^^ Kf'* .<^ ■*■*, '.V^^/ , V '^ rAQi ^. ♦ .^ o. THE HOME of the WILD ROSE and OTHER POEMS FLOYD D. RAZE c/h ■f^v Copyright, 1911, by Floyd D. Raze. ©CI.A3035G2 This volume is affectionately inscribed to one who has ever loved me — To my Mother. PREFACE The greater number of pieces in this book have previously appeared in various periodicals of the country, including the Chicago Record-Herald, Boston Journal, Brooklyn' Eagle, Pittsburg Sun, Fargo Forum, Moderator Topics, Will Carlton's Magazine, Outers' Book, World's Events, and other periodicals. A few of the selections have been printed in foreign periodicals, including the Glasgow Herald, Dumfries Standard, Ayr Observer, Lon- don News, and several Canadian publications. For the illustrations appearing in the volume the author is greatly indebted to Miss Nelle M. Johnston and to Mr. James E. Raze. The efforts of Mr, and Mrs. Geo. W. Skinner to make the volume presentable are greatly appreciated by the author, and he wishes to acknowledge also the kind- ness and support of his friends everywhere. Floyd D. Raze. CONTENTS Proem . The Home of the Wild Over the Hill A Summer Evening To a Frozen Waterfall The Oak . September The Kinglet Rose To the Mississippi River November Change Huckleberries Sunset in Autumn Burns Winter Scenes Minnehaha Saskatchewan Beyond the Stars Our Creed The Same Old Town Black and White Hallowe'en Other Days The Gift . . The New Year Night The Homestead The Toilers Mother Mine The Mariner Lost Years I'll Think of You Lover's Bower Seeming Remembrance The Lookout Ben and I Home Christmas Lines The Hudson Bay Trail Page 8 9 10 12 13 14 16 18 19 20 22 23 26 27 28 29 31 31 33 34 36 38 40 41 42 44 45 47 48 49 50 51 52 54 55 56 59 60 62 63 Contents The River Grand Our Need . De Hoss Dat's Call Heem "Gray" Night Harvest De Sailah , Two Views Wintah . ^ . Summah Once Ag'in Loneliness Rich and Poor The Flag of '61 Lincoln — A Tribute Farewell Earnestness Dry Shod Dreams The Dance Twilight My Little World Thine The Second Mile July Fourth The Forest Native Haunts The Kaiserin The Prairies The Warning . My Autograph Ma Femme Gladness Truthful Mike Common Folk The Laborer The Lass O' Enderlin The Paths of Yesterday Massasoit and Samoset Educational Black Eyes or Blue Send Me the News . Lura Belle Mr. Brookside Cedar A Tale and a Moral Page 64 66 67 73 75 76 77 79 80 82 83 85 87 89 90 91 92 93 94 96 97 98 99 101 102 103 105 107 108 109 110 112 114 115 116 118 119 120 122 123 124 126 128 130 Contents The Country School . To a College Chap What Will It Matter? The Shoveler's Song Effort When Perkins Comes to Town I Forget The Mill and the Miller . Immortality "English as She Is Spoke" What I Learned Ability To Alonzo Sage Max Probee's Villy Goats A Hundred Years from Now Uncle Sam to Columbia . Dakota "Sky High" Christmas Greetings . To . The Bottled Fairy The Hill City A Letter The Old Home News Patience To . Rosie Lalone . Reflections . You Faller The Abbot's Prayer De Big Field by de Town Observations Nature Memory Precedent To Alpha Claire Skinner . Nearing Port Portraiture Joaquin Miller Chrees'mas Eve Sam Walter Foss The Poet The Bachelor Girl . " . Anamoose Page 131 133 137 138 141 142 144 145 147 149 151 153 155 158 160 161 162 164 165 166 166 168 170 172 175 180 181 184 196 198 201 203 210 212 214 215 216 217 218 220 223 224 225 227 Contents How It Happened To a Violet To Carrie Walker Our Village Attainment Morning Revenge That Man Joe Bing After All . Autumn An Epistle To Rhodes Page 229 230 231 233 236 237 238 239 240 241 243 245 247 ILLUSTRATIONS Home of the wild Rose Lover's Bower The River Grand Night Send Me the News The Old Home News Joaquin Miller 9 51 64 73 125 173 219 CONTENTS TO PART II Memory and Reflection. PAGE Old Friends . . , . , II The River Chippewa .... 13 Success ...... . 15 Reward of Labor .... 16 Duty ...... . 18 Mercy ...... 19 There's a Gray Stone in the Churchyard . 20 Ambition . . . . . 22 The Long Ago , . . . . . 22, The Little School .... 25 On the Shore .... . 27 The Downtrodden .... 29 Worth . 30 The Churchyard .... 31 Make Me a Man .... . Z3 The Spelling Class .... 34 You Can Laugh About It Later . . 36 If I Had Known .... 38 Genius . . . . • . 39 The Journey ..... 40 The Uplift .... . 42 Hope ...... 43 Dear Old Spicerville . 44 Rewarded ..... 47 Thanksgiving .... . 48 Sometime ..... 50 Contents Somewhere That Dear Little Mite of Life Let Us Forget . Patience 'Twuz April To a Human Skeleton Home Revisited A Song of Winter Flown Away . What Would You Do? The Everlasting Process Auld Brig of Ayr . It Is Well John Hay . Good Old Days In Boyhood Gratitude Upward Wait Till the Tide Comes Eaton County, Mich. Not in Vain Wait Auld Ayr Enjoyment Christmas Reflections Life at Best O Tell Me, My Love Which Has Won? Spring . Pluck Disappointment Alexander a River 51 52 55 56 58 59 60 62 64 65 67 69 70 71 72 73 74 79 80 80 81 83 83 84 86 87 89 90 91 93 95 97 99 Contents Fancies and Follies. How to be Happy io8 Irons in the Fire . . . 109 New Year Resolutions .... III Strange Things . . 113 In Church . "5 Adam Vindicated . '. . . . . 117 Then and Now - . 119 Keep Cool . . . 122 March . . 124 Voices of the Night • . . 126 . Adaptability . 128 Preparation . 130 Conclusions — On Seeing a Dude 131 Reason . 132 Humanity . 134 He Beat the Devil . 135 The Summer Girl . 137 The Imitator . . 139 The Silent One . 141 Whut Won't Love Dew? .... 142 Nero . 143 Poor Czar . 144 What of That . 146 Sunshine . 148 Translations. The Lorelei . ISO Mignon . 151 The Rich Prince . . 152 Gems from Heine . 153 Historical Ballads. The Desire . 155 Washington . 161 Contents Montgomery .... . 163 John Paul Jones 165 Bunker Hill . . . . . 166 Princeton .... 168 Lexington ..... . 170 The Wives of Weinsberg 173 The Friends, A Medley . 177 At the Brook .... 178 The Ol5 Canoe .... . 181 The Serpent .... 183 The Mill . 186 The Covenant .... 191 ILLUSTRATIONS " Spare the auld brig, ye Scottish men " . . . 70 " The old mill's busy days are o'er " . . . . 187 " Lies the crumbling wreck of the old canoe " . . 182 " And there leaped the trout through the rapids and shal- lows" ....... 53 " The crystal lake between the hills " . . . 78 The Home of the Wild Rose and Other Poems PROEM I've been thinking of the things That have wings ; Of the swarm of tiny gnats Flitting 'round our ears in June, With their roll of sharps and flats In a tune ; Of the condor circling high In the clear Andean sky Till the snow Of the heaven-ascending height Lies a tiny speck of white Far below. I've been thinking of the things That have wings ; Of the humming-bird that flew Thru the happy summer day The Home of the Wild Rose To the dainty flowers that grew By the way; Of the homeward laden bee, Of the robin in the tree Perched to sing — Perched among the blossoms white In the early morning hght There to swing. I've been thinking of the things That have wings ; Of the sunny days of yore In the seasons that are gone And I call them back once more One by one ; But each momentary joy That sustained the careless boy, At the last Is a momentary pain — And I look and long in vain For the past. Still I'm thinking of the things that have wings ; Of ambitions that have flown Like the birds from winter's snow. Of the hopes I made my own Long ago Ere the future, fair and bright. Had become a cloudy night, 8 Jt.'is'^- "P- fii:->- ~ 'And Whiter had spread her bleak earmeiiis amimd." The Home of the Wild Rose Well nigh o'er, Ere the best of life had gone, Ere I stood, as now, alone On the shore. THE HOME OF THE WILD ROSE The home of the wild rose, the fallow, is white With the feathery snow that is falling tonight ; All leafless and cold is the shivering stem That erstwhile was bright with the bloom of its gem. The home of the wild rose — how changed it has grown ! The bees all are silent, the birds all are flown. And the voices that summer made sweet to the ear Are lost in the snow and the storm of the year. The home of the wild rose — I passed it to-day; The tints of the summer had faded away — Where one time the bough made a canopy green The gray leaf alone on the alder was seen ; And winter had spread her bleak garments around — All barren the rosebush, all frozen the ground, And the brook that once rippled so sweetly and low Lay buried and still in the depth of the snow. The Home of the Wild Rose But say, friend of mine, shall we grieve o'er the past As if we e'er thought that such beauty could last? 'Tis a law of the world from which none may choose, We meet, we admire, and we love — then we lose. OVER THE HILL Over the hill the road runs Dusty and bare and long. Over the hill the loaded wain Chatters its merry song, And back to the hill and the highway The vision of memory steals, Back to the dust of the byway Under the passing wheels. Back to the thorn in the fence-row, The robin's nest in the thorn That sifts its summer snow around The sweet wild rose new born. Back to the greensward fallow Aslope to the glassy pond That mirrors the skimming swallow And great green wood beyond. There to walk in the noonday. To bask in the summer heat 10 The Home of the Wild Rose And bathe in the smoky dust cloud That 'rose 'neath my shuffling feet; To hear the bee's low droning, The locust's noonday shrill, Back where the dusty road runs Over the memoried hill. There, where the twilight lingered Long when the day was done, There, where the stars of heaven Smiled to me one by one, Back to the golden glory That streamed from the silent moon. Gone like a mythic story Told in a mother's croon. Now all too heedful of duty, Now all too pregnant with care, Now all too mindless of beauty. Passing it by unaware, So I have grown, so am growing — While farther and farther still There lies in the dim of the distance The road that led over the hill. II The Home of the Wild Rose A SUMMER EVENING Sweet is the breath of evening After the heated day, Sweet is the twinkling starlight Shedding its feeble ray Over the dusky fallow, Over the drops of dew, But sweeter the thought that comes to me Of a night gone by, and you. I hear in the dusky distance, Along the wooded hill. The whisper of the katydid, The call of the whippoorwill ; And out of the deeper shadow The song of the fallow stream. And out of the past, the faded past, The memory of a dream. Sweet is the lush of water Over the buried stone, Sweet the far-off curfew Sounds in a muffled tone. But sweeter is the merry laugh That memory brings to me, 12 The Home of the JVild Rose And dearer far the absent form That fancy bids me see. Oh, for the dear companion That made these shadows bright! Oh, for the fond enchantment That fancy brings to-night — Sweet is the twinkling starlight Over the fields of dew, But sweetest of all is the memory Of a night gone by, and you. TO A FROZEN WATERFALL Thou silent woodland stream Wrapped in thy winter garments and asleep, Perchance thou bid'st thy time in pleasant dream Of future joy when thou again shalt leap Free as the sunshine down thy sunlit steep — Perchance thou dream'st of flowers that wait to peep From out their winter hiding, and unfold • Their glorious banners while with chalice deep They welcome back thy music as of old Ere thou lay dumb, enthralled by winter's cold. 13 The Home of the JVild Rose Perchance thou dream'st not of a time to be But of some happy, golden day gone by When sweet the robin sang her song to thee Or taught her fledghngs 'long thy course to fly- Yea, God perchance has made thee, e'en as I, With memory endowed and hope imbued, Or winter, mayhap, is thy time to die And spring thy resurrection, life renewed — And this thy grave in which no dreams intrude — But let that be ; I pause in vain to hear The ripply plash that I have known of yore; I find no traces of the bygone year — But silence and a barren, ice-bound shore ; Yet I shall come, dear, silent stream, once more When time has loosed thy fetters, and the bee Sips honey from thy bank-embroid'ring flower. Then I shall come, an old-time friend, to thee And thou with wonted voice shalt welcome me. THE OAK Giant of nature, stern and grim, Rugged and rough in autumn's cold Flinging aloft thy sturdy limb, Flutt'ring thy banners of red and gold, 14 The Home of the Wild Rose Emblem of might from the times of old, Bearing unburdened thy countless years, Thine is a tale that is yet untold, A story of life with its hopes and fears. Storms unnumbered hast thou withstood, Battled and won from a stubborn foe. Daring the might of the vernal flood And scorning the weight of the wintry snow; Here, monarch-like, 'gainst the winds that blow Thou rearest today thy crowned head While years and centuries, passing slow, Have mouldered to dust their ancient dead. Few are the beings that find reprieve Over the ruins of grim decay. And fewer still that do not grieve Over the years that have flown away — Yet every life has its part of May, Its happy season of summer sun, And thine are myriad — who can say How many such have come and gone? Oft hast thou shielded the clinging vine And sheltered the flower from the pelting hail, A thousand feathered guests are thine Safe fortressed against the madd'ning gale. 15 The Home of the Wild Rose So couldst thou tell me the varied tale Of life, its checkeied sun and shade, Its summer song- and autumn wail That youth and age have deftly made. E'en as my own is the tale thou'dst tell, Half joyful and half joylessly— The might of foes I too know well. Their wrath has fallen oft on me. Yet greater than Adversity, Greater than he in might art thou — In this, thy calm serenity, I read thy vict'ry now. SEPTEMBER The tinge of autumn now is here. Dame Summer lays her cloak away, This is the changing of the year. This is her waning day; And yet it seems like summer still Save that the sun is growing cool, Save that the maples on the hill And willow stems along the pool Are tinted now with gold and red, Save that the nests are empty grown And on the dry branch overhead The coo-dove sits alone. i6 The Home of the JVild Rose Yes, these are like the summer days, Save that the winds are piping high Save, too, the sumach's fiery blaze And lighter tints along the sky ; Save that the beech leaves flitter down Where erstwhile hung a bank of green, Till the rough branches, gray and brown, In outline show between. The gaudy flowers the summer knew Are fading, fading day by day, And Nature dons a somb'rer hue While Autumn leads the way. So like and yet go changed is all — The summer's ghost it seems to be; From near and far the bluejays call, The blackbirds gather on the tree ; The gray squirrel chatters loud and long Where hang the ripe nuts on the bough- Where erstwhile rang the robin's song The crow is calling now. The summer green, the autumn gold, We hail the one, bid one adieu ; And while we weep to lose the old We smile to greet the new. 17 The Home of the IVild Rose THE KINGLET The golden crowned kinglet that all summer long Has brightened the wood with his presence and song, Oh, where has he gone that I see him no more On the bough of the pine, where I saw him of yore? His wee, tiny nest hangs aloft in the tree, All empty and cheerless and lone as can be, Where erst in the cool summer breezes it swung A hammock and home for his clamorous young. Now loud through the fir boughs the autumn winds blow Where soon will be gathered the cold winter snow, Aloft in the birch is the call of the jay But never a kinglet to greet me to-day. He has left the old home with a solemn "good-bye" For a spot that he loves 'neath the far southern sky, Yet I know as he murmurs his "tsee, tee, tee, tee," He'll sometime be thinking of summer and me. i8 The Home of the PVild Rose TO THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER Thou mighty sculptor oi a continent And master of this Western World, thy hand Has chiseled this majestic course and rent These hills in twain leagues long upon the land — A hemisphere but waits at thy command And towering mountains bow their heads to thee ; Their pond'rous rock-mass crumbles into sand And with thy waters seeks the yawning sea. These are thy monuments, these hills that rise Weathered and gray thy rock-hewn path along; Their massive forests swaying 'neath the skies Recount thy glories in a mournful song — They sing to me of all the myriad throng Of ancient scenes that time has overcast, They speak in tones of a mysterious tongue Born of old times and cherished from the past Yea, here is glory — ^but in days gone by A wilder chasm yawned and threatened here. And mightier cliflfs arose to meet the sky. And thund'ring waters shook the atmosphere. 19 The Homd,o{ the Wild Rose Where now these long, low lines of hills appear Mountains once rose and crags beset the shore With beetling brows — but many a passing year Has come and gone, and they are here no more. Yes, thou hast traced upon these crumbling walls, Fro'm age to age, thy doings — but alas, One column builded, and another falls — Thy story is as mine. Tho' thou surpass Infinitely the puny power that has Been given me, yet 'tis with thee the same — Time tears to ruin all thy sculptured mass And wastes thy monuments and wears thy name E'en to oblivion. NOVEMBER What change is this in Nature's garb ! My fav'rite haunts I scarcely know; How strange is all the world above. How changed the earth below ! The sky that once was clear and blue Is somber grown today. And earth has changed her garb of green For tattered rags of gray. 20 The Home of the Wild Rose In geometric figures come The wild geese from the north ; Mile-high along their southern way The leader calls them forth ; His 'faint "honk, honk" disturbs the air, A far but mournful cry. To northern rill and reed-bound lake It echoes back "good-by." The wood across the way is still. Her tenants all have flown, And barren now her branches sway. Her summer robe is gone ; The rude north winds have torn the leaves And hurled them far and wide, And piled them deep within the vale And on the gray hillside. Where once the dewdrop hung upon The fragrant clover here. The Frost now spreads his subtle robe O'er stubble dead and sere ; And where the sun hung warm and bright Above the woods-flower then. To-day the sky is wrapped in gloom — November's come again. The Home of the Wild Rose CHANGE I sit in the shaae of an old elm tree On a bank that I used to know, While the green leaves whisper over me And the river sings below, And yet, what a change there seems to be Since the days of long ago ! It seems that some of the old-time green Hangs not on the tree to-day, It seems some part of the old-time sheen Has run with the stream away, That the many years that have passed between Have left the earth less gay. It seems that the flowers are a paler hue Than the flowers I used to know. That the yellow butterflies, all too few, Are flitting to and fro. That the bees that hummed in the morning dew No longer come and go. It seems that the bird on the bending bough Scarce sings in the old-time way, 22 The Home of the Wild Rose That the river flows less gaily now Where the willow branches sway, That the beauties rare I used to know Are gone from the world to-day. But no — the stream, the flowers, the sky. Are all as they used to be ; The very scenes that round me lie Are those that I used to see — The change that seems to meet my eye Is only a change in me. HUCKLEBERRIES I'se obsarved de huckleberries An' de places whah dey grows; Ah hab seed a thousand acres Right befo' mah very nose. An' Ise picked 'em fer de table An' I'se picked 'em fer to sell Till ah guess I'se got de business Sized up purty middlin' well. Dah's a piace down in de fiel' dah, Right out in de blazin' sun, Whah dey's thick ez hasty-puddin' Wen de puddin' 's overdone ; 23 The Home of the Wild Rose Yo' kin grab 'em by de han'ful Wif yo' eyes blin'folded tight — Yoi' kin git a wagon load dah On de darkes' kin' ob night. But whut kin' ob berries am dey ? — Jes' obsarve whut ah shall state — Dey is ripe away 'long early, An' dey's dried up 'fore hit's late, Dey is sour an' dey is bitter An' dey's mos' oncommon small, But dey's huckleberries, shuahly, Huckleberries — dat am all. Now dat's whah ah gits mah berries Dat I'se 'tendin' fer to sell, Cayse I'se got de huckleberry Business sized up purty well — But when ah wants ter eat 'em. Lor', d'ye 'spose ah ever stops In dem runty, scrubby, scorchin', Blazin' huckleberry lots? Ah goes out to de fores', Way down in de shady glen Whah you' only fin's a buckle An' a berry now an' den — 24 The Home of the Wild Rose But O Lor', dey's berries fer yo' Whut ain't shriveled by de drouf, Mos' ez big ez any cherry, Fkirly meltin' in yo' mouf — Yo' can't pick 'em by de bushel Lak de ones yo's gwine ter sell, But yo' certain, shuah'U pick 'em Ef yo' knows yo' business well ; Dey's de kin' dat's worf de prizin' Dough dey's few an' fah apart — Dey's de kin' dat fits de spaces In de regions nex' yo' heart. Now yo' tak' de population Ob de kentry an' de town An' mix 'em wif de city folks An' stir 'em 'roun' an' 'roun', Yo'll fin' dat ninety-nine er mo' Ob ebery hundred — well Dey's lak de huckleberries Dat yo' gadders fer to sell; Pey ripens awful early But dey's mos' oncommon small— Dey is population, shuahly. Population, dat am all. But now an' den yo' fin's one Outen frum de common lot — 25 The Home of the Wild Rose Yo' will hab some scrutinizin' 'Fore yo' fin' him, like ez not; But good Lor', dah's suffin foh yo'— Lak de berry in de glen. He's de so't ob huckleberry Dat ain't common amongst men ; Fer he's bigger dan a dozen Ob dem runty little tots Dat yo' fin's out in de common, Scrubby huckleberry lots. SUNSET IN AUTUMN He is lost in the hills — oh, the round, yellow sun That dallied so long on the crest Of the highlands afar — oh, the pale, yellow sun. He is lost in the hills of the west. All the day he has been painting forest and field With the hues of vermilion and gold ; All the day he has shone thru the rich autumn haze With the same mellow light as of old. He has gilded the stream with a rainbow of tints, He has burdened the landscape with blue. And with purple adorned the dull gray of the hills Ere his last feeble ray glimmered through. 26 The Home of the Wild Rose All the day he has painted the elm by the road, And emblazoned the maple afar ; And sumach and alder that border the slope Are brighter than night's reddest star. He has left half his gold on the brush fallow there, And adorned with rich crimson the dell; He has painted the oak by the edge of the marsh, And the ferns on the brow of the hill. And I look on the scene as the twilight descends Over woodland and valley and crest, And exult in the glory of autumn that hangs Afar o'er the hills of the west. BURNS The dead leaf hangs upon the tree, The wind sweeps o'er the plain, And winter spreads her snowy robes Along the hills again; But still within their icy banks The rivers babble on In memory of the bard who sang Of them in years a-gone. 27 The Home of the Wild Rose 'Twas they that taught him first to sing, He taught the world to hear Till name of bard and river Are known to every ear. His songs have made the flo^wer bloom More sweetly in the glen — Oh, when shall time be blessed with such A gentle heart again? O thou immortal Devon, Sweet Afton with thy flow, Auld Ayr, and thou too, bonny Doon, With voice so sweet and low — Or flow 'twixt winter's icy banks Or summer flowers among, Auld's Scotland's rivers cannot sing As Scotland's bard has sung. WINTER SCENES The days have grown cold with the passing of summer. The fragrance and bloom have forsaken the flowers, The Southland inviting spring's earliest comer Now shelters the thrush in its shadier bowers. The frost blanket spreads o'er the brown of the fallow, All glassy the ice-sheet has mantled the pond, 28 The Home of the Wild Rose The woodland once gay with its crimson and yellow Stands cheerless and gray in the distance beyond. Yet, still ever fondly I seek for one treasure, But one of the many so precious to' me. For time with its changes has robbed the full measure And strewn the dead leaves o'er the blossoming lea- And out of the life I have known in its blooming There lingers no trace of its beauty and breath — O'ershadowed it lies in the dusk of the gloaming All wrapped in the sere-cloth and mantle of death. Thus, thus are the stages of nature prophetic ; Tho' voiceless, their over-fraught lessons convey A mystic unknown to a mem'ry pathetic. And mingle the snow with the blossoms of May. MINNEHAHA When nature wrapped her robes of green Around each winter-naked child And built her palace all between The ocean and the mountains wild, When from her throne she looked away Th' approaching summer to beguile 'Twas Minnehaha, longest lay Within the sunshine of her smile. 29 The Home of the Wild Rose The bird-song sounded from the shade That overhung the loit'ring tide Or where the swifter waters made Sweet music from its pebbled side ; The sunbeams danced upon the wave That paused to take its leap below — E'en from its glory to its grave 'Twas "Laughing Water" — ever so. And even so it is to-day — The sunshine sparkles down the fall, While from its never-ending spray A sound returns the wild bird's call. Still bright and clear from shore to shore, From height to depth it gurgles on The same today as when of yore It smiled beneath the summer sun. By night the yellow moonbeams throw Their misty veil athwart the stream, While mirrored in the depth below A thousand stars are all a-gleam — But still along its endless flight Its music is the same alway — 'Tis Minnehaha all the night And "Laughing Water" all the day. 30 The Home of the Wild Rose SASKATCHEWAN Far as the eye can see, a rolling plain Of virgin sod and ever restless grain, Sweet blooming flowers of every growth and hue, The prouder sort, the creeper in the dew. The royal purple honored well of old, The purer white, the faithful blue, the gold, The nodding lily with its deeper dye, The crocus, mimic of the summer sky. The prairie rose and troop of daisies fair To tempt the eye and scent the sunny air, While far and near, like whitecaps on the sea, Nods the white host, the sweet anemone — Such is the scene as summer passes on Such is the last great West, Saskatchewan. BEYOND THE STARS In that far world beyond the stars Toward which the spirit wends its way. Where time his brazen gates unbars Nor notes the bounds of night and day — 31 The Home of the Wild Rose In that far realm in which they say Is treasured Heaven's boundless store, ' Ah, is it true that there we may With hearts unbosomed lo\'e the more? Is there in that dim realm a balm For wounded hearts and souls that grieve. For troubled life a peaceful calm ? — Would that my mind could this conceive. Or failing thus, my faith believe The utmost that my fancies bring — Where joys ne'er fade nor hopes deceive And blessings all eternal spring. I look up to that world on high, Those azure depths beyond the cloud That put to shame my doubting eye And glad my soul with faith renewed — I gaze, and lo, the flimsy shroud Of unbelief is rent apart, And faithless lips confess aloud The silent gladness of the heart. 32 The Home of the Wild Rose OUR CREED There's nothing so good as it seems When afar in the offing it lies, The visions and joys of our dreams Are sweeter than those of our eyes; Real gold is not gilded so bright As the phantom of gold that we see, And the diamond allures with a light That is less than we thought it could be. There's nothing so good as it seems While yet 'tis unseen and unknown, The rose of our fanciful dreams Is the rose that is ever unblown And summer with all of her flowers. The warmth of her sunniest day Scarce rivals the joy of the hours That fancies of winter portray. We build — never castle so fair — Affection's palatial abode, And lo, a real hovel is there Obscured by the dust of the road ; 33 The Home of the Wild Rose The mountain peaks sink as we climb, And fades the soft tint of their blue — The glory of space and of time Augments with the distance of view. But still let us dwell with our dreams, Let us build on the hopes that they give. Nor mourn for the joy as it seems, But laugh with the joy as it is ; Perchance it is all that we need And all we are able to feel — In dreams be our hopes ; but our creed Be to live and rejoice in the real. THE SAME OLD TOWN Like a lonesome stork I have come of late To the same old town in the same old state Where I used to walk when the day was bright. Where I used to stroll in the pale starlight. I say I Ve come to the same old town With its way-up folk and its folk way-down. And stand once more in the same old street And walk again the same old beat That leads away to a shady dell And grassy bank I once knew well. 34 The Home of the Wild Rose Tis the same old town, but older grown, And sights and sounds, at first unknown. Return again to their wonted track And all seem glad that I've come back. The same old trees fling out their shade — The same old man and the same old maid, The first too blind and the last too shy To speak to me as I pass by, Still worry on, but still they stay The same as when I went away. The same old fountains bathe the lawn, The same old whistles wake at dawn. The same old train goes whizzing thru, The deacon holds the same old pew, The same old preacher, unperplexed, Gives out anew the same old text ; The same old soldiers sit astride The soap-box on the groc'ry side Where, 'mid the wreathes and rings of smoke, One hears again the same old joke. And thus I find the town once more. And make my way to the same old door Of the same old house on the same old spot. In the same old street, on the same old lot ; And my heart leaps up with the same old bound, The door-bell rings with the same old sound, 35 The Home of the Wild Rose The door swings wide and a care-worn face Appears once more in the same old place, An old-time smile is the smile I see While the same old mother kisses me. BLACK AND WHITE The stars shine bright on Chippewa, The shore is dark and still And silent is the deeper way That leads round to the mill ; The old bridge with its lengthy span Leads to the wooded side Where, hid among the maple leaves. The "Katy"-dids abide. And there- beneath the dusky trees Where sleeps the quiet night, I see, like specter in a dream, A moving spot of white ; And close along its farther side, A patch of deepest black — And instantly to years agone ]\Iy thoughts go harking back. Again upon that wooden bridge I hear the clatt'ring steel 36 The Home of the Wild Rose And listen to the rumble Of the far-benighted wheel The while, upon the up-stream side In silence and affright, I form a patch of deepest black Behind a robe of whita I wonder as I sit and muse Upon the past alone, I wonder if there is not one Whose mem'ry, like my own, Comes creeping back from out the years To view this scene tonight — I wonder if she'd dare to say Who wore that robe of white? "O time and change !" the bard has sung, How much of joy ye hide — And yet how vain your presence here ! The "Katy"-dids abide Within these spreading maple trees, The stars shine just as bright, And here is still the patch of black Behind the robe of white. 27 The Home of the Wild Rose HALLOWE'EN When lights and window-shades went down, Preparing for our nightly sally, We tiptoed round the little town Thru dusky street and shady alley. Before each shop we made our bow And on the windows painted pictures. Hitched up the parson's mulley cow And loaded in the blacksmith's fixtures. The moon rose up behind the wood, The stars lit up their thousand tapers, But shine and gleam as best they could They scarcely brought to light our capers. The "wizards" growing ever bold, The "witches" little shrieks suppressing. Each in its slyer way foretold Some reckless tho' unseen caressing. Thus passed the hours till by and by, When headed down a country highway, One sonsie little "witch" and I Thru some mistake turned down a byway. 38 The Home of the JVild Rose 'Twas just a path, but still we found An ample space for nightly rovers — I've since been told 'twas Cupid's ground Now turned into a lane for lovers — But this I know, howe'er that be, I first explored this wooded rhombus, And proudly claim — my only fee — The right and title of Columbus. The gnarly oaks with branches crossed Served only more and more to blind us Till all at once we just got lost With no one there to up an' find us. Hallowe'en, thou night of nights. To thee I owe my bliss of blisses ! 1 thank thee for thy dear delights. Those fourteen hugs and forty kisses — I thank thee for this kind return Along the slope of life's rough highway- Perchance some other heart may learn Thru thee the bliss of lovers' byway. 39 The Home of the Wild Rose OTHER DAYS Oh, sing to me a song of other days, A song of youth and youth's affections gone, And voice the rhythm of those glad wild lays Thai; stirred my heart and, voiceless, still live on. Sing me the chime that oft in days gone by Flung round my gladsome heart its magic spell, The subtler harmonies of earth and sky, The living charms that I remember well. Sing them again, those mimicries of joy, The song of bird, the note of woodland stream. And let the purer gold from time's alloy Gild bright the memories of a boyish dream — For when, in all the years that life enfolds. Amid the varying scenes that time has given, When has the heart surpassed its joy of old. Or been since boyhood half so near to heaven? There was a music then I hear not now Save in the notes that sound from memory's lyre — As oft we find beneath a realm of snow, Unquenched, a smouldering remnant of a fire, 40 The Home of the Wild Rose So in my heart the songs of youth remain, Those fainter sounds of love's fond minstrelsy, And snow of years heaps o'er the scene in vain, Youth's fires still smoulder on in memory. THE GIFT Who gives quickly gives twofold, Once, the thing he offers you, Once, a thing you can not hold. Yet, the better of the two. There are gifts to please the eyes, Richest gifts of gold and art, But a richer gift still lies In the confines of the heart. Who gives quickly, tho' it be But the widow's mite of yore. He it is that gives to thee More than Midas' fabled store. Gold by thieves is snatched away. Land once thine shall others reap, Silver lasteth but a day. Gems are lost in ocean's deep ; 41 The Home of the Wild Rose But an immaterial gem That outvalues gold or art Is the nameless diadem Worn around the giver's heart; This you know but can not name. This you feel but can not see. This, once thine, is thine the same Now and through eternity. Who gives slowly robs the poor, Leaves the beggar's heart bereft — Tho' his gift were Croesus' store, More is taken than is left. Give me not with grudging hand Wealth to match a prince's fee, Rather leave at my command One poor pence, but willingly. THE NEW YEAR NIGHT O cold and stilly winter night That far, so far around me lies, Thy myriad lamps are burning bright From out these distant northern skies — 42 The Home of the Wild Rose Above me gleam thy thousand eyes, Bright eyes that glimmer thru the cold, And in my thoughts sweet dreams arise Of Bethlehem's star of old. Dear winter night, thy voices speak In dream-like echoes in my ear, I feel thy cold breath on my cheek The last of the departing year — The sound of far-off bells I hear. Their tones by distance mellowed low, So calmly deep, so sweetly clear Across the glistening snow. Yes, tho' unlike that southern clime Where summer holds her yearly reign. There is a joy belongs to time That winter 'sieges all in vain ; And now that joy has come again In tinkling bell and silver light To whisper far across the plain The glory of the New Year night. 43 The Home of the Wild Rose THE HOMESTEAD Not much unlike the ragged nest In yonder winter tree And e'en as empty and forlorn The old house seems to be — It was my home in years gone by, And memory gilds it bright With ruddy glare of blazing hearth And flickering candle-light. Dark and forsaken now it stands Deep ridged with winter snow Which, sifting thru the broken pane, Has quenched the ruddy glow ; And all abroad from vale to hill The whitened mound appears Piled strangely o'er the bloss'ming heath I knew in other years — For I remember how the leaves Made summer's sweetest bower. And how with joy I used to pluck The fragrant perfumed flower, 44 TJie Home of the Wild Rose The lily red upon the plain, The rose within the dell That sheltered graciously the bee Within its cloistered cell. The massive oak, once green above, Is desolate and lone ; The v^ind howls thru the barren boughs With sad and mournful tone, And I but wonder as I stand Knee-deep in winter snow, If summer e'er can bring again The bloom of long ago. THE TOILERS Like toilers up the mountain side. O'er ragged rocks and hoar, Past gloomy chasm yawning wide And torrent's hoarser roar, We carve our pathway toward the height With toiling step and slow, And guide our footsteps by the light That lingers here below. And in this light that round us dies How prone we are to fall! 45 The Home of the Wild Rose How far the treach'rous shadow lies Beyond the surer wall! How recklessly we strive to gain The phantom that we see — How bright its gleam and yet how vain Each fleeting phantasy ! The ether that we see afar, Clear in the morning ray. We find commixed with lower dust As we pursue our way; And oft where from the distant view The bright way seemed to lie, We find, the while we journey thru, A somber, clouded sky. And yet, to him whose spirits soar Above the low-hung cloud, Whose heart defies the torrent's roar And chasm's deeper shroud, To him there is no conqueror's throne. No hopes dismayed by fears, He passes upward, though alone. To higher atmospheres. 46 The Home of the Wild Rose MOTHER MINE Pallid cheeks that once were fair. Raven locks grown whiter now — Sixty years of wrinkled care Trace their furrows on thy brow. Step infirm that once was light ; Laugh once gay, a smile divine, Eyes grown dim that once were bright Thus I see thee, mother mine. Oh, the memories love can hold, Lingering fancies of the heart! Lovely as thou wast of old, More I love thee as thou art. Thine has been the checkered round, Sun and shade of changeful day; Blooming roses thou hast found, Thou hast seen them fade away. Thine has been the crimson dawn. Thine, the brighter blaze of noon ; Years have come and years have gone Mingling winter's snow with June — 47 The Home of the Wild Rose Yet, not o'er a wilderness Falls the light of day's decline — I shall never love thee less, Dear, old, white-haired mother mine. THE MARINER I give my mite of honest praise To him who sets his beaten sail Against the harbor's dangerous ways, Against the teeth of storm and gale. Here's to the captain grim and grave Who tacks the headlands and the tide. By whom the foam-flecked ocean wave, Tho' menacing, is still defied. Here's to the rugged heart and hand. Unmoved by tempest's lurid light. That risk the perils of the strand And brave the wild, tempestuous night. I like him best who falters least, Who boldly dares the uttermost. Who sails despite the billowed yeast. Who sails despit*^ the rocky coast; 48 The Home of the IVild Rose To him I bow with homage due, True mariner and brave is he — The millions drift, but they are few Who truly sail life's stormy sea. LOST YEARS Oh, who would return through the smiles and the tears To the pleasures and griefs of the past? Tho' the years Call longingly out from their misty abode, Oh, who would retrace all the winds of their road? Tho' fondly we pause on our wearisome way To dream for a time 'mongst the mem'ries that play 'Round the heart to empurple the folds of its shroud As the sunshine oft plays through the rift of a cloud; Tho' we smile to remember the bloom of the flower That was withered and lost in the flight of an hour, Yet the tear, runs its course to remember how brief Was the time 'twixt the green and the gray of the leaf. Oh, what in returning would be our reward ? Tho' the loved and the loving were briefly restored, Sweet joy past describing! — But count ye the cost; A heart torn from heart when the loved ones are lost. 49 The Home of the Wild Rose In sorrow, yet fondly; in smiles wreathed with tears, We call back the pleasures and griefs of lost years — For the bird-song and rose-wreath of summer we yearn. We linger and look, but we would not return. I'LL THINK OF YOU A wand'rer far from scenes of home Past wid'ning plain or mountain view, Where green woods smile or lakes lie dumb, I'll think of you. When leaps the brook adown the glen And smiles the blue vault of the sky. In dreams I'll walk such scenes again, You, love, and I. Or if I mingle with the throng Of loving hearts and faces fair, I'll search fond memory's throng among And find you there. And when with toil I close the day, When life is hard and joys are few And clouds arise, I'll turn away And think of you; so "It lay behind the village Where the little witnplitig stream Sang through the tangled brushwood Like a love song in a dream," The Home of the Wild Rose For in such retrospect I find A joy the present can not give, For love has ever been designed With love to live. And tho' my path lead far away I'll hold you still as dear and true ; 'Twill be my joy from day to day To think of you. LOVERS' BOWER It lay behind the village where the little wimpling stream Sang thru the tangled bushes like a love song in a dream ; It sheltered from the sunlight with a deep, uncheckered shade. And wrapped the misty moonbeams in the meshes of its plaid. When out beyond the hilltops the summer sun went down And dewy dusk and starlight hung o'er the little town, Glad from the sportive chatter, from childish laugh and croon, [t was my wont to wander forth to greet the rising moon. The elms along the wayside, with arms outstretched or high, 51 The Home of the Wild Rose Obscured the narrow, winding path and hid the starry sky; While farther on a little cove, o'erthatched with leaf and vine, Revealed the lovers' mecca in a smatch of eglantine. Not mine to make confessions — the secret is mine own — Tho' gladly did I share that joy, I muse on it alone ; Some solace from my troubled hour is in that bower entwined. And linked with this a memoried love lies in my heart enshrined. SEEMING It sometimes seems that life is full Of bitterness — it sometimes seems That our few joys are only dreams Too oft forgotten in the dull Monotony of tears — It sometimes seems, howe'er it be. That sorrows dwell in memory And rankle even when the night From which they came has passed from sight Adown the flight of years. 52 The Home of the Wild Rose It sometimes seems that friends are few; Tho' many smile, but few remain; That of them all one may be true Through calumny and pangs of pain That may beset our way — It sometimes seems that love of gold Has gripped all men within its hold ; That man has grown e'ten less to man Than when the dawn of love began In that far distant day. And yet, 'tis true, howe'er it seem, Of joy and sorrow man is king; That man is lord of fleeting dream, And makes or breaks the magic ring That circles him — And still 'tis true, that one may find Hearts that are pure and fond and free, That earth is such as God designed, That God is kind to you and me, Howe'er it seem. 53 The Home of the Wild Rose REMEMBRANCE There's a village that's gone with our youth, my dear, There's a brook and a gray old mill — Ah, you will remember it well, my dear. The dripping wheel and the flood gate near, Yes, you will remember them well, my dear, And the plashing that never was still. There's a willow tree by the mill-dam, dear. With branches that dip to the stream — Ah, you will remember it well, my dear. The quivering leaves with their sounds so queer, Yes, you will remember them well, my dear, In your musing hour and your dream. It was there we strolled in the twilight, dear. Along the grass-fringed shore — Ah, you will remember them well, my dear, The ripple and song of the eddy clear. Yes, you will remember it well, my dear, That beautiful song of yore. But mourn not the scenes that are gone, my dear, Nor the brook nor the mill nor the tree, 54 The Home of the Wild Rose Nor sigh for the days that are flown, my dear. Let memory steal from your eye no tear. For I have been left to you, my dear, And you have been left to me. THE LOOKOUT Watcher on yon lookout, say. Dost thou see me on my way ? Weary tho' thy sight may be Scanning far the restless sea, Tho' a thousand ships sail on And a thousand days are gone — If I pass this way again, Watchman, wilt thou see me then? Watcher on yon lookout, hail ! Whether raging storms prevail. Whether summer's azure hue Sinks to rest in ocean's blue, Whether morn with golden ray Ushers in the coming day, Or on high the noonday sun Counts the white sails one by one- Whether shades of eventide Bend to ocean far and wide, Whether on the rocky shore Wavelets dance or breakers roar, 55 The Home of the Wild Rose Still I see thee, foul or fair, Morn and even, ever there — True, the' calm or storm prevail — Watcher on yon lookout, hail ! And as thou art, let me be ; Ever scanning life's far sea — Thru the morning of my day. Thru the noontide still away. Even when my weary eye Sees the lowering clouds draw nigh. And the length'ning shadows fall Dark and gloomy over all. E'en when most I need relief. Worn with watching, worn with grief. Bowed with all the cares that find Refuge in the weary mind. Even when the twilight fails And the ebon night prevails, Still, a watcher o'er life's sea, On the lookout let me be. BEN AND I Ben and I were boys together On the hill in winter weather; Like the hours we slid away Boys and hours alike so gay; 56 The Home of the Wild Rose Down the hillside, sled to sled ; Boys and time together sped — Ben and I came trudging back, Time held on his endless track. Ben and I were boys together, Barefoot in the summer weather, Happy as the birds that flew From the meadows sparkling dew. In the loft we tramped the hay, Helpers through the blazing day, And at night a blanket spread Just to sleep "up overhead." There we chatted, Ben and I, At the first a little shy, Then of greater things we'd do. Battle scenes and love scenes too; Silly secrets slyly told Just like folk tell when they're old • I was growing bold, but then Not a bit more so than Ben. Just a few years bring a lad To a youth so shocking bad ; So it is — and Ben and I Grew less bold, but wondrous sly; 57 The Home of the Wild Rose Watermelons 'gan to grow, Got ripe in the loft, you know; Peaches softened on the beams While we took our morning dreams. Strange to say, with all the sin That Ben used to lead me in, I recall him with a joy That I knew when just a boy ; I recall him as we lay Chatting in the loft of hay; Or along the fields of corn Searching melons till the morn. Yesterday I passed the barn. Thought of each sly trick and yarn, Swung the gate and, walking through, Barn and hill were all I knew Of the old familiar place That my presence used to grace In the good old seasons when Ben knew me and I knew Ben. Had I stopped and told my name Not one there had known the same; Joylessly I turned away, Brief of word and brief of stay. Left the strangers standing still As I climbed the sloping hill, S8 The Home of the Wild Rose Pausing only to look back Down the well-remembered track, Where I rode in winter when Ben knew me and I knew Ben. HOME A few old pictures on the wall, Chromos and reprints, these are all; A clean but hard and barren floor, A few old chairs, a stove as poor, A table and but little more — Yet this is home. Aye, this is home — more truly so Than many a mansion built for show, Where well the stranger's eye can trace. By every sign about the place The presence of fantastic grace — Yes this is home. And home, tho' one can see, indeed, A semblance of the form of need • For tho' no luxury bequeath. To those within, her golden wreath No "golden sorrow" lurks beneath — And this is home. 59 The Home of the JVild Rose For home is not in granite wall, Nor art, nor luxury, nor all The glittering robes that pomp may wear To hide the signet of despair — Where love is, home is ever there. Aye, there is home. CHRISTMAS When Christmas had a Santa And Santa had a sleigh. And rode from Spitzenbergen, From Bergen far away, Ah, what a time that used to be For youngsters such as I — The fun, the noise, the girls and boys The yellow pumpkin pie. The pail of apples from the bin. The pan of flaky corn. And all the pretty tasty things That waited Christmas morn ! Ha, ha, we scrambled out of bed, Sans pantaloons or frocks, To see how hung the stockings, then. How bulged the roomy socks, 60 The Home of the Wild Rose For sure enough the reindeer team Had stopped when no one knew, And while we slept the driver crept Back up the chimney flue ; And here were striped candies, And soldiers blue and green. And cars all full of passengers. Stout rubber men, serene ; And Santa, dear old Santa, Had rummaged through his pack And found (it was a precious find) For me a jumping jack. But now times have been altered ; Strange things have come to pass — Incredulous I hear the tale Of dear Saint Nicholas ; Tonight, in unbelief I climb The creaking, time-worn stair, And yet I grieve for faith to leave My socks pinned to a chair — I long for those sweet fancies That clung to me at night, I long for those dear pleasures That welcomed in the light When Christmas had a Santa, And Santa had a sleigh, That rode from Spitzenbergen, From Bergen far away. 6i The Home of the Wild Rose LINES (Written on hearing "America" sung by a boy in Saskatchewan.) I hear the song, "My Country, 'Tis of Thee"— How sweetly now it breaks upon my ear ! I never knew how grand this song could be, Till musing, listening in the twilight here. Far, far away from those loved "rocks and rills" I sit, a stranger, in this wide domain — I love as ne'er before those "templed hills," And all my thoughts speed homeward once again. And now I hear, "Let mortal tongues awake" — Yea, let them wake and vibrate far along Till hoary "rocks" their " 'ternal silence break" To join the music and the "sound prolong" — And let the whole world, reverent, pause to hear The sound of Freedom's voices while they sing, Till crushed and gone's the tyrant's rule of fear. And thou, O Freedom, reign alone as king. 62 The Home of the Wild Rose THE HUDSON BAY TRAIL (Written on traveling the same for some distance westward through Saskatchewan.) Westward I look and westward turn to-day O'er the dim trail that winds along this stream — How many thousands here have made their way Adown this thread of hope, lured by the dream Of riches in the wilderness that lies Beyond those mountain tops that skirt the sea! What cheer shone o'er them from these morning skies ? O, mighty west, what lurements hide in thee ! What ills beset them, none can ever know — The years that lie behind us speak no more — They came and passed, e'en as a phantom show, And sleep forgotten with the toils they bore. But here their footprints linger through the years, Dim monuments by which the world can trace The steadfast zeal that conquers human fears And founds another empire for the race. 63 The Home of the Wild Rose THE RIVER GRAND It winds its way past rugged beech And willow leaning o'er its tide, Past lowlands where its v,^aters reach The cowslips blooming at its side. It plays just as it used to play In lazy whirls that I have known, Or in the "narrows" hurls its spray Against the rising stone. The same old elms are shaking hands Midway across the shining stream, And yonder stretch the meadowlands O'er which the skies of summer gleam; I see the distant hills arise Past which the waters flow and run And, snake-like 'neath the morning skies. Wind sparkling in the sun. Upon yon leaf-arched bridge I stop And watch the shadows come and go, Or lean along the side to drop The pebble in the stream below. 64 ^ s !^ -. _ ^ a