seem overwhelming and sweeping ; 
 
 It would not be thus. 
 
 Nor trouble, nor fuss. 
 Could they manage to do their housekeeping. 
 
 But their houses are run 
 
 And work but half done 
 By the maids from over the water, 
 
 Who, having full sway. 
 
 Do things their own way. 
 And rule both the mother and daughter. 
 
 There are so many ways 
 To get up a craze. 
 But please don't think I'm "boycotting"; 
 But do you not see, 
 As plainly as me, 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 163 
 
 How crazy men are upon yachting? 
 
 They have all sorts of rigs, 
 
 Sloops, schooners and brigs — 
 Even to a mammoth three-master; 
 
 And steam they have tried, 
 
 But are not satisfied. 
 For they all want their crafts to go faster. 
 
 Some men have a pride 
 
 To go out for a ride 
 In a T cart, dog cart or phaeton; 
 
 The gent takes the line 
 
 And Pat sits behind — 
 ^Tis himself that he's then "overrating." 
 
 Should they drive to the store, 
 
 They stop at the door. 
 All as stiff as a Canada thistle; 
 
 The gent he may shout ; 
 
 Should the clerk not come out, 
 Pat will call him like a dog with a whistle. 
 
 The clerk, looking bland. 
 
 With pencil in hand. 
 Is expecting to have a large order; 
 
 But to his surprise — 
 
 'Tis often thiswise — 
 Sure, you could not make it much shorter: 
 
 "Give me one spool of thread, 
 
 A small loaf of bread, 
 A box with a few matches in it; 
 
 Send up right away, 
 
 The mistress will pay. 
 Hurry, now, and don't wait a minute.** 
 
164 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Tis the yellow-legged boot 
 
 And a gold-button suit 
 Make a handsome young man of plain Paddy; 
 
 He sits all alone, 
 
 Like a king on a throne, 
 And is envied by many a laddie. 
 
 But Pat is not blind — 
 
 He's smiling and kind — 
 He sees more of the "Miss" than he ought to; 
 
 The first thing we know — 
 
 "By golly," 'tis so— 
 He elopes with the handsomest daughter. 
 
 The parents go wild 
 
 At the loss of their child. 
 And spend the time swearing and weeping; 
 
 While Pat and his wife. 
 
 From high to low life, 
 Don't mind it, but shady are keeping. 
 
 But the parents relent, 
 
 And the daughter repents — 
 The affection for each other grows mellow ; 
 
 They take her back home — 
 
 No more she will roam — 
 And Pat is a "jolly good fellow." 
 
 Perhaps it is best 
 
 To "give you a rest," 
 But don't lose some things Fve been saying; 
 
 Let girls learn to sew 
 
 And mix up the dough. 
 And do that which is useful and paying. 
 
 And should you have boys, 
 
 Don't use them as toys, 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 But in the right path guide and train them; 
 That when they are men 
 They may marry, and then — 
 
 Come and join the Royal Arcanum. 
 
 AN OAK ISLAND REVERIE. 
 
 I love this charming place, 
 With its plain and simple make-up; 
 In the morning when I wake up. 
 And quiet reigns apace, 
 How sweetly comes the resting 
 With no anxious cares molesting, 
 And peace fills all the space. 
 
 Here all is calm and still, 
 And the little birds are swinging 
 On the branches, while they're singing 
 Their solos with a trill. 
 And the fragrant pink wild roses 
 In the morning beams reposes, 
 While blooming on the hill. 
 
 The meadows clothed in green 
 With their graceful outlines curving, 
 And whose shaded nooks are serving 
 As a resting place and screen 
 For birds when wearied flying, 
 And are mating, cooing, shying 
 In quiet all unseen. 
 
 The placid, land-locked cove, 
 The view from the little island 
 O'er the bay toward the highland. 
 
 With blue skies arched above. 
 
 165 
 
166 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And tides both ebbing and flowing, 
 Trim vessels coming and going, 
 Inspires naught else but love. 
 
 Out where the sea gulls call, 
 From over the broad, blue ocean, 
 Where the waves in ceaseless motion 
 Playfully rise and fall, 
 Comes a voice the deep sea raises 
 Which join the little birds' praises 
 To Him who made it all. 
 
 TO THE VETERANS OF THE 127TH REGIMENT, 
 N. Y. V. 
 
 Lines composed and read at the Reunion of the Veterans 
 
 of the 127th Regiment, N. Y. Volunteers, 
 
 held at Babylon, L. L, Sept. 9th, 1899. 
 
 Fond memory recalls Sixty-one-two-three-four, 
 When, in your young manhood, you went to the war 
 How you severed the ties which bound you to all, 
 And nobly responded to your country's call. 
 
 But the years have slipped quickly away since then, 
 And the boys of that day are now the old men ; 
 With step less elastic — and slower the pace. 
 But their hearts beat the same, in the very same place. 
 
 The flush, rounded cheek, and the manly young brow, 
 May be shriveled, and wrinkled, and careworn now ; 
 And the form less erect than in old Sixty-two, 
 But warm, tender hearts are still beating for you. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 167 
 
 Though you're tempered by age and mellowed by years, 
 You know what life is, and you need have no fears ; 
 Whatever the future may bring unto you, 
 Your life's record will show that you have been true. 
 
 All things pass away — the saying is true, 
 
 And this rule will apply to each one of you ; 
 
 Till the whole rank and file of one-twenty-seven. 
 
 Have gone to the great camping-ground up in heavea 
 
 The foes whom you met, erring brothers in gray, 
 Have — like most of your comrades — ^been laid away; 
 The beautiful spirit of forget and forgive, 
 Abides yet in the hearts of you who still live. 
 
 So we scatter bright flowers over the grave 
 Of the blue and the gray, for they both were brave. 
 And at times like these, amid the good cheer, 
 The long-absent comrades seem then the most dear. 
 
 And our hearts go to those who sleep their last sleep, 
 While the angels on guard a faithful watch keep. 
 Till the gates stand ajar on the last muster day, 
 To welcome within, both the blue and the gray. 
 
 God grant that our nation may never again, 
 Be plunged into war for her sons to be slain 
 But if it must be — on our side will be — heaven, 
 And men just like you — of old one-twenty-seven. 
 
 OLD COMPANIONS. 
 
 Please handle with care — put it back in the box, 
 And place it somewhere on the shelf; 
 
 For it never deserved ill-treatment or knocks 
 Any more than you, or myself. 
 
168 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 I cherished it dearly, and now I will try 
 To shield it from harm — for 'tis true; 
 
 No man in the country looked slicker than I, 
 In the days when that old hat was new. 
 
 My 'Trock Coat ' was made of the finest of cloth, 
 
 'Twas good as the best, in its day ; 
 But holes have eaten into it by moth, 
 
 And its black has turned to a gray. 
 But ril cherish and keep it as long as I can, 
 
 For trials with me it passed through, 
 And helped me to look, and feel like a man. 
 
 In the days when the old coat was new. 
 
 Its close companion was a figured silk vest, 
 
 And I lovingly cherished it, 
 And I've kept it these years along with the rest, 
 
 For it helped to complete my outfit. 
 But its lustre is gone — I scarcely can find 
 
 A trace of the sprigs of dark blue; 
 But, oh! how vividly it brings back to mind. 
 
 The days when the old vest was new. 
 
 The "Pants" which I wore was a beautiful brown. 
 
 With a little bright stripe at the side, 
 I thought them as handsome as any in town, 
 
 And I always wore them with pride. 
 They had gaiter bottoms — the style of the day. 
 
 And straps with a button or two ; 
 Their beauty is gone — but they surely looked gay, 
 
 In the days when the old pants were new. 
 
 My long-legged boots, they were square at the toe. 
 And known in ''old times" as high heel ; 
 
 And often I've thought they made a good show 
 When I danced the old-fashioned reel. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 169 
 
 But they're shriveled, and dry, and would not compare, 
 
 With the modern narrow-toed shoe, 
 But all was hand-made with the greatest of care, 
 
 In the days when my old boots were new. 
 
 I call these companions, they merit the name, 
 
 For they once clung closely to me; 
 Not fickle, nor changing, but always the same, 
 
 And from every blemish were free. 
 They are linked to the days, when hope it looked bright, 
 
 And friends were confiding and true ; 
 And careful attention was paid to the right, 
 
 And life, like the old suit, was new. 
 
 A FISHING PARTY. 
 Outside of Fire Island Inlet. 
 
 A party of friends appointed a day 
 
 To go out on the ocean to fish. 
 And some were so happy to think that they 
 
 Could enjoy a long-cherished wish. 
 
 It was ten years or more, so one of them said, 
 Since she had been fishing outside; 
 
 She was naturally brave, and she had no dread 
 Of either the wind or the tide. 
 
 And the rest of them felt just as brave as she. 
 
 So their anticipations ran high 
 For a jolly good time, and in ecstasy 
 
 Awaited the day to draw nigh. 
 
 As a trip of this kind gives pleasure and rest, 
 And a luncheon helps make it complete. 
 
170 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 A council was held, and they all thought it best 
 To take along plenty to eat. 
 
 So salads and dressing and pastry were made, 
 
 With cookies and layer cake, too ; 
 And even the eggs were specially laid 
 
 For the fishers, the captain and crew. 
 
 Then with baskets and wraps and various things 
 They were soon on board in midstream ; 
 
 And the yacht sped away like something on wings, 
 With a good stiff breeze well abeam. 
 
 And on through the channel, down to the bay, 
 
 The inlet and ocean beyond; 
 Bent on a trip which the fishermen say 
 
 All genuine sportsmen are fond. 
 
 They sailed up and down quite close to the shore, 
 
 All eager to catch the first fish ; 
 Just as such happy ones have done before. 
 
 To enjoy a long-cherished wish. 
 
 At the very first bite all hands were astir — 
 
 The fisher pulled lively indeed ; 
 And none can imagine how it surprised her 
 
 To catch a big bunch of seaweed. 
 
 So the skipper stood out where the white gulls fly, 
 
 And the sea sings a solo alone, 
 And then stops to listen to hear the reply 
 
 Of the bellbuoy's low, plaintive tone. 
 
 Out where the ground swells lazily roll. 
 
 In their bending, billowy way, 
 Where seasick fishers lose faith in a troll 
 
 And the cheery have little to say. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 171 
 
 The ladies lost love for this sort of romance, 
 
 For the dread seasickness had come ; 
 And the truth could plainly be seen at a glance, 
 
 That at heart they wished they were home. 
 
 The day was far spent, the wind had died out, 
 
 The captain and skipper looked blue, 
 As he failed to bring the vessel about. 
 
 And he scarcely knew what to do. 
 But the wind sprang up and was greeted with smiles. 
 
 The vessel was soon on the move ; 
 And when they had sailed some three of four miles 
 
 The ''patients" began to improve. 
 
 And the luncheon which some had spurned through the 
 day. 
 
 Was brought up from its hiding below ; 
 And some took the place of the bread cast away 
 
 On the waters down near ''Gilgo." 
 
 They arrived home at six, according to wish, 
 
 And happy were they to get back ; 
 And all took a hand in counting their fish. 
 
 Which numbered just one ''skipjack." 
 
 THOUGHTS AT CHRISTMAS TIME. 
 
 Upon the receipt of a kind invitation to write something; 
 for the holiday edition of The Trade Journal, my first 
 thought was : 
 
 At the approach of the Christmas time, 
 
 And the ending of the year ; 
 What can I say in prose or rhyme, 
 
 That men would love to hear? 
 
173 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 The days come quickly and speed away, 
 
 The same as they did of old ; 
 There's scarcely a thing which I can say, 
 
 Which has not all been told. 
 
 For the moment, as I look ahead, there is nothing for me 
 to glean; the wall between to-day and the future is im- 
 penetrable to us all, and so, dear reader, to furnish any- 
 thing I must look back — as I tliink others do ; especially 
 when asked to write a Christmas story. People do not 
 have to be very old before they begin to look back. Should 
 you ask the thousands of young men on the busy streets, 
 in the offices and work shops, something about themselves 
 and their lives, they would refer back and begin to count 
 up. 
 
 I had just been reading a description of the first Thanks- 
 giving in New England, in 162 1, and was contemplating 
 the high purpose, self-sacrifice and devotion of the little, 
 brave band who instituted the first Thanksgiving, and now 
 that it has become the national day for returning thanks 
 to the great Father — how fitting it seems that it just pre- 
 cedes the celebration of the birth of our Saviour, Christ- 
 mas Day; and I think of the many Christmas days 
 which have passed between that remote period and the 
 present ; also, of the powers of endurance, and the abiding 
 faith of those people that God would protect them and 
 bring them out conquerors over the difficulties which be- 
 set their way and that of their posterity, up through the 
 treacherous times to the revolutionary period, when 
 
 All hearts were stayed by prayerful hopes. 
 
 By youth as well as age; 
 And fathers fought to give their sons, 
 
 A lasting heritage. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 17o 
 
 And after weary days and nights, 
 Of weeks, and months, and years ; 
 
 Of hunger, thirst, and bitter fights, 
 Of hope, despair, and fears. 
 
 The far-off end seemed drawing near, 
 
 They'd purchased liberty; 
 With their own blood, the price — so dear — 
 
 All for — posterity. 
 
 And when the war was over, and swords had been 
 beaten into plowshares, and industries revived, through 
 many things incident to the times, God's voice could al- 
 most be heard as if speaking to Columbia, saying : 
 
 Columbia — I have given thee, 
 
 This land where rivers flow; 
 And where the fruit upon the tree. 
 
 From year to year shall grow. 
 Your mines are filled with hidden wealth. 
 
 Your soil abundance yields. 
 Your climate gives the glow of health, 
 
 And verdure decks the fields. 
 
 Hold sacred, then — the blood-bought prize, 
 
 And plow and till the soil ; 
 Then rain and sunshine from the skies, 
 
 Will bring returns for toil. 
 Build your churches, guard your schools, 
 
 And keep the Sabbath day ; 
 And learn your children golden rules. 
 
 From which they may not stray. 
 
 Thy possessions — closely keep, 
 Guard well the open doors; 
 
174 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 And let your sentries never sleep, 
 
 But watch the other shores. 
 For man is vile, and tyrants stand, 
 
 Ready to cross the sea. 
 To blight, and stain, and scourge the land, 
 
 Which I have given thee. 
 
 Let not anarchy's poisoned foot, 
 
 Tread your sacred soil; 
 Destroy it quickly — branch and root, 
 
 Encourage honest toil. 
 Your noble sons can rule alone, 
 
 Without a tyrant's rod; 
 And let the nation's cornerstone, 
 
 Be a trust in God. 
 
 And through the lapse of future years, 
 
 I will be near to thee, 
 To stay your hopes and calm your fears. 
 
 And keep you always free. 
 My mercy to you shall not fail. 
 
 And all I ask of thee 
 Is, let my voice with you prevail. 
 
 And never — forget me. 
 
 The babbling brook and woodland stream, 
 
 The river and the sea ; 
 The busy hours and quiet dream, 
 
 The windward and the lea. 
 The thunderbolt from out the cloud. 
 
 The winds through every tree; 
 Are voices speaking long and loud, 
 
 And say — forget not me. 
 
 The snow caps on the mountain peaks. 
 The summer in the vale ; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 175 
 
 The sunset penciling golden streaks, 
 
 While moonlight yet is pale. 
 The flowers and fruit, and harvest fields. 
 
 The song birds' melody; 
 God's everlasting care that shields 
 
 All say — forget not me. 
 
 Woodlands have been cleared and made into farms, 
 farms into villages, and villages into cities, which have 
 outgrown themselves, and excite the admiration and won- 
 der even of those who participated in their building. 
 
 Wild lands have become territories, and territories have 
 become States, until from thirteen dim stars upon the 
 first American flag, forty-five now emblazon that beautiful 
 emblem, and tell the world of the nation's greatness and 
 goodness, for, when the crops fail across the sea, the 
 products of our own land are abundant to supply their 
 needs. The resources of California alone are sufficient for 
 millions, and is almost beyond human conception, and is 
 only one of Uncle Sam's many farms. Oregon, Alaska, 
 with its Klondike gold regions, and the millions of acres, 
 until recently the exclusive home of wild beasts, and which 
 are being rapidly peopled by adventurous and progressive 
 men, have a future which is far beyond our ken to see. 
 Wild regions, indeed, but perhaps no wilder to those set- 
 tlers than were the bleak shores of New England to the 
 little band of Pilgrims. 
 
 As we briefly ponder upon the relationship of Territories 
 and States and their possibilities, visions of the future 
 come to us, which can only be made a reality by the will 
 and the aid of Him who holds the world in the palm of his 
 hand, and careth for the nations of the earth as a father 
 careth for his children. 
 
 The expansion of trade, science, agriculture, and every- 
 
176 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 thing pertaining to human progress uniting in one grand 
 phalanx, marches on to prosperity and honorable condi- 
 tions. The noble leading men — martyrs — and the loving, 
 prayerful, dear old mothers of the past joined in the fes- 
 tivities of many a merry Christmas and happy New Year. 
 They took their part in the drama of life, and have joined 
 the host beyond ; but their virtues and correct ideas of 
 consistency will never die. Do we appreciate and emulate 
 them? The child, America, has grown to be a giant, 
 overcoming every impediment in her onward march, un- 
 til thrown into convulsions by the bloody Civil War, which 
 claimed thousands upon thousands of our best young men, 
 and which made the whole earth tremble and the sky turn 
 crimson. Our dear soldiers — though absent, were not 
 forgotten at Christmas times, as the millions of prayers 
 which ascended heavenward in their behalf could attest ; 
 and the thousands of packages imprinted with kisses, and 
 stained with tears of affection, and laden with tokens of 
 love, were hastened to the camps and to the front, many 
 of them never to reach those for whom they were intended 
 — for they had passed beyond the reach of human hands, 
 or were well on their way there through the enemy's pris- 
 ons. But at last, when the cruel war was over, heroes and 
 men joined hearts and hands in the grand march to peace 
 and prosperity. And now, 
 
 We scatter flowers on the grave 
 Of blue and gray, for both were brave ; 
 At Christmas time amid good cheer, 
 The absent always seem more dear. 
 The olive branch is bending low, 
 While soldiers sleep beneath the snow; 
 Awaiting the last great muster day, 
 To be as one, the blue and gray. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 177 
 
 Our own dear New York, the doorway for the commerce 
 of the world, always great, but now greater, has led the 
 van in the strides onward, and now is in her glory, proud 
 of her new offsprings of towns and villages, flower gar- 
 dens and pretty dooryards, such as she herself could boast 
 of in the days when the writer was a boy, and the lads 
 played marbles in the City Hall Park, and sweet music 
 from the band on the balcony of the old American Mu- 
 seum floated out upon the air to cheer the poor wayfaring 
 man, and to delight the ears of the elite who lived in Cham- 
 ber Street, Park Place, and that vicinity, even to Beekman 
 Street, including the very spot from where The Trade 
 Journal is now issued. 
 
 In those days the big stores were little shops, and 
 Christmas presents were bought with pennies instead of 
 dollars. No trolley or cable cars to endanger the Hves 
 of people. There were no dead men's curves, no blue- 
 coated policemen to help folks across the street; none 
 were needed. A few night watchmen, who were always 
 remembered by the good people at Christmas times, were 
 the only guardians of the peace. The rap of their club 
 upon the sidewalk at night was a familiar sound as it 
 echoed from beat to beat throughout the city. 
 
 "Ride up Broadway?" could be heard alternately with 
 the crack of the whip by the drivers of the old stages, as 
 they swung from curb to curb for the passengers, and 
 many a modest maiden has been unceremoniously dumped 
 into the lap of a strange gentleman while waiting for her 
 change from the driver, as he slovdy picked it out of his 
 box on the top of the stage. A blush from the maiden, a 
 titter from the passengers, and it was soon over. 
 
 Broadway presented the scene of a carnival in the win- 
 ter when sleighing was good. The song of happy voices, 
 when Foster's popular negro melodies were new and 
 
178 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 fresh, mingling with the jingling of bells, filled the air 
 with music, with cheering and exhilarating effect, espe- 
 cially during the holiday season, as every one seemed to 
 make merry. Happy Christmas greetings and friendly 
 salutations could be heard upon the streets which long 
 since have lost all claims to social events and scenes, and 
 have been given over entirely to gold bugs, silver bugs, 
 and hustling, jostling crowds, all in pursuit of what they 
 can get. 
 
 The scenes of those days will never appear in the 
 Greater New York. At that time Trinity Church was 
 being erected, and men with block and tackle were two 
 years hoisting block after block of stone for the spire, 
 which, when finished, was the tallest structure in the city. 
 It is now almost in the basement of some of the sky- 
 scrapers, which New Yorkers seem proud of. One of 
 these, the St. Paul, stands upon the site of Barnum's Mu- 
 seum, reaching up twenty-four stories, with express ele- 
 vators to hustle you skyward. Like a sentinel it stands 
 as if to watch over the graves in the old burying ground 
 of St. Paul's Church, after which the building was named. 
 It looks as though it might topple over and crush the very 
 earth on which it stands, but New York is ''rock bottom," 
 and her people are not afraid. These buildings are sug- 
 gestive of the Tower of Babel, and doubtless there is a 
 confusion of tongues in some of them. 
 
 At the time of wh.ch we write no special architecture 
 was observable in New York. At the present no city in 
 the world can rival her in the splendid and artistic designs 
 of her buildings. In fact, art of every description finds 
 a permanent home here, and it is the birthplace of much 
 of it. Croton water had been introduced into the city 
 but a short time, and was not fully in use ; some of the old 
 log pumps were still in use on the streets, and water was 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 179 
 
 not wasted as it is in these days of general extrava- 
 gance. 
 
 No New Yorkers are more proud of their city than the 
 nev/spaper publishers. Sunday editions, with illustra- 
 tions of everything worth seeing (and much which is not) 
 is hurried to the remotest corners, that all can see New 
 York in print if not in reality. Think you, with all her 
 advantages, will she grow better as she increases in wealth 
 and power ? Only He can tell who, it is to be hoped, has 
 the dear city under His special guidance. Her church 
 spires and beautiful school buildings, as well as those in 
 the West and South, under the Stars and Stripes, indicate 
 a close relationship to paternal New England. 
 
 As a great city New York is wonderful. In nature all 
 is wonderful. In the steam and electrical engineering de- 
 partments are thousands of things wonderful in them- 
 selves; simple to those who understand them, mysterious 
 to those who do not. They all belong to the world's 
 great workshop, are progressive, and for the uses and 
 benefit of men. If viewed rightly they point significantly 
 to the author of them all. More wonderful still is man 
 made in the image of his Maker, with storage capacity 
 to pack away into his little brain gleanings of a lifetime, 
 to unfold at will for the benefit of future generations. 
 
 But, dear reader, to continue these thoughts would lead 
 to fields too broad for limited space and too deep for a 
 novice like myself. And as the snow birds have come, 
 and the Christmas bells are ringing out their musical 
 chimes, I will close with this wish : 
 
 Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you, 
 
 May rich blessings upon you descend ; 
 
 Tn the duties of life to be faithful and true. 
 
 Is better than wealth in the end. 
 
180 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 May the golden rule guide you through all of your days, 
 May you gather from the fast, fleeting hours, 
 Contentment and courage on life's highways 
 As the bees gather honey from flowers. 
 
 TO MR. AND MRS. J. B. C. 
 On the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of their Marriage. 
 
 Twenty-five years ago to-day, 
 
 Through love's enchanting bowers, 
 
 A maiden fair was led away 
 
 'Mid sunshine, smiles and flowers. 
 
 Led by a heart both brave and true 
 
 That beat with joy and pride; 
 Proud could he be, for very few 
 
 Could capture such a bride. 
 
 Love's happy dream had made them one 
 
 In purpose and in life ; 
 Warm greetings fell from every tongue 
 
 For the husband and his wife. 
 
 The flowers have faded long ago, 
 
 Yet the man and maiden still 
 Are traveling along life's great highway, 
 
 Climbing its rugged hill. 
 
 And now, dear friends, we see in you 
 
 That man and maiden fair; 
 In riper years, yet fond and true, 
 
 With silver in your hair. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 181 
 
 Time in its onward-speeding flight 
 
 Brought changes unto thee. 
 Yet the same old love is warm to-night 
 
 As it was in Sixty-three. 
 
 May friendship's wreath around you twine 
 
 As tenderly as of old. 
 And may its sunlight always shine — 
 
 Its warmth fail to grow cold. 
 
 And may your future life be filled 
 
 With comfort, joy and peace; 
 Your faithful love be never chilled, 
 
 But cherished and increased. 
 
 TO OUR FIREMEN. 
 Written and Delivered on December 19th, 1888. 
 
 You're the pride of our people, and the pride of the place, 
 
 Each one is a 'Trump," a king or an ace ; 
 
 You always ''turn up" just at the right time, 
 
 You're as free with a dollar as you are with a dime. 
 
 You give from your earnings, you give from your store, 
 You give your time freely, you could not do more; 
 The people all love you — ^brave boys and true, 
 For what you have done, and are willing to do. 
 
 You sacrifice home to engage in the strife 
 
 For the rescue of others, at the risk of your life ; 
 
 While dangers are staring you full in the face. 
 
 You are always — brave boys — each one in your place. 
 
18^ BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 We cannot but love you — for right wills it thus, 
 For regardless of self you labor for us; 
 You work not for pay, though you toil as a slave, 
 "God bless"' you — dear boys — you are noble and brave. 
 
 You are the pride of the men — they dote on the boys 
 Who fear not the dangers, nor are frightened by noise; 
 And when the alarm rings out on the air. 
 These men calm their fears, for the "Laddies" are there. 
 
 The ladies respect you — no doubt, everyone 
 Feels as much interested, as though 'twas her son 
 At the head of the line — with a trumpet in hand 
 Gallantly leading the brave little band. 
 
 Let the prayers of all these inspire you anew. 
 To be faithful still, though your numbers are few ; 
 We will share your discomforts — will add to your joys. 
 For every one really feels proud of our boys. 
 
 CELEBRATION OF ARCANUM DAY. 
 
 June 23d, 1902, at Babylon, L. I., by Babylon Council, 
 
 No. 881. With visiting Brothers from all 
 
 the Councils in Suffolk and 
 
 Nassau Counties. 
 
 The address of welcome was delivered by Past Regent 
 Benjamin P. Field, of Babylon Council, the oldest mem- 
 ber of the order in this village, and one of the most en- 
 thusiastic in the fraternity. He spoke with characteristic 
 earnestness, and was generously applauded. He closed 
 with reading an original poem, composed for the occasion, 
 as follows: 
 
 'You're welcome to our little town. 
 Welcome as the flowers in May; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 183 
 
 Welcome from sunrise till sundown. 
 On this our natal day. 
 
 Our village has no stately halls 
 
 To charm a stranger's eye; 
 Nor dizzy heights of frowning walls 
 
 Towering toward the sky. 
 
 No clanging bells, no surging crowd, 
 
 No hissing jets of steam; 
 No angry voices calling loud . 
 Behind a frantic team. 
 
 No highways blocked, no dangerous place, 
 
 No streets one dare not cross; 
 No men with wan and vacant face, 
 
 Gone mad — ^because of loss. 
 
 We have no loud, discordant din 
 
 Abounding everywhere; 
 No dens of vice to lure men in 
 
 And drive them to despair. 
 
 We have no lands laid waste and bare 
 
 By angry floods and storms, 
 With desolation everywhere 
 
 In all its hideous forms. 
 
 No volcano belching forth 
 
 Its molten liquid breath — 
 Cutting a wide and gaping swath. 
 
 Harvesting only death. 
 
 We have no coronation day 
 
 For dukes and lords and kings. 
 With tinserd hordes for vain display — 
 
 We do not want such things. 
 
184 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 But — we have rippling, running streams, 
 
 Flowing from crystal springs; 
 Dancing on in the bright sunbeams 
 
 Like living creature things. 
 
 We have the song birds in the trees, 
 
 And flowers along the way, 
 Where butterflies and honey bees 
 
 Can loiter all the day. 
 
 We have the charming, lovely bay, 
 
 With its islands here and there ; 
 Inviting men to hie away. 
 
 To rest from toil and care. 
 
 WeVe miles of shore where wild birds feed 
 
 And sport beneath the spray ; 
 While ocean breezes landward speed 
 
 To cool the heated day. 
 
 Could nature's voices all be heard. 
 
 Their sweet refrain would be: 
 In every line and every word 
 A welcome, friends, to thee. 
 
 And we have men, both tried and true, 
 
 Who justly proud may be 
 For the part they take — and work they do 
 
 For our fraternity. 
 
 There is a sympathetic side 
 
 To this Arcanum life; 
 And nothing in the whole world wide 
 
 Has less of envious strife. 
 
And other poems 185 
 
 All as one — protected — free — 
 
 In that great bond of love; 
 Spirit of our fraternity 
 
 Which cometh from above. 
 
 Some have sweethearts, some a wife, 
 
 And some are widows' sons; 
 Some fight the battles of this life 
 
 For motherless little ones. 
 
 Our members — neighbors, friends and kin- 
 Tune heart, and voice to blend 
 
 In harmony — uniting in 
 The welcome we extend. 
 
 And when you have returned again 
 
 To your accustomed place. 
 And hear the echoing refrain 
 
 Of life's contesting race. 
 
 May no misfortune come to you, 
 
 No sorrow cloud your way ; 
 And we our friendship all renew 
 
 On next Arcanum day. 
 
 And may our order fill this land — 
 
 The land our fathers trod ; 
 And ever nestle in the hand 
 
 Of its own Maker — God. 
 
186 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 MY NANCY—SONG. 
 Minstrel Song. 
 
 Away down in Kentucky — dis chile he was born lucky, 
 
 In an old home back on one of massa's farms ; 
 I used to romp wid Nancy — she was 'zactly to my fancy, 
 
 And she won my heart completely wid her charms. 
 Ob all de handsome faces, you could see down at de races, 
 
 When de folks went dar to see what dey could see; 
 Dey might be dressed up fancy, but dar was none like 
 Nancy, 
 
 And she loved a dandy darky — dat was me. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 I often tink of Nancy, and de smiles she had for me. 
 When I used to meet her at de cottage door ; 
 
 You doan't know how it grieb'd me, when she died, and 
 had to lebe me, 
 For I'll nebber see my Nancy any more. 
 
 She could cut de biggest figure, of any female niggar, 
 
 Dat eber shuffled feet upon a floor; 
 And at ebery big cake walkin' — she could win — dar's no 
 use talkin', 
 Den de oder ladies would'nt dance no more. 
 Ebery Sunday, den, my Nancy, she looked just like a 
 pansy, 
 Her voice it was so sweet it beat de band ; 
 And when she went ter meetin', you nebber se'd such 
 greetin', 
 For all de darkies want to shake her hand. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 187 
 
 To de little whitewashed cottage, where my Nancy used 
 to dwell, 
 
 Whar de honeysuckles climbed on ebery side; 
 No matter what was doin', my heart was always goin' 
 
 Right to dat gal who was to be my bride. 
 But she died and went to hebben, one night 'bout half- 
 past elebben, 
 
 And I nebber seen a happy day since den ; 
 Fse always been unlucky, since I left dear old Kentucky, 
 
 And Fse gwine to trabbel back dar if I can. 
 
 TAKE ME TO THY CARE. 
 
 When life's burdens seems so great. 
 That I must fall beneath their weight, 
 
 I seek Thee, Lord, in prayer; 
 Thou dost ease my weary load, 
 And guide me safely on the road. 
 
 And take me to Thy care. 
 
 When by false friends I'm deceived, 
 And my heart is sorely grieved. 
 
 And hope turned to despair; 
 Heavenward I turn my eyes to see 
 If Thy hand is near to me. 
 
 To take me to Thy care. 
 
 Often when I chance to stray 
 From Thy path, and lose my way, 
 A sweet voice from somewhere ; 
 
18S BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Low, and sweet, and tenderly, 
 Whispers, come and follow mc. 
 Back to thy Father's care. 
 
 When sin abounds on every side. 
 And I am drifting with the tide. 
 
 Toward Satan's gilded snare; 
 Send Thy rescuing help to me. 
 And bring me safely back to Thee, 
 
 And keep me in Thy care. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Saviour, be Thou ever near. 
 My every thought to share 
 
 From all evil keep me clear, 
 And take me to Thy care. 
 
 A VERY COMMENDABLE WORK. 
 
 There are one hundred and fifty-seven Fraternal 
 Benevolent societies in the United States. The oldest of 
 these is thirty-two years — the youngest is five years old. 
 Up to 1903 these societies have paid death benefits aggre- 
 gating over six hundred and eighteen millions of dollars. 
 
 The Royal Arcanum is one of the most prominent of 
 these excellent orders, and has, of itself, paid benefits 
 amounting to over seventy-five millions of dollars. 
 
 This Order is founded upon the principles of Virtue, 
 Mercy and Charity. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 189 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 Pure as a lily bathed in dew, 
 
 Pure as the rays of a cloudless sun; 
 
 Pure as a babe when life is new, 
 
 Pure as a spirit, when life is done. 
 
 MERCY. 
 
 Tender as a mother's first embrace, 
 Kind as the care of a parent dove; 
 
 Sweet as the smile on an angel's face, 
 Essence of sympathetic love. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 Charity shields misfortune's child 
 
 From the world's cold, sinful blast. 
 And gently spreads her mantle o'er 
 
 The errors of the past. 
 Full of pity — her deeds of love 
 
 In the realms of poverty, 
 Are blessings sent from God above. 
 
 Sweet heaven-born charity. 
 
 TO THE ROYAL ARCANUM. 
 
 All hail ! thou virtuous and beneficient order, 
 
 For the good you have done, and are destined to do; 
 
 No mission of mercy could ever be broader. 
 And no charitable aim more pointed and true. 
 
190 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 Impelled by motives, of all others the purest, 
 
 To relieve the deep sorrows of hearts that are sore; 
 
 The path which you take is the safest and surest, 
 
 For 'tis virtue which leads you right straight to the 
 door. 
 
 The hosts of dear mourners made sad by bereavement, 
 Gladly welcome the solace you cheerfully bring; 
 
 And mercy guides you in the lofty achievement, 
 Of relieving death's terror of much of its sting. 
 
 Charity controls every act of your mission, 
 
 To lighten grief's burdens, which the weak cannot 
 bear ; 
 
 And firm in your precepts — no human ambition 
 Can tempt you to slight any child of your care. 
 
 Dear, blessed order — you are true to your calling. 
 And your right arm is bared to rescue and save; 
 And to strengthen the weak, to keep them from 
 falling, 
 When the dear ones they loved have been laid in the 
 grave. 
 
 Stupendous, indeed, is your vast undertaking, 
 
 To mold a close brotherhood of those in your fold; 
 
 So that when grim death — his great harvest is 
 making, 
 You cover his footprints with affection's pure gold. 
 
 Like a beautiful tree — with branches outreaching, 
 Offering cool shelter from the sun's scorching rays ; 
 
 So your own bright example is silently teaching 
 And leading your members into life's better ways. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 191 
 
 Like a noble, staunch ship, you've passed close inspection, 
 And you have trusty pilots in charge of the helm ; 
 
 You insure a safe voyage and careful protection, 
 
 And will land your charge safely in your own chosen 
 realm. 
 
 You're enshrined in the hearts of thousands who love 
 you, 
 
 And their deep admiration is candid and true; 
 Inspired by that Being, who ruleth above you, 
 
 And hath planned all the work which you are to do. 
 
 The light of your life is inspiring and uplifting, 
 And it shines like a beacon out over the sea; 
 
 Its whole current safely and steadily drifting. 
 Toward the beautiful haven of V. M. and C. 
 
 May you live long and prosper — dear cherished order — 
 Your protecting arms reach to the farthest extreme; 
 
 May millions ilock to you from all of our border, 
 All under the guidance of the Ruler Supreme. 
 
 JOYS OF SPRING. 
 
 The last little mounds of the snow 
 
 Are melting away by degrees. 
 We care not how soon they may go, 
 
 So we'll say "Make haste, if you please." 
 
 For young spring is here with her joys. 
 
 She is anxious to enter in. 
 To delight the girls and the boys. 
 
 And evervone else and their kin. 
 
192 BEAUTIES OF LIFE 
 
 There are joys which come with the spring. 
 To make us feel happy and glad, 
 
 And they never forget to bring 
 Something for those who are sad. 
 
 They reach us in various forms, 
 
 And await us on every side ; 
 They come in disguise with the storms, 
 
 And drift along in with the tide. 
 
 There is joy when the lengthening days 
 Awake us to greet the bright sun, 
 
 And bask in the warmth of its rays, 
 As others before us have done. 
 
 The sprinkle from miniature showers. 
 The deeper blue tints of the sky; 
 
 The unfolding of buds into flowers, 
 Brings special delights to the eye. 
 
 The insects all welcome you — spring! 
 
 They have waited — all winter long; 
 The birds have returned on their wing 
 
 To sing you their prettiest song. 
 
 The grass in the meadow grows green. 
 The lilies are peeping through; 
 
 And the proof is everywhere seen. 
 That there is a welcome for you. 
 
 Why should we not welcome you — spring? 
 
 For you come with arms full of joy; 
 And all these you cheerfully bring 
 
 For the hosts of those you employ. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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