PS 3525 
 .E37 W5 
 1917 
 Copy 1 
 
 i 
 
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 The Wicked House 
 
 and other Poems 
 
 9 
 
 Mrc^ 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 By A. GUSTAVUS MELTON 
 
 Route 2 - - - Ellenboro, N. G. 
 
Tte Wicked House 
 
 and otker Poems 
 
 By A. GUSTAVUS MELTON 
 
 witfi Sketch of Life 
 
 Price 50 cents 
 
 A. G. MELTON 
 
 Route 2 - - . Ellenboro, N. C. 
 

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 lira. iCrla i^rltott 
 
 y)CI,A457078 
 
 Copyrighted 1917 
 By A. GUSTAVUS MELTON 
 
 rtB J4I9I7 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 The author of these Poems deems it 
 wise to concisely write a short story of my 
 life. This will relieve the curiosity of the 
 reader, and enable him to read the follow- 
 ing Poems with a prepared and pacified 
 mind. A succinct autobiography will prop 
 up the other work, and at the same time, 
 I hope, leave no room for suspicion of con- 
 spicuousness on the part of the author. 
 
 I have no doubt but that every reader 
 of this little Book will be appeased, to a 
 certain extent, when he has learned when 
 and where I was born. 
 
 I shall ask my readers to not demand 
 a detailed autobiography of my life and an 
 exact chronological history of my forefath- 
 ers; but to content themselves with my 
 limited cognition of my ancestors, until 
 I am more tediously informed. (Reasons 
 could here be given for my unfamiliarity 
 With my progenitors; but time and space 
 will not permit) I am unlike the father of 
 our country, George Washington, who 
 could trace his lineage to William the Con- 
 queror. Just here, I shall say that I have 
 found little trouble in learning of my great, 
 great, great grandfather, 'Sam Melton, 
 who was a big boned, tall, and red faced 
 man. He was a leading man in his neigh- 
 borhood in his time. He married Peggie 
 Daves and reared several children. 
 
 I have been told that Burton Melton, 
 my great, great grandfather, was a civil, 
 Quiet man. Burton Melton married Lucin- 
 da Walker. They were blessed with sev- 
 
eral children, who have been favored with 
 health, and, as a result most all of them 
 still survive. 
 
 My grandfather, Columbus Mills Mel- 
 ton, married Dissie Elizabeth Harrill. 
 Four chidren were born to them as fol- 
 lows: Susan Melton, Texanah Melton, 
 Charlie G. Melton, and my father, Seth 
 Thomas Melton. Columbus Melton died be- 
 for he was very old, leaving a widow who 
 later married Rhodes Glover. 
 
 My father married Mary J. Green, the 
 oldest daughter of S. D. Green and to 
 them three children were born, Clarence 
 T. Melton, George Emerson Melton, and 
 Anson Gustavus Melton. The angel of 
 death saw fit to call father and mother 
 and my only two brothers home before I 
 was old enough to remember them. Thus 
 I have drifted from home to home, living 
 the life of an orphan. But I have never 
 been able to flee from these words from 
 grandfather: "Be sure you are right and 
 then go ahead." He (S. D. Green) empha- 
 sized another important factor, which 
 clings to me yet, honesty. 
 
 I, A. G. Melton, was born of the flesh 
 Aug. 8, 1890, in Rutherford County, North 
 Carolina, where all the above mentioned 
 were born and reared, near Ellenboro. 
 
 • I was born of the Spirit Dec. 14, 1913. 
 Up to this time a volume of mistakes in 
 my life could be written; but, to do so, is 
 not only unpleasant, but unnecessary. Af- 
 ter having been born of the Spirit, I imme- 
 diately joined Walls Baptist Church. I, 
 
not being baptized until Aug. 4, 1914, re- 
 ceived a recommendation from Walls 
 Church, as a worthy young man entering 
 the ministry, on same day of baptism. Af- 
 ter this the Church gave me, on Sept. 27, 
 (1914, license to preach without my request; 
 but with my desire. 
 
 A golden opportunity presented itself 
 to me when I entered High School at 
 Boiling Springs, N. C, where I was thrown 
 in contact with very fine characters; 
 where I was cared for by the considerate 
 faculty chosen by the trustees of Boiling 
 Springs High School, who represent care- 
 fully and accurately the two God fearing 
 Associations, Kings Mountain and Sandy 
 'Run. From the date of entrance in school, 
 Aug. 11, 1914, to Dec. 21, 1916, I lost little 
 time with my books. On Dec. 21, 1916 I 
 was forced to leave the school room (not 
 according to my future aim) on account of 
 declining health, having half finished the 
 junior course. 
 
 After having studied a few Poems in 
 my sophomore year written by Henry W. 
 Longfellow, John Greenleaf Whittier, Mat- 
 thew Arnold, and James Russel Lowell, I, 
 as an effervescent spring, bubbled over 
 with ardent desire of expression; and 
 wrote my first Poem on Dec. 9, 1915, en- 
 titled "A Thought in School." This piece is 
 not, however, found in this book. It was 
 read by my English teacher. Prof. 0. P. 
 Hamrick, to the three higher English class- 
 es of the school, its author being anony- 
 mous to pupils at that time. 
 
During my school days — I have as yet, 
 not been called to be pastor of any church; 
 but have had the privilege of doing evan- 
 gelical work — I have tried to preach fifty- 
 eight sermons at twenty-two different 
 Churches and School Houses. I have help- 
 ed in two revival meetings, one each sum- 
 mer, in which sixty-six souls professed 
 Christ. 
 
 May I conclude this sketch by asking 
 my readers to say with me: "It is good for 
 us to be here. May God help us to be ever 
 faithful. We believe Thy Word." 
 
 BOILING SPRINGS HIGH SCHOOL 
 Boiling Springs, N. C, 
 
 Jan. 22, 1917. 
 To whom it may concern. 
 
 For several years I have intimately 
 known Mr. A. G. Melton and I believe him 
 to be absolutely truthful, honest, honora- 
 ble, and upright in all his dealings. He is a 
 man of deep convictions and is true to his 
 convictions. A strong Christian man. 
 Yours truly, 
 
 J. D. HUGGINS. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 These Poems have been written, with 
 some exceptions, during spare time in 
 school. They have been written because it 
 was a duty of mine; because it was my de- 
 light; because of inspiration given from 
 God. My feeble prayer is: "May they ac- 
 complish an uplift to man." 
 
 "The Wicked House" was written, 
 while at Boiling Springs, through effort 
 and difficulty. The inspiration came in 
 abundance on class and at night. Late and 
 early lights were burned, taking care of 
 revelation. 
 
 The fundamental base for this poem is 
 found on the oracle of John, the revelator. 
 The author first thinks of John in the cave 
 on the Isle of Patmos, and the masterful 
 revelation given him, no doubt, the author 
 thinks, by an angel from heaven. The ex- 
 cited imagination began at the gratto, 
 where John was; but later reaches a more 
 specific verse of the revelation. Rev. 3:20, 
 where an outburst of imagination inflamed 
 my mind with burning desire to express 
 the thought. 
 
 It will be noticed that my eye makes 
 three trips to the unknown world. More- 
 over it will be noticed that, on the second 
 trip, the eye sleeps three days and nights; 
 and dreams three dreams. The coming 
 out of the wicked house, where Christ 
 continually knocks, and the short story of 
 the ear marks the close of, if such should 
 be its name, the metrical tale. 
 
Some things of interest might be said 
 about the other miscellaneous Poems or 
 ballads. I remember that "The Bumble 
 Bee" and "The River" were both written 
 the same day, July 19, 1916. 
 
'THE WICKED HOUSE." 
 
 Once there an angel came to a lonely cave. 
 How far, may it have flown o'er land and 
 
 sea! 
 From whence it came we think, we hope 
 
 we know. 
 That trip was made a long, long time ago. 
 When we were yet to be, and yet to see. 
 And yet we were, and still we are, and on 
 And on, we shall and will forever be. 
 The rolling, rolling time says, 'men be 
 
 wise.' 
 Just think how quick this Holy angel made 
 That trip. The last from the bare and rug- 
 ged Isle 
 To us, was made in haste to tell the same 
 Old story with a tender loving smile. 
 Hush! hush!! here is the messenger of 
 
 Him 
 Who sent to John, the divine, the dream of 
 
 light. 
 The servant of the Christ content to be 
 Alone in thought, in deed where we should 
 
 be, 
 When we forget to think, to act, or pray. 
 This angel was and is so kind and pure. 
 Till men feel like, when she is near, they 
 
 are 
 So mean, so rough that they aren't fit to 
 
 live. 
 By far is He, Who sent the angel to 
 The grotto in the ground of that South 
 
 hill. 
 Above the chief of angels. Then, how low 
 
Should we kneel down to Him in faith and 
 
 love? 
 The apocalyptic book has base enough 
 For worlds of men on which to place their 
 
 feet. 
 It has enough of thought to fill our souls, 
 To make us think as did the divine of old; 
 Still even more, if we'd observe his theme. 
 This great, great thinker has done made 
 
 his trip. 
 Oh how bitter was his way! tho' he went 
 
 on 
 Thro' tears, and fears, and cares, to live 
 
 his years. 
 Woud we a roll like him behind us leave, 
 We too, would live in two worlds, I know, 
 
 at least. 
 Let us give ear to his God given dream 
 And step by step we'll walk the Holy path. 
 I see where John has gone, his track so 
 
 plain, 
 Till we may with all ease go up, and up. 
 We may for a long time, go up with no 
 
 pain. 
 But tho', at last, in the final end of the 
 
 race. 
 Like JuHus Caesar, reaching English 
 
 shores. 
 Have to fight in water stain'd with our 
 
 own blood. 
 
 John saw the Christ as he stood by the 
 door 
 
 Of that old weather beaten, lonesome 
 house 
 
 When He in grief to us cried out, "Behold". 
 He is still saying with a graceful gesture, 
 
 10 
 
"Behold." To split this word we'd have the 
 "Be," 
 
 The "Hold." May we be men of God that 
 we 
 
 May stand a storm of snow, of hail or 
 wind; 
 
 May we be what we are, if right in Christ. 
 
 So be, where you ought to be, and when, 
 like men. 
 
 And after you have been, and aim to be. 
 
 Do get the macron part of the word, be- 
 hold. 
 
 We see to be, the breve. Now let us hold 
 
 And hold and hold, be faithful unto death, 
 
 That we may reap a rich and glorious end. 
 
 That we may feast on boundless, endless 
 love. 
 
 Be like the besieged Londonderry men. 
 
 When they were in the terrible hour of 
 gloom. 
 
 When they were minus things to eat save 
 hides. 
 
 When they heeded the proclaimer of the 
 Gospel 
 
 And said that we will ope no gate to foe. 
 
 We too, if we be firm, shall see the fleet. 
 
 Hold on, hold is the cry of Christ the Lord. 
 
 'Hold on till death and get a crown of life. 
 
 May we hold on like the weak and strug- 
 gling cock. 
 
 When he has hook'd his clinging, hopeful 
 beak 
 
 Of burning asperation on the fence. 
 
 He flops his weary wings, and scratches 
 with 
 
 His bleeding, painful feet, till he, at last. 
 Is on the fence to crow, "Hold on, hold on." 
 
 11 
 
Now let us cast our wavering eye on 
 Him 
 
 Who said, "Behold, I stand at the door and 
 knock." 
 
 I'm glad He says, I stand; and not I stood. 
 
 He, who stands at the door and knocks, 
 must tire. 
 
 If He be at the door, how near is He? 
 
 The kingdom is at hand. May we give eye 
 
 That He may not find us asleep when He 
 comes. 
 Now I would have you look again at 
 Him, 
 
 As He in suffering knocks at this old door 
 
 Of the house of scorn, of hate, of waste 
 and fear. 
 
 Away out yonder is this house amid 
 
 A snaky, dismal, weedy, desolate place. 
 
 Where no one else would go but the merci- 
 ful Christ. 
 
 Oh, how pitiful is He when we see Him 
 
 With an aching hand and side, still knock- 
 ing at 
 
 The miserable, and wretched door; no an- 
 swer. 
 
 This knock, the key to every door, is the 
 one. 
 
 The only one that can unlock the door. 
 
 The hinge of this sad door is clog'd with 
 rust. 
 
 It needs some oil, some exercise to ope. 
 We have, I'm glad, an omnipresent God. 
 
 He knocks at every door of man, the 
 house. 
 
 But note, He's not in the house where sin 
 is yet; 
 
 God does not live in the life of sinful men. 
 
 12 
 
He winds them up as we wind up the clock; 
 They run till they are down as does the 
 
 clock. 
 If we His voice do hear, how may we ope 
 The door? We should come out in haste 
 
 of the tree. 
 We're in the garret of this sinful house, 
 I fear. The door is on the bottom floor. 
 Give ear; the bolt is not at top of door. 
 It is low enough for even crawling men 
 To reach. If we let in the humble Christ, 
 We must be like the creeping strawberry 
 Vine. This no doubt will ope the door of 
 
 rust. 
 We sh'd bathe our bended knees in nature's 
 
 dust. 
 And dig down deep to find the solid rock; 
 We sh'd use a heavy pick to reach the rock. 
 When we solidify ourselves on Christ, 
 We change as from a cotton felt to steel. 
 Who is the prizer at the cruel door? 
 We sh'd study tap roots; and not the tops 
 
 of trees. 
 God. knocks as long as man on Earth does 
 
 live, 
 As long as He can hear a click of life. 
 This sinful house is crammed with 
 
 rogues and sots; 
 Already they are among the snakes and 
 
 bones 
 Of death, I see the skeletons stack'd up 
 In piles as scraps of iron rails and bones, 
 I see the thoughtless, heedless, lost, lost 
 
 men. 
 
 As they mingle with the frame works of 
 Hell. 
 
 Among these bones I see the sinner's soul, 
 
 13 
 
Traversing thro' the shattering skulls of 
 
 death. 
 It's sad for the eye of Christian men to flee 
 Into the halls of death and Hell, and walk 
 The serpent streets of pain, of woes and 
 
 sighs. 
 I see the thief as he sits on the skull 
 Of death with hie feet resting, where was 
 
 once 
 The seeing, sneaking eye. I see the vile 
 Old gambler with his cards, his change 
 
 and gun, 
 As he sits in th« mouth of the abyss. 
 The bottomless pit, the skull of endless 
 
 fire, 
 Erect, legs cross'd, on a crumbling, poison 
 
 tush. 
 Cigar in mouth with streams of floating 
 
 smoke, 
 Also with his cold heart in his flattering 
 
 mouth. 
 Up steps a man to this grey skull of death; 
 Up gets the gambler from the tush of ruin, 
 And walks out on the portico of this 
 Platform of under teeth of this same skull 
 To drag in the wayward man to die with 
 
 him. 
 The breath of Satan, flowing thro' the 
 
 mouth 
 Of skulls, has stain'd a many a boy and 
 
 girl. 
 His breath is like broad flames of fire and 
 
 smoke. 
 Which he spews out o'er the lands and 
 
 seas of God. 
 He emits beer and wine, drinks of every 
 
 kind, 
 
 14 
 
Profaner's of the word in blistering blazes 
 Of blue, of green, of pale, of red, like blood. 
 
 The setter in a lazy mood has sat 
 On one of these hard teeth, till he has 
 
 worn 
 A slick and shiny place on the dreadful 
 
 tusk. 
 He is a drone, a blank; no good to Christ. 
 Still further in the dragon's mouth I 
 see 
 A filthy hearted hypocrite almost 
 A slipping off the crumbing banks of sand 
 Into the home of the obdurated hearts. 
 I see a subtle liar hanging in 
 The upper teeth of this same skull as did 
 The son of David in the boughs of an oak. 
 God has the key to this old Earthly 
 house, 
 A Hell. He was and is, to day, at the door. 
 He says, young man come out of this tor- 
 ment. 
 The house of deceptive bane, so said the 
 
 Has streets made by the chief of scabby 
 snakes ; 
 
 They are a crooked trail thro' smoulder- 
 ing ashes 
 
 Of Hell. The chief of snakes with forked 
 tongue, 
 
 When he on his anatomic trip thro' this 
 house, 
 
 Having a fornicator betwixt the fork 
 
 Of his tongue, met the next in fame, in 
 size. 
 
 The next in size had on the deathly smile, 
 
 As he met face to face the chief, the king 
 
 15 
 
Of Hell. These two big serpents toss'd by 
 
 breath 
 This man from mouth to mouth as would 
 
 two men 
 On a windy stormy day with spiky mitts 
 Pass a ball. I cannot tell what this poor 
 
 man 
 Thought of as he from mouth to mouth did 
 
 pass. 
 I think he must have been, in the mouth 
 
 of the chief, 
 A fornicator, in the mouth of the next, 
 A liar slick. He thought perhaps of how 
 To tell another lie, to dodge reward. 
 While passing thro' this heavy bitter mist 
 Of adversity, unknown to him, to all 
 In sin. This interval, is short between 
 These mitts of goads, in which, he sleeps 
 
 like Rip. 
 For Pompey and his men look what did a 
 
 lie; 
 He landed on the Egyptian shore of death. 
 In chaos yet is my eye, where is disdain, 
 Where is contempt of every grade and 
 
 style. 
 And as it walks meandering streets of 
 
 grief, 
 I see a temple high afar before 
 My eye with slanting stairway of dry 
 
 bones ; 
 Around this dome are downs of cinders 
 
 hot. 
 
 Like the sand-hills on the Isle of the lovely 
 Palm. 
 
 The skeptic is the guide to this base place. 
 I see on every pier these words in big 
 
 16 
 
Old serpent letters made: THE ATHE- 
 IST'S HOME. 
 It is true that I wonder, as my eye 
 Steps up to this sin-deck'd dome, destruc- 
 tive den. 
 Who is in this grim place, eternal death? 
 I look to my right and there is a room, 
 Veneer'd with flames of sweeping, singing 
 
 blazes, 
 Floor'd with a hideous, furious, lava flow. 
 Like melted glass in furnace ready for 
 The mold, I see the babblers of the Earth. 
 And on one foot each stands to rest the 
 
 other. 
 Too sad is this great sight for eye to see. 
 My eye says please let me get on away? 
 So on it goes, seems worse and hotter still; 
 Anon the rear is reach'd by eye, at last. 
 I gaze out o'er the vast eternity 
 Of myriads of volcanic craters 'live, 
 As I stand on the verge of this back door; 
 And I see just in front near by the mouth 
 Of a mountainlike volcano, hurling snake 
 Coil'd men from it as sparks of fire from 
 
 chimn'y. 
 Observing closer still, — and jumping back 
 As I cast my eye in the mouth of this sad 
 
 scene ! — 
 I see all shapes of men hung up, stove up 
 In the walls of this gummy, burning mouth 
 of sin. 
 
 As soot^ — made by rich pine — clings to a 
 stove-pipe. 
 
 Now turns my eye to leave the rear of 
 decay; 
 
 But before the front is reach'd— I think 
 ■ how large 
 
 17 
 
Might be this building of the waste of 
 
 death — 
 I see — Old Satan has a trip made thro* 
 These parching walls of Iniquity and 
 
 crime, 
 Since my grief stricken, cheerless eye cast- 
 down, 
 Had trod in the horror cursed large corri- 
 dors — 
 By side the other words, THE ATHEIST'S 
 
 HOME, 
 Which, were the best snake calligraphy I 
 
 saw. 
 Another sign, new one, found in the tracks 
 Of Satan, where he touch'd his poison feet, 
 Last sign: THE FLOOD OF OIL WILL 
 
 COME TONIGHT. 
 While Satan winds and climbs the walls of 
 
 this house. 
 He shows the world in print just what he 
 
 is. 
 He has a busy press with type in trim. 
 His feet relate the story of his life 
 In tracks. We read the autobiography 
 Of men in their tracks as we behold nail 
 
 prints 
 In tracks in snow. — May we not have blank 
 
 feet. — 
 The flood of oil will come tonight. How 
 
 sad! 
 This is a sweet and happy thought to think 
 A deluge is coming for to wash away 
 Their pain. They think the wrong; still 
 
 worse; still worse. 
 I take no time for nooning in these walls. 
 I only have enough of time to take 
 A peep at them as they do eat their food, 
 
 18 
 
My eye goes down a thousand feet to see 
 
 The wailing host around the table of 
 
 A fire. Their food is corkscrews, broken 
 
 glass, 
 And iron banded kegs. Upon one keg 
 I see the salt, the slugs of melting cast. 
 Repast they have, repast, the sad, the bad 
 ♦This food too good for lawless, careless 
 
 men. 
 Their rest at noon is kicking loose their 
 
 hands 
 And feet in nets of electric wires of pain 
 As does a fly, when caught in spider's 
 
 web. 
 Near by the lattice of these living wires 
 There is a hole in wall like gnot holes in 
 
 plank. 
 In which, there comes the wasp, the bum- 
 ble-bee, 
 The hornet, and the honey bee to sting 
 These men. These pests increas'd a thou- 
 sand fold 
 In size. To while away the afternoon, 
 When out the web of wires, they find 
 
 their hands 
 Behind them ti'd in dark and nightly 
 
 places. 
 Prom these deep pits they are drawn up 
 
 with ropes 
 To await the evening meal before the flood. 
 When supper has its end they lose their 
 
 breath. 
 One is permitted to go out and search 
 For breath. He turns o'er every burning 
 plow 
 
 And stone in vain in search for breathing 
 air. 
 
 19 
 
Back to his comrade with his choking 
 
 voice 
 He comes to tell the history of his trip. 
 Now comes the dark, which is the flood 
 
 of oil; 
 Be it high or low or rough or mild; death 
 
 is yet. 
 As night comes on — their day is night to 
 
 us — 
 I see the infernal chief of the angels of 
 
 Hell 
 With rod of iron welded to the leg 
 Of a man, it being flexible with heat, 
 Him jumping here and there like bug on 
 
 string. 
 Up, down on rod I see the bear, the lion. 
 Traversing to and from the surging man 
 To knife him with an angry, craving tush. 
 This man when loose is being swallowed 
 
 up 
 By morbid, crafty waves of kerosene. 
 The Devil's hand, which holds the supple 
 
 rod. 
 Is a lion's den thro' which all demons pass. 
 The sly and inexpressible waves of oil 
 Slips up like a thief or whisper to drown 
 
 him. 
 He climbs to tops of trees ; at first he gains 
 Some feet; but flood so swift he's caught 
 
 by wave. 
 This the annual conflagration that 
 Increases their pain by rising tides of 
 
 death. 
 Just as the trees are cover'd with the 
 
 waves. 
 This man a caldron sees a floating by 
 
 20 
 
In which were men, the Kings of the Earth, 
 
 who were 
 Swimming in boiling, tumbling oil with 
 
 snakes ; 
 And reaches with his doleful, aching hand 
 To grasp its helve to ride the merciless 
 
 wave. 
 I see him as he sits on his hot seat, 
 His hair converted into a waving blaze. 
 Combing his tangled blazes with a pitch- 
 fork. 
 His smile is lost, at first, at last, and now. 
 He had no hope, he has no hope; nor can; 
 His peace is a continual cry in sobs and 
 
 tears ; 
 He has no life, no faith, no light, no God. 
 His visions are of deeper graves in Hell. 
 No never can he reach where evergreen 
 Does grow; where plants are kiss'd with 
 
 heaven's dew; 
 Where life does roam from sea to sea, and 
 
 land 
 To land; where God is smiling with His 
 
 beams 
 Of bountiful light, his words of soothing 
 
 love. 
 With shining face among the hosts of 
 
 Earth. 
 I also see in the great sea of flame. 
 Where misery is supreme; where wrath 
 
 does reign, 
 A baleful ship of dearth and slumbering 
 
 peace 
 In which are men of dreary speech; in 
 
 which 
 Are men full of the ire of Satan's tongue. 
 
 21 
 
They float the lake of fire with vengeful 
 aim 
 To scale declivities of hate and shame, 
 
 To mark the liquid foam of damnable waste 
 
 With marks of faithless pilots, who can't 
 cease. 
 
 Their job is — at the end of our imagina- 
 tion — 
 
 To measure these wild simmering, endless 
 seas 
 
 With tape so short we barely see with eye. 
 
 Thro' darkest Hell they go from pole to 
 pole. 
 
 It matters not how hot or cold the clime 
 
 May be; how little work or much there is. 
 
 They're flung in dusky, steaming, wrest- 
 less seas. 
 
 Like huge stones leaping down the moun- 
 tain side 
 
 With bouncing sparks as lightning bugs at 
 night. 
 
 They are forever lost on stormy seas, 
 
 Where bottomless sheol drinks their hearts 
 of crime. 
 
 This vast tempestuous deep puts forth a 
 smile. 
 
 As sour as the clouds of smoke from the 
 railway train 
 
 Is black. Reluctant is this stay in Hell. 
 
 I will not tell just here — My eye comes out 
 
 Of Hell — ^how joyous is its trip to bliss. 
 My longing eye comes back again from 
 whence 
 
 It came. It says, "I saw a boat with hole 
 
 In it, small hole. — ^That same old rocking 
 ship 
 
 22 
 
That had so many fiends." —Some men to- 
 day- 
 Find one sin, only one, in their dear hearts; 
 They travel on, at last they sink, so heavy! 
 "Now poor eye ! must you go back to that 
 
 place 
 Of exciting horror?" "Yes." "Ah, ah! but you 
 May loose your sight, when you shall reach 
 
 the home 
 Of vipers, where Beelzebub is chief." 
 
 Away my eye goes strolling back to take 
 Another look at desolation, to 
 , Search out this place, that I may have a 
 
 theme. 
 My lingering eye, as it persues its path; 
 As it forgets itself on flowery way, 
 Where righteousness is blooming every day; 
 Where aim no lower than the highest 
 
 mount'n 
 Peak; where success is sure, if we but act. 
 Stops, looking all around, and says, "What 
 
 peace ! 
 I must soar high like hawks, when havoc I 
 Reach. Why shall I do this? too bad, too 
 
 bad." 
 A spirit good says, "Sweet perfumes have 
 
 you 
 About your being; you must not get near; 
 For Hell must not inhale a pleasant fume." 
 How pleasing is my eye; some sweetness 
 
 will 
 Accompany me in dreary worlds unknown. 
 Then glibly walks my eye to gulf between; 
 But on this meadowy journey, gradually 
 There comes an easier walk. — I dread this 
 
 tour. 
 
 A morning glory, being by the way, 
 
Tho, wilt'd, seems to say, as it looks up 
 Into my face, "Will you come back this 
 
 way?" 
 Proclivities, now with force, incline my eye 
 To tell to men, how much the flower did. 
 Lo! high in air, I find myself in joy; 
 Pm standing on the graceful, flower's smile. 
 Would we but speak a motherly word in 
 
 smiles 
 To weeping souls as they go by in tears 
 To vast eternities unknown to us. 
 We'd shout profoundest joy, while here be- 
 low; 
 We'd soothe our wrestless, throbbing, dole- 
 ful hearts. 
 Yet not have I crept o'er this gulf between ; 
 But near. Ere I can cross the rusty door 
 Thro' lofty air, there comes a hungry man 
 Who says, "Stop, stop"! The speeding eye 
 
 stabs feet 
 In ground; with wonder looks! When calm, 
 
 it says, 
 "I shall be glad to comfort your poor soul 
 By going to your home to get you bread." 
 Tho' busy is the eye it stops its trip. 
 And grasps a burden that it may not reach 
 Its goal without a load like the foolish five. 
 "Back where I was" so says the eye, 
 
 "again" — 
 Between these lines we read excelsior deeds. 
 Near by; the tipping foot, almost to gulf, 
 Almost on silent way, is, to last track. 
 The first we know, we find ourselves in 
 
 death ; 
 We sleep in deedless arms, like finger rings. 
 Only to wag a load of sin up hills 
 
 24 
 
Of gnashing teeth; up hills of flaming 
 
 tongues, 
 Which, have no plains, no trees to which to 
 
 cling. 
 No tops that we can find, no peace, no end. 
 My eye can tell — Experience is its ground — 
 Of tours of distant lands both good and bad. 
 What it shall say, it will, no doubt, be true. 
 The story is from deepest depth of heart. 
 It says, "When Fm in yonder world of craze, 
 Coming out of this heathen land, my legs 
 Entirely are too short; but going in. 
 They are by far too long— May we go right ! 
 
 My eye is now at gulf, deciding how 
 Long to stay in death's house; and gazing 
 
 o'er 
 The steaming pots of punishment: no fear; 
 But dread. In solemn thought stood I at 
 
 door 
 Of death, of ruin, of pain, where is disease, 
 To turn my back on heaven's grandest land; 
 To turn my back on Satan's strongest foes. 
 When dread familiarize'd itself with me; 
 When it had made a skyrocket in my 
 
 mind — 
 I wish, I pray that I may have some aid, 
 While on this foreign trip thro' fretful 
 
 spirits — 
 In sudden flight, there came thro' starlit air 
 These words of ease: "Reach up your with- 
 ering hand; 
 You're not so heavy but that you can hold 
 Your weight, when lifted up from magnet 
 
 Earth." 
 
 Up goes my hand in haste, and it is caught; 
 And I am hoisted up, where all is smooth. 
 Above the worlds so high, I float behind 
 
 25 
 
This wandering wind like life boats behind 
 
 a ship. 
 While it is cutting, splitting midnight air 
 With speed, tremendous speed, a million 
 
 times 
 As fast as wireless telegram o'er seas, 
 I cast astonishing eye on helmsman of 
 The fleeting, scaling, harmless, graceful 
 
 wind ; 
 I hear ambition plundering in his heart, 
 Which, seems to speak to the tireless wind, 
 "With all this speed, we have not caught 
 
 our best; 
 
 wind! roll on, go on, press on, live on." 
 When I am at my journey's end, I think 
 
 As fast as thought can go; for moments I 
 Muse o'er the observation of my ride ; 
 
 1 utterly fail in thought to give these scenes. 
 Remember do I, as resorb'd I pure 
 
 Air of the richest make, the finger prints, 
 Which were so deeply, coarsely made on 
 
 ropes 
 That flutter'd aloof at rear of darting wind. 
 The lesson is for us to get just here: 
 Can we a sign make known of having borne 
 The burdons of men, till they have retained 
 Their finger prints on our unburdon'd 
 
 backs? 
 Do burdons cHng to us by day, by night? 
 With I have made the lengthy trip thro* 
 
 air. 
 Like Christ in love, Who, steps from orb to 
 
 orb, 
 I start to write the gift, the next in mind. 
 The page, en which I write, below is blank; 
 But ready is it to hear from my soul; 
 But ready is it to bear up the weight 
 
 26 
 
Of slowly running lines, to hand my thought 
 To neighbors far and near, abroad each 
 
 year. 
 Before we pencil thought in mind, we feel 
 Our need of Godly aid to arouse our mind. 
 In brevity we strike the line, the trail 
 Of thought to walk, step by step, to its end; 
 To oil the trail with every high ideal 
 I can — May we see in our hearts a grove 
 Of highest trees, root'd in the pools of love, 
 Branching far each way in a clime of lovely 
 
 spring, 
 With singing birds to cheer their wavering 
 
 boughs. 
 Almost I reach the Hne that I must track. 
 Though it seems as if my arm is too short. 
 Too small. Away from line we swerve, we 
 
 miro. 
 Could I but tip my foot to line, Fd walk. 
 When wandering wind has lightly smitten 
 
 the home 
 Of shame with dangling legs of secluded 
 
 eye; 
 When it has passed on thro' endless ages 
 In the Holy orbit of the forsaken Christ, 
 I have three days to spend among the tombs 
 Of everlasting, never ending death; 
 I take the time, while standing in the bogs 
 Of mucky plagues, to look o'er airless head 
 Thro' atmosphere of the angry bottomless 
 
 deep. 
 Surprise is not to me when I behold 
 The sunless day, the starless, moonless night. 
 Oh! gloom!! an awful gloom!!! from which 
 
 flinch. 
 Again my eye is forc'd to see the graves 
 
 27 
 
Of anatomies, wide, and long, and deep. I 
 
 see 
 At distance men with fire tipp'd picks of sin, 
 Digging in bursting, popping stones of heat, 
 Casting them out with blistering hands of 
 
 dread. 
 When I draw near, they see me not, nor 
 
 hear; 
 They stumble thro' necropolis o'er tombs 
 Of diabolic fops, and cheats, and crooks. 
 I see in midst of this grave yard a host 
 Of granite cutters, tiring with long days. 
 With chisels extremely dull, a long time ago. 
 Round which, including graves, a border 
 Of glistening, flaming swords and piercing 
 
 spears. 
 The longer they burn, the hotter, bigger the 
 
 blaze. 
 Like scar on babe; as he grows, so does the 
 
 scar. 
 I'm now content to find myself at brake 
 Of day, tiptoing in a large rough grave; 
 Because of gloaming only, looking for 
 The light. I am unable to tell how I 
 Got in the leviathan's grave the eve before. 
 My eye, I, wonders how could I have been 
 Put here without me knowing how it was. 
 My eye is now awake: it finds that it 
 Entirely was mistaken ; that it, in 
 Place of one night of sleep, had slept three 
 
 days; 
 That it, in place of having been plac'd there 
 In a mistic way, was driven by mean men, 
 Remembering all about the bitter cup. 
 This sleep was not a sleep of rest and peace. 
 My eye climbs up the walls; and as it sits 
 
 28 
 
With feet a hanging off the banks of grave, 
 Begins recalling his dream that awaits 
 His pen. A gazing man stands near to fret ; 
 But he holds mind right on his dream de- 
 spite 
 The gazer's quests, his mocks, and sarcas- 
 tic smiles. 
 About this time my eye finds that it has 
 No time to pen its dream, relieve its mind; 
 For it has cast a wistful eye in the far 
 Away East and seen azure sky unfolding 
 Its arms to that unimagionable speedy wind. 
 When eye had said "I", — "Yes. Get on," said 
 
 wind. 
 Intention was of eye to say, "I want to ride." 
 Again I look for steersman; he stands in 
 The front; he still is nervous, more than he 
 Had ever been before; he is as you 
 Can't hope to think, a going faster than 
 He came. The eye can easily say, "Too 
 
 slow." 
 The velocity of electricity is, 
 Compar'd to this great wind, a sickly snail. 
 As it is passing Neptune I loose grip 
 
 Of mighty wind; but I, like a car from 
 train, 
 
 Have up so much speed till I breathlessly 
 Scale on to maiden, Earthlit moon, where I 
 Touch speedy feet to Tycho ; where I 'm un- 
 known ; 
 Where I intend to tell my dream; where I 
 Expect to rest in calm repose, and talk 
 Face to face with the lunar, tranquil globe. 
 But she must say: "I have no air for you 
 To breathe; I'd like to keep you here and 
 hear 
 
 29 
 
Your dream. You will find life and air at 
 
 next 
 Stop, Satellite; she'll give you what you 
 
 need." 
 Again comes wandering wind to draw me 
 
 up 
 From such unfriendly grounds to take me 
 
 on, 
 Where I think I don't want to go ; but when 
 I get, to glittering star, or there, I find 
 Just what I want; I find a stool, a desk, 
 A pen — You know at least I have a friend. 
 The porter says with joyful face to me : 
 *I am so blad to have you at our Inn, 
 And as to your dream We'll gladly hear it 
 
 told; 
 Moreover we'll be glad to soothe your mind, 
 As you write, with every voice of cheer we 
 
 can. 
 Lo, and behold! I turn my head from desk, 
 As chair turns too, "I have instead of one 
 
 dream. 
 Three." He in softest tone, "Dream on" he 
 
 says. 
 I, turning back to desk and feeling so 
 Much welcome that I could not hardly 
 
 write. 
 Only with treatment kind to overcome. 
 Begin to tell as follows lines below. 
 "My dear most humble Earth: — I in re- 
 mote 
 
 And foreign lands, as seated in a snug 
 And beautiful room of flowers, red and blue, 
 In Paradise, if such can be ; it can. 
 No other purpose than to write to you, 
 Inclosing dream had in abominable 
 
 30 
 
Hell, when I was absent from the Earth, my 
 
 home, 
 Sweet home, a heaven for all who wills it. 
 Let dream be short or long or good or bad, 
 I make inception here in shades cf night. 
 Which, wrap their silent arms of peace and 
 
 rest 
 Around my soul of toil, extolling me, 
 A building up the mountain peaks of aim. 
 
 "0 Earth! I saw you being roll'd around 
 On plains of space, like a marble on the 
 
 ground. 
 About you were other spheres; some less, 
 
 some not; 
 They loved you; for they would reach all 
 
 hands 
 For your sweet clusters of the growing 
 
 vines 
 Of happiness; they would give comely 
 
 smiles, 
 When your blown breath was near their 
 
 daunted faces, 
 Which, was a drapery for their lifeless 
 
 cheeks. 
 Tho' you were rolling here and there among 
 The masses of the stars, the moons, the 
 
 suns, 
 I went to you in haste to see if you 
 Were ready to quit your big rolling game, 
 Lest you might get a bump and hurt your- 
 self. 
 Earth says: "Fll roll; I cannot stop; for 
 
 time 
 Says, "Now or never ; never then ; today." 
 
 "I saw the maiden moon in silvery dress. 
 As she came stepping lightly to the Earth 
 
 31 
 
With dry tears tumbling down her volcanic 
 
 face 
 With weak and feeble heart. I read these 
 
 words 
 In her face, as she creeps up to the Earth: 
 "0 florist, Earth! I've lost my all, my 
 
 breath ; 
 I find that man can't live by bread alone; 
 He isn't like the frogs and fishes of the sea. 
 But he must have a cool and pleasant drink 
 Of air"— "The Godly air is best of all" 
 Was quickly spoken by the righteous Earth. 
 "Had I the gases like those of yours. I'd rear 
 A great and stalwart family for our Lord 
 And Christ ; I would increase the number of 
 The saints; I'd feed them with the victuals 
 
 of 
 The juicy fruit of Adam's best select ; 
 I'd rain the mild and gentle summer rain ; 
 I'd flood their fields with corn, with wheat 
 
 and oats. 
 Their woods with cows, with sheep, with 
 
 swine; that they 
 Might eat and sleep when bitter winter 
 
 would 
 Come with its rains, its hails, its sleets, and 
 
 snows — " 
 Ha, ha! they'd write the most beautiful 
 
 "SNOW-BOUNDS." 
 "I saw the moon, when she had gone 
 
 away 
 From Earth, back to her native nest of 
 
 silence, 
 Go off into repose and sleep, until 
 The sun of TIME was swinging far o'er in 
 The West, preparing for a sad sun-set; 
 No other cause we find, but that she slept. 
 
 32 
 
She rose for her morning meal; Behold, 
 'Tis eve ! she wash'd her wrinkly fading face 
 And comb'd her hoary tangled hair with 
 
 frail, 
 And peaceless, slender, thin, remorseful 
 
 hands. 
 When quick and scanty meal was had, I 
 
 saw 
 Her, stick in hand, go crippling out into 
 The mighty deep to draw from the wells of 
 
 air 
 A pail of gas of peace of joy of life. 
 That she might furnish, yet, some breath 
 
 for men. 
 I saw her tottering stumbling 'long o'er 
 
 orbs 
 Of brilliant hope; and just before she 
 
 reach'd 
 The wells, I saw her fall. — Of course the 
 
 Earth 
 Stretch'd forth her helping hand of life and 
 
 light 
 And put the humpback maid on feet again. 
 She, then, with dragging feet went on to 
 
 wells 
 To draw the pail of gas; and yet be saved. 
 She forced a smile as bucket nethered to 
 The bottom of the well. The sad part is 
 The bucket had a lavish hole in it. 
 She drew so miserably slowly that her gas 
 Had found its way back, from whence it 
 
 had come. 
 Just so with us; we turn the windless of 
 Repentance, watchfulness so slow, that 
 
 when 
 We are touch'd by the icy hands of death, 
 We too have lost the pail of life and joy. 
 
 33 
 
I rest my pen and ink a moment for 
 To get a recreation that I may 
 Make plain to Earth the dream I must have 
 
 had 
 The second day or night. Unseating myself, 
 Withdrawing from the apartment for a 
 
 time, 
 I fondly walk to front of inn, the way 
 Being adorn'd with beautiful rugs and mats, 
 They being almost hidden by low swinging 
 Sweet flowers of the tenderest grown in pit ; 
 When front is reach'd I found a hammock 
 
 swung 
 On piazza in a golden clime of spring 
 In which I plunged. Around me sits the 
 
 birds, 
 Uplifting me by song, that thrills my heart 
 With notes of cheer, unspeakable cheer. 
 
 Methinks 
 I hear their tiny hearts in softest tones 
 Speak gently to the atmosphere thes» 
 
 words : 
 "Delay no time however pleasant the clime." 
 These kindly spoken words immediately 
 Raise up my easy head and find me soon, 
 Back at my writing desk with no fatigue. 
 Oh that we'd let the tender hearted birds 
 Build nests in our hearts as thick as flies 
 
 with words 
 Like these! I leave the porch with belt of 
 
 birds. 
 On palisades to hide myself in thought 
 And write the second dream of the second 
 
 trip. 
 
 Which, was had in the torrid zone of Hell, 
 In grave where decaying fangs were pillows 
 for 
 
 34 
 
My agonizing head. — Tho* died I not. 
 This prelude now steps aside to hear the 
 
 dream. 
 "Most noble Earth, while Dixie sings her 
 
 sonfi:s 
 Of freedom, liberty, prosperity, 
 And peace, will you give ear to my middle 
 
 dream? 
 Do not forget the first; don't fail to remem- 
 ber this. 
 "On that same sleeping tour of three long 
 
 days 
 And nights, I dream'd a dream. There must 
 
 have been 
 A serpent sitting on my head. I think, 
 
 Earth, 
 He made me dream the dream. Earth, 
 
 you tell 
 Those refulgent sons of yours that when 
 
 they stand 
 On a wet dish rag the water will come 
 
 forth. 
 "I dream'd I saw the aboriginal babe, 
 Adam, the protasis of the drama of 
 Mankind, where patronomatology got 
 Its spring. My eye pass'd o'er a road that 
 
 has 
 Been wander'd o'er by many a man ; and as 
 Soon as their eyes were there, they thought, 
 
 no doubt. 
 That Adam was and is the first human soul. 
 That much is true. But back of him was 
 
 God, 
 The Was, The AM, and SHALL BE, the 
 
 Father, Son, 
 And Holy Ghost, perhaps. Who, wav'd his 
 
 hands 
 
 35 
 
Thro' new made air and wept with joy o'er 
 
 Earth. 
 When God had made all else, He saw fit to 
 Make man, the worst and best of all He 
 
 made. 
 He made man in the simplest possible form 
 And breath'd the breath of life into his 
 
 nostrils. 
 And he became a living perfect soul. 
 He plac'd him in the indescribable Eden, 
 The mother of our Earth, a paradise, 
 Where flow'd the waters of the Pison and 
 The Gihon, Hiddekel and Euprates rivers. 
 The zenith of Adam's happiness was had 
 Just after he awoke from that deep sleep. 
 The next step for patronomatologists 
 Can be had here in the name, our mother 
 
 Eve, 
 We think the beautifulest that had, yet, 
 
 been. 
 Hark! lo! in crept the burnt — ^back, subtle 
 
 serpent 
 Of Hell to strike the blow of the human 
 
 race; 
 Then came first grave for disobedient man. 
 "I saw on the white and lovely plains of 
 
 Eden 
 A chromolithograph of all the future. 
 Of God, the Trinity, the Pillar of 
 The universe, it being under shades 
 Of gentle fruitful trees, the heaven's best. 
 But before I had read all thereon, I heard 
 The first clock striking, so I turn'd around 
 To see what it was; I saw three hands on 
 This clock; they were to measure time, the 
 
 first. 
 
 36 
 
No time had pass'd, till a million clicks were 
 
 gone. 
 Oh that we might be the jewels of this 
 
 clock ! 
 A litte later you will find some oth'r 
 Time pieces; but they will soon run down 
 
 ana die. 
 I read on face of this great clock these 
 
 words : 
 'Some day these rivers could be easily 
 
 fiird 
 With tears from posterity of Adam's sons.' 
 
 "And as the attraction of a magnificent 
 And marvelous steed drew me away, I had 
 Only time 'nough to read from face of 
 
 clock 
 (Among the sad disasterous writings, which 
 Were innumerable — too bad to read) these 
 
 words : 
 'One hand will many hundred years from 
 
 now 
 Be dropp'd, and swallowed up in Satan's 
 
 mouth.' 
 This prophecy was read while running to 
 That golden, glistening horse, which had 
 
 grown large 
 So quick. The closer to the horse, the bigger 
 He was. The steed's name was time, speedy 
 
 time. 
 On which our father Adam drew the first 
 Rein, when he was pure, young. Before this 
 
 steed 
 Took flight, I saw the Lord a holding him 
 By reins, till Adam was large 'nough to 
 
 ride. 
 "The saddle of this horse was padd'd and 
 
 stitch'd 
 
 - 37 
 
With Eden fruits; and girded with the 
 
 streams 
 Of un variable gentleness; bedeck'd with 
 
 tree 
 Of life which's full of artists, poets, and 
 
 bards ; 
 Bedewed with drippings from the honey- 
 comb 
 Of eternal glory; wall'd with honeysuckle 
 And blooming roses; spray'd with mist 
 
 from fount, 
 The heart of God. The stirrups were the 
 
 hands 
 Of God ; the leathern seat was His burdon'd 
 
 back; 
 
 The blanket was Jehovah's cushioned feet. 
 
 The skillful saddler was our father Adam; 
 
 But by no means was he tied to the saddle. 
 
 "To complete the rigging of Eden, the 
 
 saddle of 
 That sprinting steed of time; the great All 
 
 Wise, 
 All powerful God, when He had made the 
 
 flower 
 Of man from Adam's rib, bethought Him- 
 self 
 Of heaven's archangel, deeming it wise to 
 
 send 
 Him with the rich rosebud thro' silent air 
 (A stream of light, a mist of love, a streak 
 Of beauty were the tracks made on the 
 
 celestial 
 Air by this angel) to the garden of 
 Eden. Now that she had tenderly entered 
 
 Eden 
 With Adam — Doubtless both were happy 
 
 then — 
 
 38 
 
She found that she had mounted a steed 
 
 of time. 
 No doubt — ^in my mind — they had a smiling 
 
 face; 
 No doubt there smiles did radiate before 
 The eyes of this great steed of time as does 
 The head light of a train in dead hours of 
 
 night. 
 They saw while riding this swift horse of 
 
 time 
 The sweet fruits of Eden swinging o'er 
 
 their path — 
 God spread a blanket of sugar under trees 
 As He in winter does our lands with snows. 
 "Both man and woman are our father 
 
 Adam. 
 It was the dilated rib of Adam's side 
 That jumped up from saddle with the skill 
 
 of a knight 
 To seize the forbidden fruit — And it she got. 
 Not strange, when she lit, back on horse, 
 
 bare-back. 
 She failed to observe the lightning speed 
 Of horse. The wind blew and she shook, like 
 
 plume 
 On lady's hat. How many moments I 
 Know not till Adam did the same. He too 
 Had let the saddle go by, while in air. 
 
 "The agile steed still had the saddle on 
 Its back; but empty of human souls it was. 
 These two time riders could not hope to get 
 In saddle 'gain. I think they would do well 
 To even get into its umbrage ; for 
 They had done wrong. I saw them sitting 
 
 on 
 The backbone of the horse to be jolted thro* 
 
 39 
 
Their life. They need'd no spur, no switch, 
 
 nor whip 
 To make their trip. Their horse had lengthy 
 
 wind; 
 He had the light race-horse shoes; he had 
 
 large 
 Windpipe and nostrils; but no stop nor 
 
 corns. 
 He had an excellent head and flashing eyes. 
 His respiration was like that of fat hog 
 In August noon sun. He took no time to 
 Paw, prance, or play. He kept on going 
 
 with 
 The excomunicated two, let them 
 Be sad or glad ; he kept the time with breath 
 And sung with feet; his main and tail could 
 
 not 
 But stand straight with a quivering trem- 
 ble, nor 
 Coud he but hear the cries, the groans, and 
 
 moans 
 Of Adam and Eve. He knew who it was on 
 His back ; he knew their destin'd end of life. 
 I saw Adam pulling back on reins, but he 
 Check'd not. He was no dwarf. He sped on 
 
 before. 
 We can not stop the steed; but we can 
 
 guide 
 Him right or left — Keep his daring eyes on 
 
 Christ. 
 "I saw their fading smiles ; their sightless 
 
 eyes, 
 As they themselves did hide behind a tree. 
 Filled, no doubt, with figs of sweetest 
 
 flavor; 
 As they deprived the tree of its pure leaves 
 To hide the unhideable blackness of a sin. 
 
 40 
 
I saw their fingers bleeding while they 
 
 sew'd 
 The leaves of stainless trees to shield a sin. 
 Their drooping eyes would look no longer 
 
 up; 
 They felt deep down in heart the throes of 
 
 death : 
 Their speech was frail; their ears were 
 
 deaf; their life 
 Was short; their hopes were none; their 
 
 deeds were done. 
 Oh, didder did they when Jehovah came 
 In cool of day! — He brought no glass to en- 
 large 
 This speck of sin found in the garden of 
 The bliss^ — a calling Adam 'Where art 
 
 thou?' 
 In faltering voice they said 'We've sin'd a 
 
 sin.' 
 Adam soon found that sweat of face would 
 
 make 
 A healthy crop of corn and wheat and oats. 
 His face produced a crop of sweat each day; 
 His grubbing hoe was sleek with toiling 
 
 hands ; 
 He dug a thousand digs before he heard 
 The dinner bell. Then he with watering 
 
 lips 
 Left field of roots, of stumps, of trees, and 
 
 rocks 
 To dine. I saw the drops of sweat pass by 
 His eating mouth, they seem'd to say to 
 
 bread : 
 *I bought you on that old, rough stumpy 
 
 hill; 
 You're welcome here.' They pass on to his 
 
 chin 
 
 41 
 
And on to floor to await next day for more. 
 The reader must conjecture what Eve did, 
 While Adam dug in field to get their grub. 
 
 "Just here I went to library, and there 
 I dust'd my knees in dust; and rising from 
 Them, I reach'd high upon the highest shelf 
 Of knowledge ; soon my hand was burdoned 
 
 with 
 First volume of the books. My eye was 
 
 caught. 
 And down I sat to muse o'er printed truth. 
 Therein I found great slugs of inspiration; 
 They swung to every leaf as numerous as 
 The minutes of the day. I got a glimpse 
 Of future while Fs reading that great book ; 
 I saw before our mother Eve a tear, 
 Which she didn't see till it had tumbled 
 
 down 
 Her hectic cheek. Its harum-scarum look 
 Produc'd a hazardous feeling in my heart. 
 'Tis poised on a wave of precious blood 
 Not far from her benignant face and eye. 
 It shown the rays of death, the gleams of 
 
 ruin. 
 "Behind this tear I saw a tender smile, 
 Which drove away the poison air of tear. 
 Not only did it shine before but behind 
 As well; it stood behind the tear and saw 
 Its mother's cheeks of rosy shades of red 
 And white and blue, environed with the 
 
 golden 
 Earrings; with beautiful curls a floating 
 
 with 
 Silk ribbons, blistered with the raving tear. 
 "I, too, was shock'd to see this shining 
 
 face. 
 Illumined with the rays of eternal hope, 
 
 42 
 
A metamorphos'd into a swarthy pale 
 By that low tear ! When it fell to her lap 
 It gave the screams and cries, which have 
 
 been heard 
 Throughout the ages; and which shall still 
 
 be heard. 
 When it became a tiller of the soil 
 It bath'd itself in blood of sacred smile, 
 Which was the faithful minder of the sheep. 
 This tear was Cain, the living smile was 
 
 Able. 
 "The last I saw of the vagabond, when he 
 Had pour'd his brother's blood from palm 
 
 of hand 
 Into the mouth of the Earth, was: when 
 
 he had reach'd 
 The entrance of the land of Nod in East; 
 Where he with painful sight did gaze out 
 
 o'er 
 A wilderness of waste; where sun did rise 
 At ten and set at two ; where swamps would 
 
 allow 
 His head yet to be seen; where fish hawks 
 
 would 
 Strive to steal his eye balls; where frogs 
 
 were in 
 Great stacks; where men were scarce; 
 
 where fish swim not. 
 I saw no more of pitiful Cain ; I left 
 Him in this place to stay, to see him no 
 
 more. 
 This is my second dream, and only a 
 
 dream." 
 
 I dry my pen and calmly lay it down, 
 
 Unbend my back and turn from writing 
 desk, 
 
 Unseat myself and proudly walk to front 
 
 43 
 
Thro' arch of ferns to be baptized in the 
 
 light 
 Of the stars; to soothe my exhausted mind 
 
 once more. 
 The curls of maiden moon don't dangle 
 
 o'er 
 My frosty head ; they are concealed beneath 
 The Earth; I content myself to look still 
 
 further, 
 And thus I find a higher light, by far. 
 
 Oh what unspeakable pleasure to inhale 
 The unadulterated breath of nature! 
 My mind scoops up flecks from the heavenly 
 
 breeze 
 To corroborate its intellectual force; 
 To put on wheels the mountainous speedy 
 
 thoughts ; 
 To make hand holts for other, stronger 
 
 brains. 
 The transparent, transcendental starlit 
 
 sky 
 Allows the moon to loom up and unfold 
 Her sunlit wings and fan away the dark. 
 Before the porter said, "Bed time isn't it?" 
 We were reserve on porch; I spoke, at 
 
 last: 
 
 "The majesty of these clever bodies has 
 Inflam'd your swimming thoughts of imagi- 
 nation ; 
 
 And will you not express your heart to 
 me?" 
 
 Rephed he, "Yes." "Say on" I said. The 
 
 porter, 
 The count, resum'd : "Superior is a man 
 To this huge moon." My thoughts were 
 
 paralyz'd. 
 
 44 
 
"Oh how!" The count repli'd: "A man can 
 
 shine 
 Around entire world at one time; moon 
 
 can't." 
 A pause. I read many sentences from this 
 Stiff statement to myself. Again he said: 
 "The words of good books are like houses 
 
 in time 
 Of sleets that have long fingers of brittle 
 
 ice; 
 They have long tags of inspiration cling'ng 
 To them; when broken off more comes in 
 
 . place. 
 I then assur'd myself that he thought deep, 
 And broad, aloft — My thoughts were 
 
 drown'd in deep. 
 My judgment found no jargon in his speech. 
 Refrain did we to longer talk this night. 
 'l was mildly touch'd on shoulder by my 
 
 friend ; 
 A whisper: "You may retire if you wish." 
 
 I gave 
 Heed reluctantly; for I was sure, to breathe 
 Fresh air and gaze at brilliant planets 
 
 were 
 By far, a greater peace. Fs ushered in 
 A snug trim room; I was sure that I would 
 Find good bed; instead I found the mother 
 
 of 
 Sweet comfort, which did nourish me till 
 
 morn. 
 
 She unfolded her bosom of the soundest 
 sleep. 
 
 I whiled away the sweetest night of lifel 
 What joy my soul was filll'd with no one 
 knows ! 
 
 45 
 
My pains and aches got gone; My life in- 
 creased. 
 This rare night turn'd its back on me, and 
 mom 
 Touched me with fairest hands, but thin and 
 
 cool. 
 I loathe thee, morn, pass; tears ope my 
 
 eyes 
 When velvet, plushy night did say to morn 
 "Adieu!" These parting friends bestir'd my 
 
 life. 
 The light knew that its victory was dead 
 
 sure. 
 At last, I gave consent to expostulation 
 Of light; because its explanations were 
 So pleasing and promising. I saw the deeds 
 Awaiting doing, many; flash'd before 
 My eyes amost like diamonds in the sun. 
 
 I rose and found near by a bowl and pan 
 For which to lave my hands and face, which 
 
 I 
 Did, that I might wash away the morning 
 
 sleep. 
 And be a seer of my daily chores. 
 When face was washen I was taken to 
 A cozy dining room — My eyes were yet 
 Affected by the bright red Eastern sun — 
 Where wall was hung with modest hand- 
 made drawings; 
 Where sundry flowers drove stale odors out; 
 Where I sat on a cushioned seat to eat; 
 Where napkins seem'd to say "please touch 
 
 me not." 
 The pantry fill'd the room with balmy fra- 
 grance ; 
 The sideboard smoothed the air with silver 
 ware. 
 
 46 
 
Around the table sat the count, a son, 
 And countess in a queenly dress, and I; 
 The noblest, richest, humblest group of 
 
 souls 
 I ever saw. Cajolement found no home 
 Here ; not a pedant was there to be found. 
 Before we ate the mellow breakfast of 
 The outspread delicious viands, we took 
 
 time 
 To list to benediction, which's as pure, 
 It seem'd, as that one at Bethsaida. 
 The countess didn't forget to put dough in 
 • bread. 
 
 Neither complain'd of what she had. Fll say: 
 No one had to tell joke to pass away 
 The time. Domestic science was here, at 
 
 best. 
 Without description of the things we ate, 
 I'll say again that I thought Christmas had 
 Crept up before I thought. If it were possi- 
 ble 
 To hear a person think, you could have 
 
 heard 
 Me think a mile: "This is the best repast 
 I ever ate." I said while leaving table 
 To the meek, fair woman that I had been 
 
 fill'd 
 With courteous thoughts; I suffer from the 
 
 want 
 Of vivid appreciation of such meals; 
 The zenith of my eulogizing power 
 At this time was found, and that I must 
 
 return 
 To desk to write the third, last of my 
 
 dreams. 
 
 As I glibly walk'd to desk to write my 
 dream, 
 
I had a eomposition of good thoughts, 
 Which I hadn't time to write ; tho' them I 
 
 kept. 
 I now capitulate to pen and desk, 
 Which is my master, and my body's ruin. 
 "0 righteous Earth, this bright and shin- 
 ing day 
 Gives to your son a prerogative to clothe 
 My last dream in black ink on these white 
 
 pages, 
 Which, flutters in my mind till I can't rest. 
 As you, I look to end of dream with delight. 
 Blush not, Earth, at the vanity in this 
 
 dream ; 
 Content youself maternal Earth; unmask 
 Your eyes of tears; see bright, hear plain, 
 
 and think. 
 One thing knows son he's in good care; but 
 
 where ? 
 "0 Earth, I write with fear and trem- 
 bling. Why? 
 Because the Christ has me, sees me, hears 
 
 me. 
 A cat has soft and tender feet; they walk 
 On feet like time; no noise: and with the 
 
 same 
 Merciful feet from which he spreads keen 
 
 claws. 
 And nabs the vermin in the crib with ire. 
 So does our Lord ; with same pure hands of 
 
 love 
 Which He lifts up and heals the wounded 
 
 with. 
 He takes us in death at discretion of 
 His will. He comes, we never know just 
 
 when. 
 
 48 
 
"I fear we are too far from God 
 
 Earth- 
 When this I explain I'll start to write the 
 
 dream — 
 Once I was in a stable in time of 
 A storm; I saw a crack, but it was small 
 Little thro' which I saw ; but stepping near, 
 I found I could see much. From Christ too 
 
 far. 
 Where was the apostle Peter when he 
 
 curs'd? 
 Now hear, Earth, the torturous dream of, 
 - Hell." 
 
 "I dream'd that Satan tried to cook me in 
 A stove, heat seven times as hot as it 
 Was wont to be heat. His most wicked men 
 Were in charge of this great range; they 
 
 were base 
 And strong; they thought they knew it all. 
 
 'Alas!' 
 Ejaculated I; for I could see 
 That which they couldn't, I knew their fatal 
 
 end. 
 
 They agitated me like hydrophobic 
 
 Dogs; they maneuver'd like delirious 
 
 snakes. 
 I judg'd that they had come from the jun- 
 gles of 
 Morocco, where were once the cannibals, 
 And infidels among whom they were 
 chiefs. 
 "Around this dreadful stove lay cigar- 
 ette 
 Smokers a thousand deep ; all they could do 
 Was puff and blow a stream of smoke and 
 fire; 
 
 49 
 
Their fingers were like yellow burning 
 
 stubs — 
 I read on each pale finger nail 'too late.' 
 
 "I saw an infidel go driving off 
 With a wagon load of vile whoremongers 
 
 who 
 Had been parsh'd alive like pork meat 
 
 skins; their heads 
 Were jolted from their bodies on the wagon 
 As corn in shuck is jolted from a tip-top 
 Load as farmer hauls from field o^er rocks 
 
 and ridges. 
 But still went up the hideous yells and 
 
 shrieks. 
 My monologue was: these whoops'll ever 
 
 sound. 
 "This infidel was a picklock, a pickpocket 
 
 of 
 The highest type. He started when he was 
 Quite young; his first dismounting stone 
 
 from Christ 
 Was: *it seems,' the next 1 can't,' the next 
 
 1 won't.' 
 His elocution was most familiar with 
 The latter two. The result of his bad 
 
 works 
 Sets him on a hot and vicious wagon of 
 Eternal Hell to drive with burning lines. 
 "When I had got this tragical view of 
 
 ruin; 
 When I had reach'd, I thought, the greatest 
 
 peril. 
 The fierce old serpent, who beguiled Eve, 
 Thrust me into the baking closet where 
 Men stood articulating sentences of 
 Discord, disdain, distress, regret, remorse. 
 
 50 
 
My ordeal threw the rays of disappoint- 
 ment 
 Around the yellow eyes of Satan; he 
 Almost was in a paroxysm: because 
 No hairs were sing'd, not one; no clothes 
 
 were burn'd. 
 All he could read from my shining face 
 Was: "I will serve the Lord and Woo his 
 
 spirit." 
 To Satan I was like a statue of ice 
 Unmeltable. Prevaird did I o'er him 
 In den of death and fire among the gnaw- 
 * ing, 
 The griping, wheezing, hellish spirits of 
 
 death ; 
 Therefore said he, 'Come out, be free from 
 
 us.' 
 I saw the gloaming of a new, bright day; 
 Then rolPd away the burdon from my 
 
 back; 
 Then shouts of victory inhabited: air. 
 In my ecstatic triumph I took time 
 To look back where I had been; it only 
 
 made 
 It hotter for those demons of the rack." 
 
 You can't conjecture how bad I did want 
 To leave this old leviathan's harsh grave. 
 I soon saw hopes swinging on the lips 
 Of mercy, heard them ringing in my ears 
 Like church bells on a happy Sunday mom. 
 I felt just like the negro slave when free. 
 As that grand wandering wind came rush- 
 ing on 
 
 I beheld in far off west a bright red glory. 
 Such a gift, a boutiful boon was this re- 
 lief. 
 
 51 
 
I fold my writings, seal them in envel- 
 ope 
 
 On which I place a heavy postage stamp; 
 
 Withdraw myself from desk, and skip with 
 pride 
 
 To village office where I mail'd the packet. 
 
 Around I whirl'd at office, back to count's 
 
 Home. Before I had returned I saw to left 
 
 A cluster of leafy trees thro' which noon- 
 day ^ 
 
 Sun fiash'd its brilliant light to stir their 
 cheer. 
 
 These healthful trees kept no company 
 with the dead. 
 
 They had prodigious time to seat great 
 flocks 
 
 Of feasting birds. The swinging boughs 
 mov'd slowly 
 
 On feathery wings of gentle breeze and 
 rock'd 
 
 To and fro the singing birds of innocence. 
 
 They breath'd the antiquated air of long 
 
 Ago, and blended it with notes of thrill. 
 
 They shone their clear-cut eyes about my 
 frame 
 
 With fear and trembling. They were to 
 this home 
 
 Protection, like a martin to his gourds; 
 
 They fiogg'd the sailing doubts and fears 
 to death 
 
 Before they reach'd this home of philan- 
 thropy. 
 
 They murder'd all my doubts while in 
 
 This constellation of most beautiful trees; 
 
 I felt as sinless as a butterfly. 
 
 Forthwith I went back to the count's rich 
 home 
 
 . 52 
 
Where was a luxurious dinner table, like 
 That one so vividly described by Irving, 
 A waiting to give welcome to a stranger. 
 Who slightly smiled, if not in face, in heart. 
 The nooning in this lovely Indian sum- 
 mer ^ 
 Grafted in me a book of future aim; 
 Between each bite the count took time to 
 
 say 
 A word small 'nough, large 'nough, that, 
 
 fits the reader 
 Exactly. Like a dentist cutting gums 
 From tooth, they cut discouragement from 
 
 me. 
 brighten did my face! while feasting on 
 These stout uplifting words of good advice. 
 They bridg'd a hopeless life with lasting 
 
 vim. 
 New steps were made; success was reach'd 
 
 and kept. 
 Now dinner is o'er, the word, adieu, floats 
 
 up 
 On mind, which, must be said with thanks 
 
 and praise. 
 The early evening sun did pour its gleams 
 Around my glimmering eye of boundless 
 
 faith, * '■ 
 
 As I crept off from this sweet habitation, 
 Where streaming founts of Godly grace 
 
 gave vent 
 To me. A step or two is made. I stop! 
 A geranium stood on piazza on my right. 
 Which, said: "Look up; go up; stay up: 
 
 that's all"— 
 These words rung in my ears like curfew 
 
 tolls. 
 Oh listen, weary heart to flower's phrases! 
 
More steps are made, I find a halo of 
 Sweet violets, which dread to see me cross. 
 Tho' I did raise my dime-shin'd yellow shoes, 
 With bran-new suit, as I stepp'd o'er the 
 
 hedge. 
 With tips of toes a shining like new 
 
 money 
 In midday sun, I left a crippled place 
 On these pure flowers of the lovely border. 
 Let us not stain a flower of our age; 
 But paint them with a breath of lifelike 
 
 hues. 
 I pass on from this home thro' woods 
 
 and fields. 
 Across the dells and hills in dreamy paths, 
 Where yelling cries and wheezing sounds 
 
 are heard; 
 Where no voice of the human tongue had 
 
 ever been; 
 Where huge fir trees did flash a wild and 
 
 nervous 
 Eye on me. They shrunk 'neath a cloud of 
 
 fear. 
 And spoke with their fluttering tongues, 
 
 "Our end is here!" 
 They yielded to my words a dark gloomy 
 
 shade 
 In which I was, compared to modern shades 
 Of trees, like chigoe. Uncouth was gossip of 
 Those trees. With lighten'd step I move on 
 
 to 
 Front with a careful ear. I look this way 
 And that, but see no apparition. In 
 About one hour I cast a wistful but 
 A fearful eye away out before, where I, 
 As sun was swinging low in distant west. 
 Saw in a smoky, dismal, lonely dale, 
 
 54 
 
A perpendicular stream of climbing high 
 Smoke, which became a target for my eye. 
 All looks were drawn that way till I was 
 
 there. 
 The closer I drew to this smoke, the better. 
 When I was in a mile of this IdIuc smoke, 
 I heard a roaring that delay'd my tens. 
 When thought reflected back to me; no 
 
 harm 
 Is there; this is a creek a rolling o'er 
 A wooden dam where wheat and com is 
 
 ground. 
 Go on and share a night with generous 
 
 miller ; 
 And lose your weary body in his soft 
 And puffy feather beds, and happy boy 
 
 be. 
 So trudging on I went a stumbling o'er 
 The stones by side of rivulet which trickl'd 
 Down cove: at last, I came to pond where 
 
 ducks 
 Were numerous as were the stars in sky; 
 Where frogs did fill the dusky air with 
 
 notes 
 Of reproach and throw the lulling shades of 
 
 night 
 Full of imaginary apparitions, which 
 Clung to my coat cue with leech stick- 
 ing grips. 
 On down the brink of pond I go till race 
 Is reach'd, which, cuts thro' old red hill, 
 
 and deep. 
 
 As I march down the snake-trail race, I 
 hear 
 
 The dull sound of the whirling burr. Be- 
 hold! 
 A little lower down stands a cotton gin, 
 
 65 
 
A thought of Eli Whitney humming low. 
 But first I visit mill, where mealy miller 
 Greets me with flaring eyes of wonder that 
 Upsets his drowsiness till the midnight 
 
 hour. 
 It had been so long since a stranger had 
 Been there, that chickens cackled as I ap- 
 
 proach'd. 
 When sun had uncloth'd itself of light, 
 
 retir'd 
 Behind the blue hills of the west, and left 
 Us in the gloaming of a lonesome place; 
 Where only the crooning of this rocking 
 
 mill 
 And the pitiful lowing of unfed milch 
 
 cows 
 Could be heard, th' miller stopp'd the water 
 
 wheel. 
 So still; we leave the ghostlike mill to 
 
 sleep 
 Till morn; and as we grope to miller's 
 
 house 
 We come to creek with foot-log anchored 
 
 on 
 Either brink of stream with old rusty 
 
 plow 
 Chains, which make her safe in time of a 
 
 fresh ; 
 And as we walk this swinging log we see 
 Thro' sycamore trees the darting, shooting 
 
 stars. 
 We stop, but soon we start again. We 
 
 cross 
 In safety and reach his old timey house, 
 Where he seats his guest near by keg of 
 
 walnuts, 
 And says: "Rest easy while I carry in 
 
 56 
 
My morning wood, Fll soon be in to talk 
 With you." I hardly take time to look up, 
 (As I sit by a sparkling hickory fire) 
 When miller 'turns from his nightly chores; 
 
 I had 
 Already great piles of hulls round me 
 
 such 
 That if I had quit just then, I might have 
 Got out with ease. A little later I back out 
 And find myself a standing by a heaping 
 Table, where I reseat, reeat and rest. 
 
 Now supper is o'er we forget to eat 
 Till breakfast smiles a broad and hearty 
 
 smile. 
 Around that huge log fire I hear the 
 
 tales 
 Of ancient times. No history do they know, 
 So I devote myself to theme as best 
 I can; I tell traditions of my early 
 Days; I make, happy them and pass away. 
 The crowing cock reminds us that bed 
 Time was at hand. We scattered to our 
 
 beds 
 And slept a sleep so sound that we're tir'd 
 
 at morn. 
 I lit out of bed next mom and heard 
 
 mill 
 A running silence out of this still place 
 With dull murmuring voices like colonial 
 
 spinning 
 Wheel twisting thread. Tho' all was well 
 
 with me 
 As they hadn't eaten breakfast yet. I heard 
 A tinkling bell to which responded I. 
 The sun made moving pictures in the steam 
 Which flow'd from my two cups of coffee as 
 I ate. It shone not thro' a window pane ; 
 
 67 
 
But thro' shed door and cracks, which made 
 
 me shake. 
 I try, but fail, to vacate table of 
 Its food; I learn that I must go and leave 
 The table full. My wallet has no regret, 
 When I deprive it of a friendly dollar. 
 I shake their innocent, honest hands and 
 
 leave 
 Them with smiles on their faces. I, too, felt 
 
 good. 
 Away I went. Again I found myself 
 In forests broad and deep, where din was 
 
 not; 
 Where spoors of wildest beasts insinuate 
 Desire of beasts for human gore. I went 
 As far as I could go ; my nerves f ail'd me. 
 At last, I threw myself on altar of 
 The Christ. I never cower'd so low before. 
 "0 Lord, I am the sacrifice for my sins; 
 I bring myself to Thee, submitting all. 
 I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou are Christ, 
 
 the God 
 Of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob. 
 Lord, I believe that mercy has an end; 
 I believe, according to your book You will 
 Extend your mercies yet, if I will do 
 Just right." About this time out came a 
 
 lizzard 
 From under bended knees, which was a sign 
 To show me that I had, yet, hopes worth 
 
 while. 
 I did not want to pray at times: but I 
 Kept on ; I felt that all was vain, pray'd on. 
 The stormy winds pass'd o'er my head and 
 
 struck 
 
 The exalted, dignified; like trees upright. 
 They are the first to fall in time of storm; 
 
 68 
 
They make the humble crippl'd tree their 
 
 pillow. 
 This prayer built up more genius than a 
 
 world 
 Of men could have built in a million years, 
 Yea, all eternity. Our God is Master 
 Over all; He gives or takes, destroys or 
 
 makes. 
 Man is to be so great, none can be God. 
 Some say: "If he had gone thro' college, he 
 Would have been so much greater." True it 
 
 is; 
 But some men can be as great as God wants, 
 Or as great as He intends for man to be. 
 Without the walls of a college swinging to 
 His brain. Do right; serve God; be led by 
 
 Him ; 
 Learn all you can; trust Him; love Him; 
 
 that's all. 
 A preternatural flight was being made 
 During this prayer. I found myself at 
 
 threshold 
 Of that old weather beaten house of ruin, 
 Where Christ was knocking still, and yearn- 
 ing for 
 Those withering souls to ope the door to 
 
 Him ; 
 Oh, longing with a bleeding tender heart ! 
 When I awoke from all my sins. The way 
 Was easily trod; because of trust in God. 
 With dread, tremendous dread, my eye, 
 
 again, 
 
 Peep'd thro' my eyelashes, and saw in that 
 
 old house 
 Of degradation, dismay; of sulphury odors, 
 Which was a regret that tongue can never 
 
 tell; 
 
 69 
 
For I knew that my last trip was not made. 
 I thought of making Tarshish my last 
 
 stop; 
 Then I thought of the weeds that might 
 
 surround 
 My neck as they did Jonah's ; but spirit good 
 I let be ruler of my life, and thus 
 Went on despite myself into the walls 
 Of notorious demolition, where men go 
 For defrayment of their own conduct, while 
 
 in 
 
 This world; where reeking seas surmount 
 the heads 
 
 Of subtle demons: for this was my duty. . 
 
 None were there, who, could get a sprink- 
 ling from 
 
 The heavenly orion of the firmament. 
 
 The nearest peace they were, was when 
 thier feet 
 
 Were pester'd by the devils of this Hell, 
 
 Who, drew their nails from feet with tweez- 
 ers hot. 
 While in this place of oppression, where 
 soil was 
 
 Too poor for hope to grow; where soil was 
 made 
 
 Of the hottest ashes of Hell, I clung to 
 Christ. 
 
 He bore me o'er the deepest pain with ease ; 
 
 He cloth'd me with the paraclete that I 
 
 Might not be sing'd by flaming blazes of 
 
 Eternal fate. Because I clung to Him, 
 
 He wrote just under my name with unfad- 
 ing 
 
 Ink these words: "Mercy given to this serv- 
 ant." 
 
 About this time He stamped in my sad heart 
 
 60 
 
The word FAITH. These big letters were 
 
 raised high 
 Enough, till they were felt without a doubt 
 
 I am led out of molested house, at last, 
 With feet on higher ground. Farewell, fare- 
 well! 
 When I get out Christ says: "Help knock 
 
 at door." 
 He turns Himself around and points to 
 
 West 
 With these amazing words: "The world, a 
 
 great 
 Pond, which is frozen O'er. Your duty is 
 To break the ice and fish for lost, lost men ; 
 To tell the cold, cold members of the church 
 Were they to walk on this icy pond, the ice 
 Would freeze beneath their feet twice as 
 
 thick as it is." 
 The more we knock the more we get. Let us 
 Beat door with all our might and break the 
 
 ice 
 And fish while it is day; for night is nigh. 
 When I look'd out o'er lands, I saw a farm 
 With center rich in soil; but covered with 
 Water, like swamps. It made it untendable. 
 Just so with hearts of sin. We need to drain 
 Our boggy hearts, that they might make a 
 
 yield 
 For Him Who died on cross to give us life. 
 Now that my eye is back at home in 
 
 peace. 
 My ear to my surprise says to my eye: 
 "Did you not know that I was by your side 
 Thro' all your trials in yonder world of 
 
 death? 
 
 I heard things that you, eye, could not 
 see, 
 
1 heard, as your eye saw, a man in arms 
 Of Christ, while you were in one of those 
 
 worlds 
 Unknown to man, a crying, 'Glory, glory!' 
 Why so? Because Christ had swum out into 
 A sea of lost men's blood and had rescu'd 
 Him. Christ swam from this sea of desola- 
 tion 
 With one hand in the blood, the other in 
 The air with man in hand. Who will go out 
 Into the sea? Bear in your mind that there 
 Are sharks in sea of ruin. But listen to 
 The word of God : He who shall lose his life 
 For my sake shall find it. Embark today." 
 The ear could hear before it left this 
 
 world 
 Lost men a living backward till * * * no end. 
 They fell because they had no ken of 
 
 Christ ; 
 Because they had no eyes in back of head: 
 And not because they were loaded with 
 
 good heavy 
 Thought; for that would unbalance some 
 
 men like 
 A sack of fertilizer would a lad. 
 Let us live face before and peace implore. 
 Who hears the voice of Him at door? 
 
 Who, says: 
 "If any man hear by voice, and ope the 
 
 door, 
 I will come into him, and will sup with 
 Him, and he with me." Who wants stool to 
 
 feast 
 With Christ? Let us vacate this house of 
 
 death. 
 And leave an empty house, Uke Christ did 
 
 tomb. 
 
 62 
 
Then throw a speedy eye on God's great 
 
 throne 
 To see the jasper walls of heaven fill'd 
 With saints a sparkling like a diamond in 
 The sun; to see the rainbow colors glisten 
 With pleasing tints of crimson, which, are 
 
 viands 
 To the soul. When here we get we have 
 
 free fare. 
 No heartless conductor to put us off train; 
 We glide thro' rich perfumes on wings of 
 
 love ; 
 Inhale the fragrance of the rose of life, 
 Which, has no petal to fade 'way and die. 
 Let Christ tranpose your life, as X's, 
 
 from this. 
 And see the change: for tire there's rest; 
 
 for pain 
 There's ease; for death there's life— be that 
 
 to thee. 
 Drive wooden pegs with wooden hammer, 
 
 drive 
 Steel with steel; not steel tacks with wood, 
 
 and you 
 Will have the sense the Christ would have 
 
 you have. 
 With "watch as well as pray" I bid you 
 
 adieu. 
 
 —By A. G. MELTON. 
 January 3, 1917. 
 
 63 
 
THE WEIGHT 
 
 The thoughtless men, who hold us down, 
 Get from this world a sulky frown : 
 So on them not do I depend; 
 Because our works they do offend. 
 
 Not because they wear a saintly gown 
 Does God give them a home and crown. 
 *Tis better to have our own way. 
 Than list to choking words of delay. 
 
 Some say, "Go slow" or "I don't know;" 
 They have no vim and cannot grow. 
 The Lord we must let be our guide. 
 And walk gently by His holy Side. 
 
 GOD'S MEETING 
 
 God gave the Grove a meeting, 
 Which was a holy treating. 
 The wondrous God thou art, 
 Who won the sinner's heart. 
 
 Each day we met to preach; 
 To sing and pray and teach. 
 We're bound in Godly love; 
 Because our thoughts were above. 
 
 It began at the Saviour's feet; 
 And its close was good and sweet. 
 The result we left with God, 
 And from the Church we trod. 
 
 64 
 
THE STONE 
 
 Just think about the stone: 
 
 It makes the razor hone; 
 
 'Tis harder than a bone. 
 
 In every land it is found ; 
 
 But most on higher ground, 
 
 Where hunters hang around. 
 
 Some rocks are cloth'd with moss. 
 
 Some too high and rough to cross; 
 
 While others we may toss 
 
 Even with a slender arm. 
 
 In rock there is no harm, 
 
 Tho' they be on the farm. 
 
 They make the miller's dam; 
 
 They show no sign of sham; 
 
 But say, "Fm what I am." 
 
 A house of stone lasts long, 
 
 If it is not build wrong; 
 
 Because 't is firm and strong. 
 
 With man the same is true, 
 
 If truth he does pursue ; 
 
 Because he's of the right crew. 
 
 "A LONG RAIN" 
 
 The falling rain 
 
 Throws its breath of cold air 
 Around our room, a study hall; 
 With window up I need a shawl, 
 
 Though I await the fair 
 To relieve my pain. 
 
 65 
 
The steaming fog 
 
 Push me behind the door; 
 The shatt'ring leaves bring to my ear 
 A groaning sound of doef ul fear ; 
 
 The river's voice does roar, 
 But drowns no frog. 
 
 The splashing drops 
 
 Reach in around my pen, 
 They make me didder with a shake; 
 They make me dream of winter flake; 
 
 They keep me in my den, 
 And drown the crops. 
 
 A continual mist 
 
 Of heavy clouds from heaven 
 Sends dampness to a land of mud, 
 Which makes dry land put forth its bud. 
 
 Our soil is now a leaven — 
 And some 're in a twist. 
 
 The day grows dark; 
 
 But light will some day come 
 And drive away the damp cold time: 
 Then I shall give a better rime; 
 
 For I shall not be numb 
 In a muggy ark. 
 
 It rains with ease. 
 
 While we write off our thought. 
 The rivers fill the seas with drink. 
 We may be on the river's brink 
 
 Of life; if we're not caught, 
 We'll do worse than freeze. 
 
"THE GOAL" 
 
 Fm in a world of things 
 Of which, I am the least; 
 
 But I, in hope and faith, 
 Await a future feast. 
 
 Fm searching for a base 
 On which to place my pen ; 
 
 Fm looking for a goal 
 That can be reached by men. 
 
 There is a time in which 
 To reach the distant mark; 
 
 To get there, we must see 
 Like owls, through thickened dark. 
 
 Since I began this piece, 
 
 A week has gone on by; 
 And yet, I look to see 
 
 The place where I must fly. 
 
 Reluctant is the march 
 By him who wants to dodge 
 
 His just rewards ; he's aware 
 There's a Hell in which to lodge. 
 
 As swift as I may go; 
 
 As fast as I may fly, 
 There'll still be One in front 
 
 On whom I must keep my eye. 
 
 Let me be great or small; 
 
 Let me be good or bad, 
 I can stop not the time, 
 
 Let it be sweet or sad. 
 
 67 
 
Where is our future home? 
 
 Is thought by you and me; 
 If we are ready now, 
 
 We shall have a place with Thee. 
 
 Between the steps of time 
 We filll not with the pure; 
 
 And doubts we retain by this, 
 Regarding not the cure. 
 
 We may be men or babes 
 In the arms of speedy time. 
 
 I can't interpret this; 
 So I leave it to the Sublime. 
 
 On time that walks with us 
 We are so small and light; 
 
 Till tracks are made so dim. 
 That we see them day nor night. 
 
 Were we strong men of might, 
 Time would fatigue and tire; 
 
 It would go not so fast. 
 Because its feet would mire. 
 
 Each day is a step of time, 
 One by one they make men; 
 
 If rightly used, we'll not want 
 To go back and live again. 
 
 es 
 
"ONE THING" 
 
 There is one thing in life for us to do, 
 
 I wish we all might see this vision plain; 
 Yet some will ask of us this: "is it who 
 That has before their life a goal or aim?" 
 Thought they know they must meet the 
 former slain; 
 So all the day, the week, the month, the 
 year, 
 They strive, they dig, they live and die for 
 gain. 
 Then it is that they die regretting fear; 
 Because of Gospel truth they did not, 
 would not hear. 
 
 The one, one thing in life may mean it all. 
 
 When money fails to hold us up or down, 
 
 Then we profess to know on whom to call; 
 
 The time is now to grasp the Holy Crown 
 
 From this old world of sin and pain and 
 
 frown. 
 
 I am afraid they are content; just that 
 
 Alone, wil stop and kill a bright renown 
 For future hope or peace — They slept, they 
 
 sat. — 
 The call of God was turn'd away and was 
 laughed at. 
 
 The big thing is the faith in God today. 
 The only, only hope for you and me. 
 
 When we have done as others do and say. 
 We likely loose our home, which is yet to 
 
 be. 
 The ugly grin of sinful men I see 
 
 The tough, sarcastic face and look of hate, 
 
 68 
 
Which batters good on every land and 
 sea. 
 You men of God walk by the house of fate, 
 Go on and on to Glory that does not abate, 
 
 "One day is as a thousand years with God." 
 
 One Lincoln gave the freedom to the 
 
 slave ; 
 
 One death will place you down beneath the 
 
 sod; 
 
 One year may lead you to a hopeless 
 
 grave ; 
 One Christ from God, who. His life to us 
 gave. 
 That we might have eternal peace and rest. 
 But by His blood no other way He'll save. 
 The One who stood the sorrows of the test 
 Takes from this sinful world the cream, the 
 gold, the best. 
 
 One breath of life will make a heavy mist 
 
 Of vim for him who will of it inhale ; 
 It'll make cheeks red, limbs good, eyes 
 strong, exist; 
 Those who hold their breath are the weak 
 
 and pale; 
 They fade; Because they hit the Roman 
 nail 
 That cuts the flesh of Him who was and is ; 
 They make a crashing storm of wind and 
 hale 
 To try the princely Lamb. — Oh, such a quiz ! 
 And yet, these men by faith can be forever 
 His. 
 
 One State of thirteen was aright and free; 
 The other twelve were later set in line; 
 
 70 
 
Emancipation, now on land and sea, 
 The end of strife was come in peace 
 
 divine ; 
 And both grey and blue sat around the 
 shrine. 
 In friendly terms they met the end of hate ; 
 In freedom's land of wealth we feast and 
 dine. 
 We enter life anew without debate 
 To walk and march with God in at the nar- 
 row gate. 
 
 -It was one germ of german dirt or dust. 
 That fills our land today with joy and 
 hope ; 
 'Tis wafted to and fro, to bring us trust 
 In God, to rid us from the binding pope; 
 So I've no right to be a stealthy mope. 
 One speck of light shines further in the 
 night, 
 Than does a great Sun in the day. A trope 
 For Luther here I use to show his might. 
 He had the endless grace of God with which 
 to fight. 
 
 The one United States is at the top; 
 
 Because John Smith and others, (Well 
 
 can we 
 
 Give them the honor for the blood we sop). 
 
 Who sailed o'er the rough and rugged sea. 
 
 Stood firm with fervent toil oft bread, no 
 
 tea; 
 He had one time in which to speak and act. 
 
 We have one opportunity to see 
 What we can do. — Don't wait. This is the 
 fact; 
 
 71 
 
Think what you may, our life will be a 
 written tract. 
 
 Our great land is a stone. It had not been 
 Struck till Columbus came; he gave one 
 lick, 
 And make a spark, which barely could be 
 seen, 
 It is now burning in a candle stick, 
 Exalted, giving light with force so quick ; 
 One deed will glitter in the endless age. 
 A tongue can make a blunder smoothe 
 and slick. 
 That, will surprise us on the judging page; 
 If all do right, we'll get to see an empty 
 cage. 
 
 "THE AUTUMN' 
 
 This Monday morn in the autumn sun. 
 While reading a book, I take delight 
 
 In stopping this to relieve my heart 
 By writing lines of praise for light. 
 
 Oh, how bright is the morning sun ! 
 
 Too bright for me with words to describe ; 
 And oh how soft the north wind is, 
 
 Which makes a moving pen for the 
 scribe. 
 
 It is now that leaves forsake the trees. 
 
 And we hear, as the wind in early morn 
 Tumbles and hurls them through the wood. 
 
 Them roar, like shucks from the frosty 
 com. 
 
 78 
 
The tough and dingy grass and weeds, 
 Now hear on moon and starlit nights 
 
 Of the obdurate and crushing frost, 
 Who makes death sure in his biting fights. 
 
 Tho' he can kill by night the grass, 
 He isn't able to put to death the hedge; 
 
 Only returns the hedge a smile, 
 When frost has us'd his greatest sledge. 
 
 The lonely crib and barn, it seems, 
 Flinch from the pinching frosty fall; 
 
 They seem to say: "How sad! how sad! 
 Is the fate of fall; it tastes like gall." 
 
 The meadows far away we see 
 
 With shocks of corn and stacks of hay; 
 To our delight they fill our barns 
 
 With food that helps us on the way. 
 
 This fall wind keeps whispering of the cold; 
 
 It drives away the August heat. 
 And leaves us amid a fall of pride. 
 
 And brings a chance for fresh hog meat 
 
 The rich, but fading leaves of cotton 
 Color the fields with a sweeten'd tint 
 
 Of yellow, brown and deep dark red. 
 Which to us of their tender love hint. 
 
 When fall returns to us its gifts. 
 Potatoes, apples, bread, and nuts, 
 
 We should be thankful for its free heart; 
 Because we can eat these in our snug 
 huts. 
 
 78 
 
Fall drifts from cool to cold as ice; 
 
 It turns us loose to wait for spring 
 In bitter sleets of snow and hail, 
 
 Where tremble we as a fiddle string. 
 
 "THE REAPER" 
 
 The wavy, swelling waves, 
 
 Which flutter to and fro, 
 Entice the reaper who saves 
 
 The wheat that does gently grow. 
 
 The rich, ripe, golden grain. 
 
 Which rustle while the wind blow, 
 Is sav'd by labor and pain ; 
 As all the wise men know. 
 
 As the sun comes up in the East 
 The reaper I see with his tool 
 
 Preparing for the great feast. 
 Yes, reaping for a stool. 
 
 When he has cut all the day. 
 
 Yet he sees plenty more 
 That he needs to slay ; 
 
 For it was ripe long before. 
 
 He reaches far each way. 
 And cuts a swath of wheat ; 
 
 It he expects in the tray. 
 When severed from the cheat. 
 
 He gathers in the grain. 
 
 While others sit at ease; 
 He thinks of final gain 
 
 That ease can never seize. 
 
 74 
 
THE STAR 
 
 I look afar in West, 
 I turn, then, to the North; 
 Again I turn to South, 
 
 And yet see not the best. 
 
 With wistful, lonesome eye 
 I turn in haste to see 
 The sparkling, brilliant light 
 
 In Eastern azure sky. 
 
 ^n angel says to me. 
 When I saw this great light: 
 "This is the Son of Man, 
 
 Who'll walk the restless sea." 
 
 Our souls run o'er with joy 
 To see this Star so bright 
 On this Christmas day, 
 
 Which gives hope to enjoy. 
 
 A merry Christmas day 
 Is where we find the light 
 Of this immortal star; 
 
 Where sin hasn't part to play. 
 
 "NO SUBJECT'' 
 
 I don't know what to write, 
 A word I have not to say; 
 
 But I am in the sight 
 Of good on this trying day. 
 
 75 
 
My thinking will not start, 
 
 I scribble but loose out, 
 I have a heavy heart; 
 
 So I write to keep off doubt. 
 
 Though I am all alone, 
 
 I use my hand and pen 
 In fear and doubting tone; 
 
 I'll write the Lord knows when. 
 
 I look, I think, I fear, 
 
 Of what the world knows not. 
 My friends are near and dear — 
 
 Fm now the smallest tot. 
 
 "A BEAUTIFUL SPIRIT" 
 
 What is so sad to me 
 Is: to think of grandmother. 
 
 Who has gone on to Thee, 
 Whose life was spent for the other. 
 
 Then went away my mother 
 
 To the City of the Gold, 
 Long, long before grandmother 
 
 Was lifted from the cold. 
 
 In a moaning, softened voice, 
 I hear grandmother say, 
 
 "My all, my hope, my choice, 
 Is for a sweet home today." 
 
 To all she gave a gift, 
 To me she was so sweet; 
 
 And to God she did drift- 
 May we in heaven meet. 
 
 76 
 
Her sorrow and her trouble 
 Was beyond my careless eye. 
 
 My life may be a double, 
 If so, I ask not why. 
 
 She lost her natural light, 
 Though she went on the way; 
 
 She clung to all the right, 
 Until, beneath the clay. 
 
 Grandmother had a heart 
 Of love for me and all; 
 
 She gave to me my start. 
 Lest I should get a fall. 
 
 All was to her a friend. 
 None was to her a foe, 
 
 Her spirit did not bend 
 111 pain and grief, nor woe. 
 
 Her life was full of pain, 
 Her death was only ease; 
 
 On her life was no stain, 
 Though it was of disease. 
 
 Her lengthy race was run. 
 Her dreary way was trod ; 
 
 Her earthly life is done, 
 And she is now with God. 
 
 "THE DARK' 
 
 When all are silent calm and still, 
 
 I shall write out my thoughts of night; 
 
 For I the theme get from dark air. 
 Where spirits blind await the light. 
 
 77 
 
The silver moon gives us no gleam, 
 The low dark clouds shuts out the stars, 
 
 The mild soft wind make us a phrase ; 
 And on us, leaves the pleasant scars. 
 
 Some how the mellow rain has come 
 Thro' thicken'd light to us with pride; 
 
 It meets with us on gentle terms 
 To catch our praise from every side. 
 
 The cool breath of an autumn rain 
 Makes sweet the poet's few hours of 
 sleep; 
 
 It brings forth life to rich and poor. 
 Which, holds us in the boundless deep. 
 
 We fold our arms in the dark for rest. 
 Forgetting days that are behind; 
 
 And sink into repose 'neath toil 
 For a new day, new life, new mind. 
 
 Since night has gently passed away. 
 The bright red sun slips up in the East 
 
 To take its look at us from morn 
 Till night, to tell us be not like beast. 
 
 *THE SHADOW" 
 
 While on my bended knee, 
 I besought the thing I got. 
 
 My faith looks up to Thee, 
 Though I am but a tot. 
 
 I got what now I feel. 
 
 It came from God to man; 
 It makes us glad to kneel 
 
 For Christ, and do all we can. 
 
 78 
 
At first to Him I clung, 
 
 And he gave me a gift ; 
 Though it may never be sung, 
 
 I have a great uplift. 
 
 I tried to look before; 
 
 I once, while tired, looked back; 
 I did for grace implore. 
 
 And for help I did not lack. 
 
 The Devil came and said, 
 "Oh, man you can not stay." 
 
 His word was lost or dead. 
 So I did the better way. 
 
 My back was to the sun. 
 What was behind I didn't know. 
 
 Yet I knew my race was run; 
 Because of seed I did sow. 
 
 In the far, far East I saw 
 My shadow going that way; 
 
 I still held to God's great law; 
 And Him I didn't betray. 
 
 At last He said, "You may go;" 
 I left the place with light 
 
 To go with Christ to and fro. 
 To tell His story till night. 
 
 *THE AIR' 
 
 I Am now up so high in air. 
 Till of the breeze I get my share; 
 
 It is of high, it is of the pure; 
 Just such that is to the sick a cure. 
 
 79 
 
The wave of which is soft and cool; 
 
 Because it's from the harmless pool. 
 It goes to worlds unknown to me, 
 And it patrolls the harmless sea. 
 
 It speaks the best of words in haste; 
 
 We hear but few that sticks as paste : 
 It whirls our faces long away; 
 
 What thank have we in night or day? 
 
 Could we inhale the stores of life, 
 As the wind, we'd be the keenest knife. 
 
 We'd cut the rope that hangs our neck; 
 And leave not of sin a splotch or speck. 
 
 Oh man, clothe air with hope and love; 
 
 Put on your sails for a trip above; 
 Sails that with groanings may subdue 
 
 March wind that drinks the dew. 
 
 We make impure the air for men; 
 
 We'll surely reach the lion's den. 
 To be unlike the man of old. 
 
 To die with deaden'd hearts so cold. 
 
 Oh air, breathe man a song to sing; 
 
 And "no" say to the wretched thing. 
 Sing must the man his own, own song, 
 
 Be it high or low or short or long. 
 
 Let air be cold, let it be hot. 
 Be not of doubt, like the drunken sot; 
 
 But fight the battle of this life, 
 That we may win thro' doubt and strife. 
 
 The glorious air is heat by fire ; 
 
 The humblest man is best to hire. 
 So wher'er there's fire, there is some smoke ; 
 
 And wher'er there's hope, there is some 
 yoke. 
 
 80 
 
Some air is light, and some is dark; 
 
 Some men know not the Holy ark. 
 They ope their eyes not in the day; 
 
 And of the dark they've much to say. 
 
 They mock and curse the golden light ; 
 
 They doze away the time till night, 
 Then they regret their sleep, too late; 
 
 Now they must ride the wave of fate. 
 
 The Holy air turns pale and dim; 
 
 So does man, we loose our fath in Him. 
 Let air be thick or thin with fog, 
 
 Our minds shouldn't be like a hollow log. 
 
 "THE MIDDLE GROUND' 
 
 I cling to this old town; 
 Because of its renown. 
 
 I have been here two years, 
 And yet I have my fears. 
 
 I must look on before ; 
 If I shall reach the shore. 
 
 Fm glad for where I stand, 
 And, where I hope to land. 
 
 This is a goodly place 
 
 For boys and girls to brace. 
 
 It makes us strong and keen; 
 If we'll work, we shall be seen. 
 
 I came here only to get, 
 And you know me not yet. 
 
 81 
 
What 1 did when I begun 
 Is now a thing of fun. . 
 
 But now this year and next 
 Gives me a harder text. 
 
 I want to run the race, 
 And make for men a brace. 
 
 I do not see the way, 
 Though I came here to stay. 
 
 Here is a host of friends, 
 
 And on them my way depends. 
 
 *A DREAM" 
 
 Deep darkness came in with a dream; 
 
 A dream that made me see in dark, 
 A dream, so strange as it may seem, 
 
 Flutter'd in my mind like a dicing lark. 
 
 It whirrd and jump'd, till I it kept; 
 
 It came and went until I saw 
 The picture plain, but yet I slept. 
 
 And now in it I see no flaw. 
 
 Could I but give in pleasant tone 
 
 This dream, Fd be at ease. 
 My letters leave me now alone ; 
 
 And come not near for me to seize. 
 
 And yet I can bless His Holy name, 
 Who sent this dream thro' mid-night air; 
 
 Tho' I fail, He loves me just the same.-— 
 I think, I hope Til get my share. 
 
 82 
 
This dream must have come from the iOfW 
 And dark echoing \^Uey4eep/".; 
 
 Where hope and faith is made to grow, 
 Where I am sure I'd like to sleep. - 
 
 I see this dream on its lonely way, 
 As it walks the mossy path of fame, , 
 
 With feet sweet, pure, as the wind of May. 
 And for which I am not to blame. 
 
 I see it as it walks the sea, 
 
 As it climbs the rugged mountain side, 
 As it knocks at my heart in me 
 
 To speak for Him, our greatest Guide. 
 
 I see, it with a golden crown. 
 
 In it a star, a moon, a sun, 
 No dark, no fate, no doubt, no frown; 
 
 Therefore it makes a faithful run. 
 
 I must run not from this, my friend. 
 My dream ; but let me shake its hand. 
 
 And walk with it to th' journey's end; 
 So I may make a Christlike stand. 
 
 The Giver from the wounded palm 
 Pours love and truth for us to drink^ y; 
 
 As the singer of a mellow psalm, 
 That we may live and never sink. 
 
 My dream was this: I thought I ate 
 : iWith knife and fork the best of all,; 
 Truth, Which should fill our every plat0,j 
 Which, we should eat to stop a f a}! : 
 
 83 
 
"THE WAT' 
 
 Oh, how! I love to tell 
 
 The story old of Him 
 Who gave His life and blood 
 
 For men so pale and dim. 
 
 He was look'd for so long; 
 
 At last, at last! He came 
 With power and true love 
 
 To make His trip of fame. 
 
 In Bethlehem was born 
 A Babe, the Son of Man, 
 
 Who did great things; works do 
 We, greater than He, can. 
 
 The khan had not a place 
 For Jesus and His friend; 
 
 They laughed Him to scorn, 
 Aiid on Him did not depend. 
 
 Incarnate was the Christ, 
 Who liv'd and died for lost 
 
 Men; for no other way 
 Could He have paid the cost. 
 
 He had a hard, hard time, 
 While here and there on Earth; 
 
 Because He found a world 
 So full of pride and mirth. 
 
 The Pharisee besought 
 The Lord to dine with him, 
 
 He gave consent; but did 
 Not fix his hands in trim. 
 
 84 
 
Therefore the Pharisee 
 
 Thought strange of God's plain plan. 
 Perhaps the toiling Christ 
 
 Had no time for bowl or pan. 
 
 They take Him to the cross 
 
 To kill the King of Jews, 
 To pierce His hands and side, 
 
 To blot out the Holy pews. 
 
 THE LITTLE TREE. 
 
 While strolling on a lonely walk, 
 
 I saw a crookless tree. 
 So slender, keen and smoothe it was, 
 
 Too little for a tree. 
 
 The sapling I could not knife down, 
 
 Because of where it stood. 
 The barrier place was life for it. 
 
 And yet it's living wood. 
 
 Be grounded like the little tree, 
 Down deep, far from your foe, 
 
 That you may stand in every fight, 
 On every heel and toe. 
 
 The gully in which it was safe 
 
 Bore me from it away. 
 I know the tree could not but smile; 
 
 As it has hope in the clay. 
 
 If like this tree, you be firm and straight 
 
 Old Satan'U see you first. 
 And try his best to cut you down 
 
 In his great hour of thirst. 
 
 85 
 
How easy, it is to Behold, 
 
 Amid a world of hate, 
 A life so straight and pure like the 
 
 For it shines soon and late. 
 
 tree 
 
 Around the sapling was the briar/ 
 The cane, the shrub, the vine— 
 
 These I car'd not to see; ^ 
 
 Because of them the tree will shine. ^ 
 
 If men are true, are right and straight, 
 They too will stand the crave 
 
 Of sinful men, unreached by them, 
 As Gareth did, the knave. 
 
 "THE ROCKY KNOLL." 
 
 I am now on a rocky knoll 
 On which I met a faithful soul; 
 Here was a father's love for me, 
 And 'tis here where I like to be. 
 
 Here life is spent like gentle breeze, 
 No hearts are found here apt to freeze ; 
 And here is overwhelming love 
 That is coming from the heaven above. 
 
 This is a tender child-like place, 
 It has a forceful gleam of grace, 
 
 This isn't too much for me to say; 
 
 Because I'm here from day to day. 
 
 I shall remember the rocky knoll. 
 As long as life in me may roll. 
 
 Though I be in -the foreign land; 
 
 I sh'll not forget this little band. 
 
 86 
 
Here on this knoll I find no strife, 
 And here I've found by sweetest life, 
 Which is a rich and glorious gift 
 Of Light for such as me, a drift. 
 
 The flinty knoll I quickly saw, 
 Which was to me a magnetic draw; 
 
 So it has me Fm glad to say, 
 
 And here right on I'd be proud to stay. 
 
 "A BURDEN" 
 
 I can't tell how I feel; 
 This time on me walks up 
 With a bitter, bitter cup 
 Of the coarsest of bad meal. 
 
 I hope here I may sift 
 This meal of sour and blue. 
 Though weak, I must be true 
 To keep the living lift. 
 
 Now, I can not be still; 
 For there's another place 
 For you and me to face. 
 So I must climb the hill. 
 
 The low of low wants all ; 
 It takes us on and on. 
 Until we go down upon 
 The ladder of the gall. 
 
 Oh, heavy heart! pass 'way. 
 Slip out in this short line; 
 And make this face of mine 
 To smile from day to day. 
 
 87 
 
When danger slides off our back, 
 We falter, stop, and stand; 
 We sleep in glory land, 
 And let the world go slack. 
 
 "THE MARCH" 
 
 Ascending, like the angel, is 
 The man of God from Earth; 
 
 He tries, he suffers pain and death. 
 In this world of toil and mirth. 
 
 The upward walk is the way for all. 
 Make this your day, your year; 
 
 The downward run is the way for none. 
 Make this your hate, your fear. 
 
 As we march up the hill of grace, 
 
 A toe holt for those behind 
 We should with fervor and warmth leaye 
 
 Plain enough for them to find. 
 
 The way on down that broad short road 
 
 Some stab their wicked heel 
 For the last, last time; alas, how sad! 
 
 Poor mother is made to feel. 
 
 Dear father, grasp your child while young; 
 
 Lead him, teach him aright: 
 Oh father ! go the right way yourself. 
 
 And make for him a light. - 
 
 88 
 
**A SUNDAY HOUR'* 
 
 My Sunday hour 
 
 I pass with God and man; 
 I am, no never, all alone; 
 I hope to be in gentle tone. 
 
 And do all that I can 
 For youth, the flower. 
 
 My thinking hour 
 
 Is from the morn till night 
 On Sunday I stand not, sleep not; 
 From day to day Fm on the trot. 
 
 This's how I get my light 
 To build my tower. 
 
 A Godly hour, 
 
 A stream of spreading life, 
 Can wash away more sin and crime, 
 Than can a year of wasted time; 
 
 Than can a decade of strife. 
 The sinful hour. 
 
 A happy hour 
 
 Left on the memorie's book 
 Sends thought behind with gladest joy. 
 This hour has in its hand no toy; 
 
 But, ardent future look 
 For a Godly shower. 
 
 *A SMILE'' 
 
 What I see through the window pane 
 I can't describe with pen or tongue. 
 I am so glad to fall among 
 
 Such things ; for they can not be vain. 
 
 89 
 
My deepest love at once was caught 
 By such as whisper'd to my heart. 
 It said what I can not impart; 
 
 Oh, what a lesson ! it has taught. 
 
 While I a letter tried to write, 
 I caught a lovely summer dream ; 
 And here it is in this poor theme. — 
 
 how, I wish I might give light! 
 
 The very air is bubling o'er 
 From pleasing faces amid a bliss; 
 When old, they drop the Earth a kiss, 
 
 And say, "Fm gone forever more." 
 
 If there could be a heavenly smile, 
 Or could there be an Earthly glory, 
 This great and lovely sweet, sweet story 
 
 Would not be dead till after while. 
 
 Now is the noon-day sun so near. 
 That, it their faces feeds pale and red 
 With light of living, living bread; 
 
 And still they bring to us no tear. 
 
 While sitting at my mid-day meal. 
 Surprised I was to see in a glass 
 The very thing that will some day pass; 
 
 And for its life Fs made to feel. 
 
 When I have done the best I can, 
 I can't describe a single flower. 
 It blooms and makes a cheerful hour 
 
 For all, let him be boy, or man. 
 
 90 
 
*A REALITY'* 
 
 I once saw in a Church 
 
 A lame child on a crutch. 
 She went forth in a hop; 
 
 Because she was lov'd much. 
 
 Fm glad there is a God, 
 
 A God who will us heal; 
 We need His Loving Hand 
 
 To fix on us His seal. 
 
 In haste there was the faith 
 
 In God, Who died to save 
 The lost sheep of the land 
 
 From an untimely grave. 
 
 So many men stand back, 
 And bite their sinful tongue ; 
 
 This I have often done. 
 While touching songs were sung. 
 
 Not found, but lost, still lost. 
 Are sinners who stand still — 
 Get like the creeping one. 
 And do God's holy will. 
 
 Oh ! give your heart to Christ, 
 Like this poor girl, and you 
 
 Will proudly, gladly feel 
 The sweet and heavenly dew. 
 
 *THE WAVE" 
 
 The unfolding gleam, 
 
 From Him Who holds a light 
 For such a creature as I am. 
 Finds its way to me, being no sham, 
 
 To raise my thought to flight,' 
 To help tell my dream. 
 
 91 
 
My stirring soul 
 
 Arouse my dreaming gift 
 To an over flowing tide of taste, 
 Which makes me write in pushing haste 
 
 Of my "Go ons" Of lift, 
 That, makes the toll. 
 
 The rolling wheel 
 
 Of time turns at a rate 
 That startles the open eye and ear; 
 Its quick turns are to dread and fear; 
 
 They are on time, not late ; 
 As they come we'shd kneel. 
 
 Time is no joke. 
 
 It lingers with no one ; 
 It chains us or it sets us free; 
 It brought Him on and off the tree, 
 
 Who, with God's only Son, 
 Who made us our yoke. 
 
 The rumbling wave 
 
 Of sin reaches not the shore 
 Of lofty aim, which is a bliss; 
 But it'll sink, like the Judas kiss, 
 
 Into the wide, wide door 
 Of fate, the grave. 
 
 The wave of life 
 
 Is wafted to our home ; 
 It floats on every sea of time. 
 Which covers up all sin and crime, 
 
 Through every liquid foam 
 Of hate and strife. 
 
 : 9i 
 
"THOUGHT" 
 
 The flashing, new-born thought 
 
 From founts of love and joy- 
 Can easily be bought; 
 
 But, not from man or boy. 
 
 A thought we can not see, 
 Though it leaves in the brain 
 
 A spark of light, a key- 
 To ope the door of gain. 
 
 •> 
 
 To think is my intention. 
 
 I must have my own sense. 
 And make my own invention 
 
 Of thought in every tense. 
 
 A mind should gently squirm 
 Through worlds to us unknown 
 
 On wings of the Godly Firm 
 To make the hidden known. 
 
 Good thoughts will reach afar; 
 
 They make a lovely dream; 
 I care not where they are, 
 
 They shine a Holy beam. 
 
 At danger's door is the drone; 
 
 He neither thinks nor fears; 
 He has no wireless Phone, 
 
 Not even eyes or ears. 
 
 A kind thought in English dress 
 Turns rain, checks heat and cold, 
 
 Makes men, saves life, kills stress. 
 Stands straight, looks nice, when told. 
 
 93 
 
"THE RIVER" 
 
 While sitting all alone, 
 I hear the river's tone, 
 A low and deaden'd roar, 
 Tumbling on to the shore. 
 Its tides have soften'd slow; 
 They have a downward flow; 
 They ripple to the bank, 
 Burden'd with swimming plank. 
 Down comes the log, like a boat, 
 With an easy, graceful float; 
 Its shore, to us unknown; 
 How far! it may have flown. 
 
 Now is the mid-day hour. 
 
 I dream of water's power 
 
 As it wabbles o'er the shoal, 
 
 Rolling on to its goal. 
 
 And as I sit by its side, 
 
 I think of Him, its guide, 
 
 Who leads it by His Hand 
 
 Through this Old Southern Land. 
 
 Let it be up or down, 
 
 We have no right to frown. 
 
 As I look across the river, 
 I see it shake and quiver; 
 I see it dash and splash, 
 Hauling its loads of trash. 
 I'm not by its side to fish, 
 But longing with a wish 
 For power in a dream 
 To tell of this great stream. 
 
 94 
 
I have but thirty lines, 
 
 Under the shade of pines; 
 
 I hope that they may swim 
 
 In the river of time to Him, 
 
 Who walks the sinless wave 
 
 Through death, Hell, and the grave, 
 
 With jewels for my crown 
 
 From every city and town. 
 
 A tide may rise or fall, 
 
 So can man, not one, but all. 
 
 *THE BUMBLE BEE" 
 
 I, once, while in my room, 
 
 Gave to a bee his doom ; 
 
 I did as others ought, 
 
 I did as Melton thought. 
 
 His agony was much. 
 
 Though had I not a touch 
 
 Of love for that old bee ; 
 
 For bite and sting would he. 
 
 Through the pane he tried to fly; 
 
 For he saw afar the sky ; 
 
 He made a painful roar, 
 
 At last flew through death's door. 
 
 He had a fearful sting, 
 
 He had a skillful wing. 
 
 Ah ! at the power he had. 
 
 But made his end so sad! 
 
 He sang his funeral song, 
 
 He did his final wrong. 
 
 He suck'd in the last, last hour 
 
 The wilted faded flower, 
 
 95 
 
His former cheerful hymn, 
 Unlike the last to him, 
 Was sung in fun and pride ; 
 But from death he could not hide. 
 He drank the honey dew. 
 He stung the faithful few; 
 He was the big bee, the guard. 
 That, flew from yard to yard, 
 And, flew from rose to rose; 
 Then at night, slept an easy doze. 
 He met his fatal pain, 
 And lost the future gain; 
 He wore a rich, yellow coat, 
 But had the downward float. 
 On wings he sail'd afar. 
 But failed to cross the bar. 
 
 His wild oats he had sown. 
 Wherever he had flown; 
 While here he flew with speed, 
 Our help he did not need. 
 He flew his worldly length. 
 But had no real strength; 
 He had a home sweet home 
 Here on earth in which to roam. 
 
 The grave in which he fell 
 Was like a deep, dark well. 
 He reached no happy shore, 
 And on earth he flies no more; 
 Now he is gone to stay. 
 Let us watch as well as pray. 
 Be not like the bumble-bee. 
 And roam from sea to sea. 
 Only to die of despair. 
 And float not in the air. 
 
 96 
 
Selected Stanzas from Various Doggerel 
 Poems of My First Writings. 
 
 Oh! do not stop, 
 
 But keep on and on ; 
 Then you will live, 
 
 When all is gone. 
 
 How beautiful is strength! 
 
 But we don't even think 
 To give the Christ our length ; 
 
 And thus we often sink. 
 
 When cheeks are plump and red. 
 We fail to God to pray; 
 
 And fall, we do, so dead 
 We're soon beneath the clay. 
 
 Oh! tar heel boy 
 
 Make not your life a toy; 
 Ope eyes and see 
 
 What it has for you and me. 
 
 Jehovah you cannot deceive 
 
 In no kind of a trick; 
 And in Him you cannot believe. 
 
 If you to Him don't stick. 
 
 Some may of humble men make fun; 
 
 And show inferior training — 
 This, parents can so easily shun, 
 
 And money still be gaining. 
 
 The bark, the boat, the ship 
 Has room for you to stand; 
 
 This place you should not skip. 
 While your're of the Earthly band. 
 
 . 97 
 
The wind may ever be so cold; 
 
 The drizzly rain may often freeze, 
 I bid you stay in the sacred hold, 
 
 Tho' it be but a gentle breeze. 
 
 Don't think behind; 
 
 But think before 
 Thoughts of right kind 
 
 On sea or shore. 
 
 98 
 
CHARLOTTE 
 
 USA 
 
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 The News Printing Housb 
 charlotte, north carolina 
 
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