Class _TRS_i L 2j^__ Book. Jx£_ Copyright N°____J_2_04 L COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. f Copyright, 1887, 1888, 1889, 1890, 1891, 1892, 189:;, 1894, 1895, 189G, 1897, 1898, 1899, 1900, 1901 aud 1902 by F. M. Lupton, in the Serial Issues of THE People's Home Journal aud (iooD Literature. Copyright, 1904, by F. M. Lupton. six mm m nm SELECTED POEMS FROM The People's Home Journal AND Good Literature. New York: F. M. LUPTON, Publisher, 23, 25 and 27 City Mall Place. LIBKAKY nf CONGRESS Two Codes Received JUL 23 1904 Cooyrteht Entry CLASS dL xXo. Na COPY B Six Wed ami fifty Selected Poems -. PROM The Peoples Home Journal AIND Good Literature. CHRISTMAS BELLS. I >Sto. i NG out in joy, oh, chiming bells, *51. ^5iFor in your melody there dwells The music glad of Christmas-tide On every hearthstone far and wide, And rosy lips with laughter sweet The happy songs of life repeat — Ring out in joy ! Ring out in hope, oh, chiming bells, For your clear voice of patience tells To waiting hearts whose, promise yields No golden fruit of harvest-fields, Whose garnered grain of toiling hand Lies heaped upon a barren land- Ring out in hope ! Ring out in grief, oh, chiming bells, For in your trembling echo dwells To saddened hearts a thought of old, A picture framed in memory's gold, A vanished face beneath the snow, A dream of life's sweet long ago — Ring out in grief! Ring out in cheer, oh, chiming bells, For in your peals a promise dwells To listening hearts that strive to hear The future's voice of hope and cheer ; For love and joy will have their birth As snowdrops spring from icy earth — Ring out in cheer ! Ring out in peace, oh, chiming bells, For Christmas-tide a message tells To eager souls that bravely wait, And loyal hearts too strong for fate To crush to earth ; oh, listen then — 'Tis " peace on earth, good will to men "- Ring out in peace ! THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE. Somebody's baby was buried to-day — The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back, And the morning, somehow, seemed less smiling and gay, As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way, And a shadow seemed drawn o'er the sun's golden track. Somebody's baby was laid out to rest, White as a snowdrop and fair to behold, And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast. And the bauds and the lips and the eyelids were pressed With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold. Somebody saw it go out of her sight Under the coffin-lid, out of the door, Somebody finds only darkness and blight All thro' the glory of summer sunlight — Some one whose baby will waken no more. Somebody's sorrow is making me weep. I know not her name, but I echo her cry For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep, The baby that rode to its long lasting sleep In the little white hearse that went rumbling by. I know not her name, but her sorrow I know. While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more— And back to my heart surged that river of woe That but in the breast of a mother can How— For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door. — Ella Wheeler Wilcox. SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY WHEN THE COWS COME HOME. With klingle, klangle, klingle, 'Way down the dusky diugle, The cows are coming home ; Now sweet and clear, and faint and low, The airy tinklings come and go, Like chimings from some far-off tower, Or patterings of an April shower That makes the daisies grow ; Ko-ling, ko-lang, Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolingleliugle, 'Way down the darkening diugle The cows come slowly home ; And old-time friends and twilight play, And starry nights and sunny days, Come trooping up the misty ways, When the cows come home. With jingle, jangle, jingle, Soft tones that sweetly mingle, The cows are coming home ; Malvine, and Pearl, and Florimel, De Kanip, Red Rose, and Gretchen Schell, Queen Bess, and Sylph, and Spangled Sue- Across the fields I hear her loo-oo, And clang her silver bell ; Go-ling, go-lang, Go-ling, go-lang, golinglelingle, With faint fair sounds that mingle The cows come slowly home ; And mother-songs of long-gone years, And baby joys and childish fears, And youthful hopes and youthful tears, When the cows come home. With ringle, rangle, ringle, By twos ana threes and single, The cows are coming home ; Through violet air we see the town, And the summer sun a slipping down ; The maple in the hazel glade Throws down the path a longer shade, And the hills are growing brown ; To-ring, to-rang, To-ring, to-rang, toringlelingle By threes and fours and single The cows come slowly home ; The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, The same sweet June-day rest and calm, The same sweet scent of bud and balm, When the cows come home. With tinkle, tankle, tinkle, Through fern and periwinkle, The cows are coming home ; A-loitering in the checkered stream, Where the sun rays glance and gleam. Clarine, Peachbloom. and Phoebe Phyllis Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies In a drowsy dream ; To-link, to-lank, To link, to lank, tolinklelingle, O'er the banks with buttercups a-twinkle The cows come slowly home ; And up through Memory's deep ravine Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, And the crescent of the silver queen, When the cows come home. With klingle, klangle, klingle, With loo-oo, and moo-oo, and jingle, The cows are coming home ; And over there on Merlin Hill Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will ; The dew-drops lie on the tangled vines, And over the poplars Venus shines, And over the silent mill ; Ko-ling, ko-lang, Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle With tiug-a-liug and jingle The cows come slowly home ; Let down the bars, let in the train Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain, For dear old times come back again, When the cows come home. —Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell. PARSON SNOWS HINT. The sermon was affecting, and so many hearers wept That no dust would have arisen had the floor just then been swept ; In fact, a score of brothers were impressed to that extent That they didn't see the " sasser " when it on its mission went. When the preacher had concluded he looked 'round upon the crowd, And he said, " I'll make a few remarks, if I may be allowed ; I'm not used to mincin' matters, and what I'm about to say Will be addressed to you, my friends, in my accus- tomed way. "This is my fust sermon 'mong you, and it pleases me to see That the fountains ob your feelings am broke up so easily. But dar's one thing I has noticed that hab filled me with unrest And left the knife of discontent a-stickin' in my breast. " I understands de salaries ob preachers down dis way Come from de contribution box — now, what I've seen to-day Hab sowed some seeds ob doubt and fear within my aged breast Dat hab done commenced a-growin' in a way dat I can't rest. " Although old age hab somewhat dimmed the keen- ness ob my sight, It hain't had no effect as yet upon my appetite ; And anything dat threatens to decrease my bread and meat, Just takes me by the tender ha'r and lifts me off my feet. " But de best tings in dis worl', my friends, can all be overdone, And dis weepin' oher sermons we must all admit is one ; Use your handkerchuffs wid judgment, and no mat- tah who you are, Keep a dry eye on de ' sasser.' Let us now unite in pra'r." GARDEN AND CRADLE. When our babe he goeth walking in his garden, Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play j The posies they are good to him, And bow them as they should to him, As fareth he upon his kingly way ; And birdlings of the wood to him Make music, gentle music, all the day, When our babe he goeth walking in his garden. When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle, Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down ; The little stars are kind to him, The moon she hath a mind to him And layeth on his head a golden crown ; And singeth then the wind to him A song, the gentle song of Bethlehem-town, When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle. — Eugene Field. SELECTED POEMS. BILLY S CHRISTMAS ROSE. Billy's dead and gone to glory— so is Billy's sister Nell ; There's a tale I know about them were I poet I would tell; Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odors there. [n that vile and filthy alley, long ago one Christmas Day, Dying quick of want'and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay, While beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom , Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb. Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child, Till his eyes lost half their anguish and his worn, wan features smiled ; Tales herself had heard haphazard, caught amid the Babel roar, Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mother's door. Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold, Where, when all the pain was over — where, when all the tears were shed — He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head. Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's love, How He'd built for little children great big play- grounds up above, "Where they sang and played at hop-scotch and at horses all the day, And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away. This was Nell's idea of heaven— just a bit of what she'd heard, With a little bit invented and a little bit inferred. But her brother lay and listened and he seemed to understand, For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the Promised Land. " Yes," he whispered, " I can see it— I can see it, Sis- ter Nell ; Oh, the children look so happy, and they're all so strong and well ; I can see them there with Jesus— He is playing with them, too ; Let us run away and join them, if there's room for me and you." She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spent In the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the rent ; Where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blows Drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn. to its close. But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell the sinking boy, " You must die before you're able all these blessings to enjoy. You must die," she whispered, " Billy, and I am not even ill ; But I'll come to you, dear brother — yes, I promise that I will. : ' You are dying, little brother— you are dying, oh, so fast. I heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last. They will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there, While I'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare." " Yes, I know it," answered Billy. " Ah, but, sister, I don't mind, Gentle Jesus will not beat me ; He's not cruel or un- kind. But I can't help thinking, Nelly, I should like to take Something, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day. " In the summer, you remember, how the mission took us out To the green and lovely meadows, where we played and ran about, And the van that took us halted by a sweet, bright patch of land, Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's hand. " Nell, I asked the good, kind teacher what they called such flowers as those, And he told me, I remember, that the pretty name was rose. I have never seen them since, dear — how I wish that I had one ! Just to keep and think of you, Nell, when I'm up be- yond the sun." Not a word said little Nelly ; but at night when Billy slept, On she flung her scanty garments, and then down the stairs she crept. Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn, Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn. When the foggy sun had risen and the mist had cleared away, And around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay. She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet, But there came no flowery gardens her poor, tearful eyes to greet. She had traced the road by asking — she had learned the way to go ; She had found the famous meadow — it was wrapped up in the snow ; SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed. "With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground, And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found. Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim, And a sudden awful tremor seemed to sc.ze her every limb. "Oh, a rose !" she moaned ; " good Jesus, just a rose to take to Bill I" And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill. And a lady sat there toying with a red rose, rare and sweet ; As she passed she flung it from her and it fell at Nelly's feet. Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret, And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet; But the pooy, half-blinded Nelly thought it fallen from the skies, And she murmured, " Thank you, Jesus I" as she clasped the dainty prize. Lo ! that night from out the alley did a child's soul pass away, From dirt and sin and misery to where God's children play. Lo ! that night a wild, fierce snowstorm burst in a fury o'er the land, And at morn they found Nell frozen with the red rose in her hand ! Billy's dead and gone to glory — so is Billy's sister Nell; And I'm bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell — That the children met iD heaven, after all their earthly woes, And that Nelly kissed her brother, and said, " Billy, here's your rose !" — George li. Sims, MY NEIGHBOR. My neighbor was a widder, an' she had a run-down farm, An' her cows an' pigs an' chickens done a mighty lot o' harm To my fields ajiuin', an' I stood it quite awhile, Till I wouldn't be imposed on in no such kind o' style. So I looked my very maddest, es I walked up to her door, Till she looked up at me smilin' while a-washin' up the floor ; An' her cheeks was red es roses, an' her hair es black es night — I forgot to scold an' sass her, fer she seemed so sweet an' bright. But my hand was to the plow now, an' it wouldn't. never do To forgit them depredations jes' by lookin' at her shoe ; So I gethered up my anger, an' I said, "Now, Mrs. Brown !" An' my tone put out her eyes' light, an' the lashes they fell down. But I ain't no man for foolin', an' I went right on to say How her pigs et all my melons, and her cows et tons of hay- How her chickens scratched my corn out, an' I wouldn't hev it so, Gittin' harder all the time, like a madman will, you know. Then the widder she looked up, with a tear-d'op on her cheek, An' a somethin' in her throat that wouldn't let her speak ; But she sobbed an' cried out, in a kind o' teary tone, Thet she hed no one to help her, an' was poor an' all alone. An' my hand was off the plow then, an' a-reachin' out for hern. I hed learnt a suddent lesson that I never thought I'd learn. Well, my scoldin' was a failure, seein' what I thought to do, For her pigs an' cows are all here, an' the widder's with 'em, too. — Will F. McSparren. LIZZIE. I wonder ef all wimmen air Like Lizzie is when we go out To theaters and concerts where Is things the papers talk about. Do other wimmen fret an' stew Like they wuz bein' crucified, Fretliu' a show or concert through, With wonderin' ef the baby cried? Now, Lizzie knows gran'ma's there To see that everything is right ; Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite. Yet what am I to answer when She kind of fidgets by my side, An' asks me every now an' then, " I wonder ef the baby cried?" Seems like she seen two little eyes A-piniu' f r their mother's smile ; Seems like she hearn the pleadin' cries Uv one she thinks uv all the while ; An' so she's sorry that she come, An' though she alius tries to hide The truth, she'd rather stay to hum Then wonder ef the baby cried. Yes wimmin folks is all alike, By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest ; There never was a little fyke, But that his mother loved him best. An' nex' to bein' what I be. The husband uv my gentle bride, I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried. — Eugene Field. THE SNOWBIRD. Hear the brown snowbird high in the cherry tree, Merrily chirping a blithe little lay ! How can it twitter, and sing, and so merry be, If it remembers a happier day— If it remembers the spring and the nest of it, When the cold winter wind rutfles the breast of it? Ah, but it's brave to be making the best of it Up in the cherry tree ! Brave little friend up there in the cherry tree, Facing, undaunted, the snow and the blast, Soon will the winter go, and of a verity Spring will restore you the dear nest at last. I, too, remember my spring and the nest of it — Ah, I'm afraid I'm not making the best of it ! Teach me your courage, and cheer, and the rest of it, Up in the cherry tree ! — Ifefen 11'. Holdsworth. SELECTED POEMS. THE BILLVILLE CHRISTMAS TREE We were all about as happy as the Lord would have us be, 'Till we took up a subscription for the Billville Christ- mas Tree ; An' then the trouble came around, an' swamped us left an' right, An' there won't be any Christmas tree in Billville Christmas night ! First, Parson Jones, he made a reach an' grabbed a pair o' boots, Likewise two linen dusters an' three stavin' Sunday suits ; An' Deacon Brown — he pranced aroun', an' said he'd go to prison, But the parson brought him to the groun' an' swore that the boots was his'n 1 Then Sister Jinkins grabbed a dress an' started on the run, But Sister Brown was in the town an' kinder stopped the fun ; " Because," said she, " 'twas meant fornie — that dress, as well as more," An' then the two went rollin' like Jordan on the floor ! Then Sister Spriggins said her gal deserved the big- gest doll, When Deacou Scott said he guessed not — she'd not fit none at all ; ist Then Sister Spriggins went fer him an' whacked him side the neck, Until he stood, worse than the boy upon the buruin' deck ! There never was a time like that ; they fought all over town, Until they dragged that Christmas tree from Billville clean to Brown ; An' that's jes' how the trouble come, an' swamped us left and right, An' there won't be any Christmas tree in Billville Christmas night ! THE FUNERAL I was walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim, When there slowly through the windows came a plaintive funeral hymn ; And a sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew, Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew. Out at front a colored couple sat in sorrow nearly wild ; On the altar was a coffiu, in the coffin was a child. I could picture him when living — curling hair, pro- truding lip — And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip. But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of Death That had fauned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering breath ; And no funeral ever glistetied with more sympathy profound Than was in the chain of tear-drops that enclasped these mourners round. Rose a sad old colored preacher at the little wooden desk — With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque ; With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face ; With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undy- ing race. And be said : " Now don't be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay— For de little boy who lived dere, he done gone an' run away ! He was doin* very finely, an' he 'predate your love; But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up above. " Now He didn' give you dat baby, by a hundred thousan' mile ! He just think you need some sunshine, an' He lend it for awhile ! An' He let you keep an' love it, till your hearts was bigger grown ; An' dese silver tears you're sheddin's jest de inter- est on de loan. " Here yer oder pretty chilrun— don't he makin' it appear Dat your love got sort o' 'nop'lized by dis little fellow here ; Don't pile up too much your sorrow on deir little mental shelves, So's to kind o' set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves ! " Just you think, you pooah deah mounahs, creepin' 'long o'er Sorrow's way, What a blessed little picnic dis yere baby's got to- day ! Your good faders and good moders crowd de little fellow round In de angel-' tended garden of de Big Plantation Ground. " An' dey ask him, ' Was your feet sore ?' an' take oft his little shoes, An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say, ' Now what's de news ?' An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose ; den de little fellow say : ' All our folks down in de valley tries to keep de heb- benly way.' " An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at the pretty things he view ; Den a tear come, and he whisper: 'But I want my paryents, too !' But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song, Says, ' If only dey be fait'ful dey will soon be comin' long !' "An' he'll get an education dat will proberbly be worth Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth ; He'll be in de Lawd's big school-house widout no contempt or fear ; While dere's no end to de bad t'ings might have hap- pened to him here. " So, vaj pooah, dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest, An' don' go to critercisin' dat are One w'at knows de best! He have sent us many comforts — He have right to take away — To de Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever — let us pray 1" — Will Carleton, in Harper's Weekly. MAY. In yonder broad meadows that May loves to sprinkle With bloom and sweet fragrance besides, I watch how the long breezes tenderly wrinkle The stream that with melody glides ; And fancy the bells of the buttercups tinkle A wedding peal from their green tides, For when the fresh trees in such balminess twinkle, The birds are all bridegrooms and brides. — Edgar Fawcell. SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY A CHRISTMAS STORY. Part I. Up Gregory ! the cloudy east Is bright with the break o' the day ; 'Tis time to yoke our cattle, and time To eat our crust and away. Up, out o' your bed j for the rosy red Will soon be growing gray. Ay, straight to your feet, my lazy lad, And button your jacket on • Already neighbor Joe is afield And so is our neighbor John. The golden light is turning to white, And 'tis time that we were gone. Nay, leave your shoes hung high and dry- Do you fear a little sleet? Your mother-to-day is not by half So dainty with her feet ; And I'll warrant you she hadn't a shoe At your age to her feet. What ! shiv'ring on an April day ? Why this is pretty news ! The frosts before an hour will all Be melted into dews, And Christmas week will do, I think, To talk about your shoes. Waiting to brew another cup Of porridge ! sure you're mad 1 One cup at your age, Gregory, And precious small, I had. We cannot bake the Christmas cake At such a rate, my lad. Out — out at once ! and on with the yoke ! Your feet will never freeze ! The sun before we have done a stroke Will bo in the tops o' the trees. On Christmas day you may eat and play As much as ever you please. So out of the house and into the sleet, With his jacket open wide, Went pale and patient Gregory — All present joy denied — And yoked his team like one in a dream, Hungry and sleepy-eyed. Part II. It seemed to our little harvester He could hear the shadows cre.ep ; For the scythe lay idle in the grass, , And the'reaper had ceased to reap, 'Twas the binning noon of the leafy June, And the birds were all asleep. And he seemed to rather see than hear The wind through the long leaves draw, As he sat and notched the stops along His pipe of hollow straw. On Christmas day he had planned to play His tune without a flaw. Upon his sleeve the spider's web Hung loose like poiuts of lace ; And he looked like a picture painted there, Ho was so full of grace. For his cheeks they shoue as if there had blown ^resh roses in his face. Ah, never on his lady's arm A lover's hand was laid With touches soft as his upon The flute that he had made, As he bent his ear and watched to hear The sweet, low tune he played. But all at once from out his cheek The light o' the roses fled — He had heard a coming step that crushed The daisies 'neath its tread. O happiness ! thou art held by less Than the spider's tiniest thread. A moment, and the old, harsh call Had broken his silver tune, And with his sickle all as bright And bent as the early moon, He cut his way through the thick-set hay In the burning heat o' June. As one who by a river stands, Weary and worn and sad, And sees the flowers the other side — So was it with the lad. There was Christmas light in his dream at night, But a dream was all he had. Work, work, in the light o' th' rosy morns, Work, work, in the dusky eves ; For now they must plow and now they must plant, And now they must bind the sheaves. And far away was the holiday All under the Christmas leaves. For still it brought the same old cry, If he would rest or play, Some other week, or month, or year, But not now — not to-day ! Nor feast, nor flower, for th' passing hour, But all for the far away. Part III. Aud Christmas came, and Gregory With the dawn was broad awake And there was the crumple cow to milk, And there was the cheese to make ; And so it was noon ere he went to the town To buy the Christmas cake. " You'll leave your warm, new coat at home, And keep it fresh and bright To wear," the careful old man said, " When you come back to-night." "Ay," answered the lad, for his heart was glad, And he whistled out of their sight. The frugal couple sat by the fire And talked the hours away, Turning over the years like leaves To the friends or their wedding day — Saying who was wed and who was dead, And who was growing gray. And so at last the day went by, As, somehow, all days will ; And when the evening winds began To blow up wild and shrill, They looked to see if their Gregory Were coming across the hill. They saw the snow-cloud on the sky, With its rough and ragged edge, And thought of the river running high, And thought of the broken bridge ; But they did not see their Gregory Keeping his morning's pledge ! The old wife rose, her fear to hide, And set the house aright ; But oft she paused at the window side, And looked out on the night. The candles fine, they were all ashine, But they could not make it light. The very clock ticked mournfully, And the cricket was not glad And to the old folks sitting alone The time was, oh, so sad ! For the Christmas light, it lacked that night The cheeks of their little lad. The winds and the woods fall wrestling now, And they cry as the storm draws near, " If Gregory were but home alive. SELECTED POEMS. He should not work all this year !" For they saw him dead in the river's bed, Through the surges of their fear. Of ghosts that walk o' nights they tell — A sorry Christmas theme — And of signs and tokens in the air, And of many a warning dream, Till the bough at the pane through th'sleet and rain Drags like a corpse in a stream. There was the warm new coat unworn, And the flute of straw unplayed ; And these were dreadfuler than ghosts To make their souls afraid, As the years that were gone came one by one, And their slights before them laid. The Easter days and the Christmas days Bereft of their sweet employ, And working and waiting through them all Their little pale-eyed boy, Ijooking away to the holiday That should bring the promised joy. " God's mercy on us I" cried they bojh, We have been so blind and deaf ; And justly are our gray heads bowed To the very grave with grief!" But hark ! is't th' rain that taps at th' pane, Or the fluttering, falling leaf? Nay, fluttering leaf, nor snow, nor rain, However hard they strive, Can make a sound so sweet and soft, > Like a bee's wing in the hive. Joy ! joy ! O joy ! it is their boy ! Safe, home, in their arms alive ! Ah, never' was there pair so rich As they that night, I trow ; And never a lad in all the world With a merrier pipe to blow, Nor Christmas lignt that shone so bright - At midnight on the snow. — Alice Carey. THE NIGHT FORE CHRIS'MUS. Most gen'rally at eight o'clock I go up stairs to bed, An' jes' undress an' say my prayers an' cover up my head, An' shut my eyes up good 'n' tight an' go to sleep an' then First thing I know it's mornin', an' time to git up again. Some nights, er course, don't seem so short, like 'fore the Fourth, yer know, Or 'fore a feller's birthday, or the night jes' 'fore yer go To visit gran'pa— oh, my, yes ! they're kinder long, but, gee 1 The night that comes 'fore Chris'mus is a million years to me ! Seem's if December, anyway, 's the longest month they is ; The months that's in the summer, why, they go so fast they whiz, But old December crawls along, so kinder slow and late That Chris'mus keeps so far away seems 's if you couldn't wait. An' when yer've marked off all the days but one, an' that's most through, An' yer've hanged up yer stockin' right 'lonside the chimney flue, An' said "Good-night" an' gone up stairs, my, don't the minutes creep ! 'Cause when he knows it's Chris'mus eve no boy can go to sleep I Yer hear the old hall clock " tick, tock," an' hear tha wind, so low An' kinder soft an' lonesome like, jes' 's if 'twas goin* to snow ; An' then yer wonder if it will, so 's yer can slide nexfc day, An' then yer think 'bout Santy an' his reindeer, an' his sleigh. Yer wonder what he'll bring yer, an' yer wonder how he guessed Yer wanted skates las' Chris'mus an' a bowgun an* the rest ; An' then yer try to git to sleep, an' then, er course, yer don't, An' then yer say, " Well, you jes' will," an' then, er 1 course, yer won't. I s'pose it must be right, but, oh I sometimes it does seem wrong That that one night boys wants so short should be so extra long ; I've tried to think out why it is, but all the 'scuse I've found Is that it's long so Santy he'll have time to git around. But I know this, I'm mighty glad I ain't a Esky- mow, An' has to live 'way, 'way up north 'mong all the ice an' snow ; I really don't see what they do, the boys, I mean— oh, dear ! Jes' think of waitin' through a night that lasts a half a year ! —Joe Lincoln. THE LITTLE RED RIBBON. The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! The summer-time comes and the summer-time goes — And never a blossom in all of the land As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand ! The long winter months, and the glare of the snows ; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! And never a glimmer of sun in the skies As bright as the light of her glorious eyes ! Dreams only are true ; but they fade and are gone— For her face is not here when I waken at dawn , The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose Mine only ; her's only the dream and repose. I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears, And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years, Moaning over the one only song that it knows — The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! — James Whit comb Riley. THE CHILD AND THE BIRD. " Oh, where are you going, my dear little bird? And why do you hurry away ? Not a leaf on the pretty red maple has stirred, In the sweet golden sunshine to-day." " I know, little maiden, the sunshine is bright, And the leaves are asleep on the tree, But three times the dream of a cold winter's night Has come to my children and me. " So good-bye to you, darling, for off we must go, To the land where the oranges bloom, For we birdies would freeze in the storm and the snow, And forget how to sing in the gloom." " Will you ever come back to your own little nest?" " Ah, yes, when the blossoms are here, We'll return to the orchard we all love the best, And then we will sing to you, dear." —Margaret E. Sangster. SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE OLD HAND ORGAN. The old hand organ in the street Has not the gaudy gold and gilt The new ones have— but, oh, the sweet Old tunes it plays with limping lilt ! " The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls," " Jim Crow," and " Annie Laurie," too — And, answering its bugle calls, . The old times rise for me and you. " Tben You'll Remember Me," it plays— And straight our memories go back Through all the dead years' mellow haze, With frequent pause along the track. And then we see the grass-grown streets, The orchids gleaming in the sun, Where crooning bees seek out the sweets And shadows o'er the grasses run. We see the flash of merry eyes ; We see the gleam of old-time smiles ; And, ere the old-time music dies, We live again the old-time whiles. We walk the pathway in the lane, And day-dream as we used to then, For on the rippling old refrain The old time comes to life again. Play ! Old hand organ in the street ! Play every song we used to sing, And let our hearts in cadence beat With each glad memory they bring. Play, in your halting, careless way, The fine old tunes that softly tell Of every God-made happy day In those old times we love so well. — W. D. Nesbit. THE HUSKIN' BEE. The huskin' bee wuz over, ez the sun wuz goin' down In a valler blaze o' glory jist behind the maples brown, The gals wuz gittin' ready 'n the boys wuz standin' bv, To hitch on whar they wanted to, or know the reason why. Of all the gals what set aroun' the pile of corn thet clay, A-twistin' off the rustlin' husks ez ef 'twas only play, The peartest one of all the lot— 'n they wuz putty, too — Wuz Zury Hess, whose laffin' eyes cud look ye through and through. Now it happened little Zury found a red ear in the pile, Afore we finished huskin', 'n ye orter seen her smile ; Fur, o' coorse, she held the priverlege, ef she would only dare, To choose the feller she liked best 'n kiss him then 'n there. My ! how we puckered up our lips 'n tried to look our best, Each feller wished he'd be the one picked out from all the rest ; 'Til Zury, arter hangin' back a leetle spell or so, Got up 'n walked right over to the last one in the row. She jist reached down 'n teched her lips onto the ol white head O' Peter Sims, who's eighty year ef he's a day, 'tis said ; She looked so sweet ol' Peter tho't an angel cum to say As how his harp wuz ready in the land o' tarnal day. Mad ? Wall, \ should say I wuz ; 'n I tol' her goin* hum As how the way she slighted me hed made me sorter glum, 'N that I didn't think she'd shake me right afore the crowd — I wuzn't gointer stand it — n' I said sopooty loud. Then Zury drapped her laffin' eyes 'n whispered to me low, "I didn't kiss ye 'fore the crowd — 'cause — 'cause — I love ye so, 'N I thought ye wudn't mind it ef I kissed ol' Pete instead, Because the grave is closin' jist above his pore ol* head." Well — wimmin's ways is queer, sometimes, and we don't alius know Just what's a-throbbln' in their hearts when they act thus 'n so — All I know is, that when I bid good-night to Zury Hess, I loved her more 'n ever, 'n I'll never love her less. THE OLD BOOKS. They are gray]with the gray of ages, Borrowed, and begged, and sold ; Thumb-marked of saints and sages, In the scholarly days of old. Rose leaves pressed for a lover Rest in their pages dim, Though silent centuries cover All that is left of him. And I feel in the library's shadows, With this ghostly company, The breath of forgotten meadows And the centuries over me ! And when twilight bells are calling — When the day with its strife is o'er — There are ghostly footsteps falling Faint on the library floor. Singers, and saints, and sages — In the fame of a name we trust, But time will cover our pages, As even our tombs, with dust. For here in the library's shadows, Where the famed and fameless be, I roam in forgotten meadows, With the centuries over me ! — Frank L. Stanton. A THANKSGIVING LETTER TO GRANDMA. " Dear Dranma — I finked I would write you a letter To tell how I love you — a bushel or more. Mamma hopes that now your sore foot is all better, And we'll come to Fanksgiving, as we did before. " Please make us some pies, and some pudding and jelly, A turkey wit' stuffing and onions, and then Please don't you forget that I like stuffing smelly Of sage. From your 'fectionate Charlie. Amen. And grandma, dear soul, as she pores o'er the letter, With a smile on her lips and such mist in her eyes That she wipes off her glasses to see through them Plans out a whole shelfful of puddings and pies— Of tarts and of cookies, of custards and jelly r A goodly battalion of gingerbread men ; And last, but not least, a fat turkey cooked " smelly " Of sage for the youngster who wrote her " Amen." SELECTED POEMS. A COURT-MARTIAL. The Light Brigade of Billville is in a mighty muss — The boys went to a barbecue that ended in a fuss ! An' we're havin' a court-martial that's a-settin' day an' Dight, And these here are the charges that they're makin' left an' sight : Sergeant Slatery, 'Sault and battery ; Colonel Boker, Playin' poker ; Captain Kidders, Huggin' widdcrs ; Maior Mazes, Full as blazes ; General Bearing, High-toned swearing ; Corporal Goldbraids, Kissin' old maids ; Colonel Shakedown, Dancing breakdown ; General Loudshout, Cleaning crowd out ! I tell you, but it's lively ! there was never nothin' like ! You can't tell any minute where the lightning's goin' to strike ! We're en joy in' the proceedin's from the top rail of the fence, For we're holdiu' court in Billville at the Govern- ment's expense ! THE PUMPKIN. Ah, on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his "mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin pie? Oh — fruit loved of boyhood— the old days recalling, When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling ! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Glaring out through theaark with a candle within ! When we laughed round the corn heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin — our lantern the moon, Telling tales of the fairy who travtled like steam In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team ! — J. G. Whittier. A LITTLE BOOK. A little book, with here and there a leaf Turned at some tender passage ; how it seems To speak to me, to fill my soul with dreams Sweet as first love, and beautiful, though brief! Here was her glory, on this page hrr grief. For tears have stained it ; here the sunlight streams, And there the stars withheld from her their beams. And sorrow sought her white soul like a thief ! And here her name, and as I breathe the sweet, Soft syllables, a presence in the room Sheds a rare radiance ; but 1 may not look ; The yellowed leaves are fluttering at my feet ; The light is gone, and I, lost in the gloom, Weep like a woman o'er this little book ! — Frank L. Stanton. ANNIE CARROLL. Swate Annie Carroll, she blushed and she cried Whin I up an' I axed her to be my dear bride Till I thought, " 'Tis all up wid ye, Michael, me boy ; If you want to win Annie ye'll have to imploy Manners swater An' looks nater, For what are ye, Mike, but a big, rough gossoon ; Fit to wristle and fight ; but for love-talk — ye loon, Ye're about as much fit as a hippypotaymus." (Oh, these swate, stylish gyurls, how their precious tears shame us !) Thin I says, " Annie, darlin', I don't feel like quar'lin' Wid yez 'cause your love doesn't come at me liken'; I'm niver at aise, sure, exoipt whin I'm strikin' Some sort of a blow, An' I know well — I know Such a swate, tinder creature as you couldn't love me, Bein' millions an' millions of miles far above me ; But, oh, don't you be crying — it hurts me most cruel Though aich tear iu your beautiful eyes is a jewel." Here I put me rough hand, friendly like, on her shouldther, An' it comforted her ; so a wee thrifle bouldther I grew, an' in wan little jiffy I'd placed Me arm in the small of her iligant waist. An' thin I was dyin' Her lips to be thryiu', For I saw she'd clear left off her heartbreakin' cryin', Whin she looked up so sly, Wid a tear in aich eye — But a dozen laughs back of the tears, askin' why I'm not tastin' whin red lips are pouting close by. Thin I did my full duty By Annie, my beauty. An' we're soon to be wed, for I axed her the day, And she said : " This is March, thin comes April, thin May- Three months, to be dacint — an' thin, dearest Mike, Anny day ye may like !" GRANDMA' S MISTAKE. Poor grandma ! I do hate to tell her, And yet it does seem very queer ; She's lived so much longer than I have, And I — why, I've known it a year ! Even Alice begins to look doubtful, And she is so babyish, too, And mamma slyly laughs at the nonsense, But grandma believes it is true. I did it all up in brown paper, And laid it just there Dy her plate ; She put on her glasses so slowly, I thought that. I never could wait. But when she had opened the bundle, " My patience !" she said, " how complete i A dear little box for my knitting — Now isn't old Santa Claus sweet ! " To think that the funny old fellow Should notice I needed just this ; If he should come in here this morning, I think I should give him a kiss !" She never once looked at me, never ; Of course, I had nothing to say, But I was so mortified truly, I just had to run right away. Poor grandma ! I do hate to tell her ! But some day, of course, she'll find out ; And then she will laugh to remember What once she was puzzled about. But as for that beautiful work box She laid with such care on the shelf, How can she think Santa Claus bought it? I made the thing for her myself. 10 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY \ THE FIRST ROBIN. While yet the meadows, here and there, Are fringed and ruffled with the snow ; While leaves and hudsare still asleep, And sweet south winds begin to blow ; When rain in silvery gusts of balm, Slants suddenly, the sunshine through ; And faint mists wave their soft gray wings Along the hills against the blue ; Then, in the wood that long was mute, We hear a sound like far-off flute : A wild, a sweet, melodious straiu — The robin has come back again ! Ah ! then we feel the soft gales blow From green shores of our bygone springs ; Love breathes his tender vows once more, While blithe and glad the robin sings ; And by the green and mournful graves Snowed over by the daisies white ; By " still rains washed." To sing one note— The robin stays his breezy flight. So up through dim and lonely ways, Throng memories of dear dead days : But joy or grief, whate'er they bring, Through all, we hear the robins sing. —Carrie F. L. Wheeler. TIGER LILIES. How keepeth my lady the weeds from her posies, All in the gay summer time? Why is it the rose-chafer eats not her roses From the song of the lark till the four o'clock closes? Five fierce tiger lilies iu spotted cuirasses She posted at each of her great garden passes, And they frighten away the chafers and grasses, All in the gay summer time. — Mary E. Wilkins. CEPTIN 1 JIM. We boys 'ud run an' romp an' play From early morn till close of day ; We'd tramp for miles with dog an' gun An' think that huntin' was such fun 'Ceptin' Jim. He wuz a cripple from his birth An' wuz no sort o' use on earth. His mother wuz the widder Flynn, Who hadn't nary chick nor kin 'Ceptin' Jim. She lived by takin' washin' in. The widder's face wuz sharp an' thin ; Hard work had left its creases there ; An' no one thought her sweet ner fair 'Ceptin' Jim. One day we went below the mill, Where shadders fell so cool an' still, A fishin' thar fer perch an' trout, An' no one knew we were about 'Ceptin' Jim. When some one came an' raisei the sluice An' turned the rush o' water loose, While everything began to go An' we were all down thar below 'Ceptin' Jim. He got a pole an' liinped aroun 1 An' pried the gate back to the groun' ; Then slipped * * * v We used ter gather by x ^eetle grave where grass grew high, \ < All, 'ceptin' Jim. \ — Lewis R. Clement. A MARCH VIOLET. On twigs that glistened with silver frost The birds were singing of love, love, love, And the gray of the clouds were fringed with gold, In the blue of the windy sky above. There were strips of snow by the broken stile And close to\the roots of the budding larch Like ermine torn from the Winter's robe When he fled away from the wrath of March. But a delicate fragrance, faint and fine, Was wafted by on the chilly air, As though a seraph had safely passed And shook the folds of his garments there. It seemed to breathe to my yearning soul Of nests rebuilded, and streams set free, Of rosy mornings, and rainbow eves, And long, bright revels of bird and bee. What glimmered there on the sunny bank — A feather tossed from a bluebird's wing, Or love-knot out of a maiden's locks, Or a sapphire dropped from a gallant's ring ? Nay ; never a jewel was half so rare, Nor silken ribbon so soft a hue, For April, keeping a tryst with March, Had lost from her bosom a violet blue. — Minna Irving. HELPED HIMSELF. "Help yourself, help yourself, little boy, do; Don't wait for others to wait upon you." Grandma was holding her afternoon chat, Knitting and rocking away as she sat. " Look at the birds, how they build their own nests ; Watch the brown bees always toiling their best ; Put your own hands to the plow if you'd thrive ; Don't waste your moments in wishing, but strive." Up in her face looked a mischievous elf, " Don't forget, darling," said she, " help yourself." Afternoon shadows grow drowsy and deep, Grandma was tranquilly folded in sleep ; Nothing was heard but the old farmhouse clock, Plodding along with its warning tick-tock. Out from the pantry there came a loud crash ; Pussy jumped out from the hearth in a flash. Back to her chair came this practical boy, Steeped to his ears in jam, custard and joy. Frightened, he cried: "Please, I've upset the shelf; Grandma, I minded — I did help myself!" ONLY A LOCK OF SOFTEST GOLD. Only a lock of softest gold, secured with tender care, And hid beneath the Bible lids— a sweet, dead baby's hair. The lonely years have come and gone since she was laid away, And yet the childish form comes back before my eyes to-day. While pressing kisses on the curl, as I was wont to do, I see her little face once more, and little eyes of blue. Only a lock of silken hair, with faded ribbon tied — The only thing save mem'ry left of her who early died ; And yet it has a potent force to turn my yearning gaze From sordid pleasures of the world to where my darling stays, And keep alive the hope that when my soul from clay is free. I'll see her where she holds the gates of Heaven ajar for me. — Will T. Hale, SELECTED POEMS. 11 THE OLD CIDER MILL. You would scarcely call it music, that loud noise we used to hear, And the big machine was rough and inartistic in its gear, But we loved it, yes we loved it, aud we loved the nectar tide That came flowing from the old press standing there near to its side. It had stood upon the old farm since our greatgrand- father's days, In the snows and winds of winter, in the summer sun's hot blaze — Stood anear the fruitful orchard, and it may be stand- ing still, Doing duty in its loyalty, the old cider mill. We would hitch the old mare, Betty, to its long and crooked sweep — She that always stood so quiet, half awake and half asleep — Put a freckled kid upon her and around the ring they'd go, He as proud as any rider in a gilded circus show. Such a grunting and a squeaking and a squashing it would make, How, as if in fit of ague, it would tremble and would shake, As the wooden jaws so hungry we with rosy fruit would till, Oh ! it had a hired man's appetite, that old cider mill ! Over yonder in the orchard, underneath the laden trees, Faces ever fresh and rosy from the kisses of the breeze, All the boys and girls were busy shaking apples to the ground, And in piling up the beauties til) the wagon came around. Then we'd load the juicy treasures and we'd pile up on the load, And would jolt along in rapture down the dim old orchard road, All the echoes having trouble with o t screams so loud and shrill On the way to dump our cargo at the old cider mill. Even yet we hear the humming of the hungry honey bees Coming from those days of childhood borne on recol- lection's breeze, And can see them sip the sweetness from the old mill's grinding maw, While we'd suck the same rare nectar from the big tub through a straw. No champagne of costly vintage nor no celebrated wine From the cellars of creation ever tasted so divine As the sweet, delicious droppings that the monster tub would fill From the press that stood companion to the old cider mill. / CANNA LEAVE MY MIT HER YET. Oh, Lizzie, lass, I lo'ed ye lang. And constant I hae been to thee, Sae tell me, lassie, will ye gang Amang the heathery hills o' Dee? I canna gang, I winna gang, I mauna leave my mither yet For nanecan lo'e her likemysel' My ain kindhearted mither yet. I'll hap ye in my Hielaud plaid, And keep the wintry cauld frae thee : Nae ill can harm thee, dearest maid, Amang the heathery hills o' Dee. I canna gang, I winna gang, I mauna leave my mither yet, For nane can lo'e her like mysel', My ain kindhearted mither yet. Ye'll wander over the ferny knowes, And herd the wee bit lambs wi' me, And pu' the blae that hidden grows, Amang the heathery hills o' Dee. I canna gang, I winna gang, I mauna leave my mither yet, For nane can lo'e her like mysel', My ain kindhearted mither yet. Noo, Lizzie, dry your fa' in tears, Your mither kind will gang wi' thee, Webaith will tend her fadin' years, Amang the heathery hills o' Dee. Gin I maun gang, I e'en maun gang, An' we shall live thegither yet, For nane can lo'e her likemysel', My ain kindhearted mither yet. WHEN CRICKETS SING. When crickets sing and asters bloom in all the wood- land ways, And smoke hangs low, and far away the fields are lost in haze, When in the corn there is a voice that whispers : " Summer's gone," And here and there a red leaf glows, first lights of autumn's dawn ; Then, soft as milkweed down, on me Is laid the hand of mystery. The woodland wavers , at my feet I hear the tall grass sigh ; / A low, sweet music of regret runs through the earth and sky ; The creek is caught in a net of mist whose silvery meshes gleam, And my heart beats low, and I walk as one walks wauderiug in a dream : For, soft as milkweed down, on me Is laid the hand of mystery. — Ingram Crockett. 12 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY DANDELION GOLD. Like bright gold dollars in the grass, The dandelions lie, And if they would like dollars " pass," I know what I would b*iy. At first, I'd work with all my might To gather up the gold, And stuff my pockets just as tight As ever they would hold ! Then I would find Dame Nature's store, (She has the dearest things !) Boldly knock at the very front door, And ask for butterflies wings ; Then I should want some fine gray gloves, Made out of spiders' silk, And feathery cloak from breasts of doves, As soft and white as milk ! For shoes I'd buy some lily leaves With small-shell buttons bright, And, made of threads the thistle weaves, Some stockings, snowy white : But most of all, I long to buy The new moon for a boat, That I each night far down the sky, Among the stars might float. Oh, round and round the earth I'd range, So glad, and free, and bold, And never a cent I'd ask of change, From Dandelion Gold ! — Margaret Deland. FATHERS WAY. My father was no pessimist ; he loved the things of earth, Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth ; He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong ; I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song. But, being he warn't much on tune, whenever times were blue. He'd whistle softly to himself the only tune he knew. Now. mother when she learned that tune which father whistled so, Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know ; He never tries to make believe he's happy that ere way But that I'm certain as can be some trouble is to pay." And so, betimes, quite natural like, to us observant youth, There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pa- thetic truth. When Brother William joined the war a lot of us went down To see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out oi town ; A-comin' home poor mother cried as if her heart would break, And all us children, too, for hers, and not for Will- iam's sake ! But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so, Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemu like and low. And when my eldest sister, Sue, was married and went West, Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest. She was the sunlight in our home ; why, father used to say It wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go Yet when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrow and all tears, Poor father whistled lonesome like and went to feed the steers. When crops were bad and other ills befell our homely lot He'd sit around and try to act as if he minded not ; And when came death and bore away the one he wor- shipped so, How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with woe ! You see the telltale whistle told the mood he'd not admit ; He'd always quit his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it ! I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again, To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fel- low men ; Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong And share the rapture of that heart that overflowed with song ; Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago, When he did battle with the griefs he would not have us know. — Eugene Field. WHISTLE AWAY. Whistle away, my merry boy, With happy face and heart of joy ; If it will help you to be strong, Whistle a tune when things go wrong, And whistling lightens it for you. If e'er your task is hard to do, Whether it be sowing the seeds, Hoeing the corn, or pulling weeds, Gathering fruit, or raking hay, Or driving cows, whistle away. Whistle a tune, if you can't sing, And that should seem the next best thing, That you can do, perhaps 'twill cheer The hearts of some who chance to hear. Better to whistle than to pout, And scold and fret, no one can doubt ; So keep a merry heart, my lad, And thus make other people glad. Do all the good you can each day, And as you toil, whistle away. OPPORTUNITY. In harvest time, when fields and woods Outdazzle sunset's glow, And scythes clang music through the land, It is too late to sow. Too late ! too late > It is too late to sow. In wintry days, when weary earth Lies cold iu pulseless sleep, With not a blossom on her shroud, It is too late to reap. Too late ! too late ! It is too late to reap. So when blue violets are astir, And new-born grasses creep, And young birds chirp, then sow betimes, And thou betimes shalt reap. Then sow ! then tow ! And thou betimes shalt reap. SELECTED POEMS. 33 WHEN THER FROST IS ON THER PANE. Yes, I rather like this weather, seeing to make yer spirits rise, Kind o' makes yer hanker after some such truck as pun kill pies ; Kind o' makes ye huddle closer when ye hear the winds complain. How ye love the chimney corner when ther frost is on ther pane. Makes ye thiuk ye hear the sleigh-bells, tinkling in the frosty air, An' ye feel as though ye couldn't sit no longer in yer chair, Kind o' feel so pert an' frisky, an' — well, I can't somehow explain Jest why I feel so jolly — when ther frost is ou ther pane. 01' Jack Frost is fond o' paintin' picters of ther forest trees On ther window-glass, and after leavin' of 'em there to freeze, Sure I hear a bird a-singiu'. Listen ! There it goes again ! Can't ye see it in the tree-tops — in ther frostin' on ther pane ? — Jay 3. Sturges. SWEETHEART TIME. The fair time, the dear time, iscomin' round again, When a fellow'll meet his sweetheart at the grindin' of the cane ; When bright eyes will be beamin' under bonnets coverin' curls, An' we'll kinder think we're dreamin' while we're kissin' of the girls ! Oh, sweet the cane juice drippin' from the windin' grindin'-mill ! An' sweet the red lips sippin'— but their kiss is sweeter still ! An' the world is sugar-coated, an' a fellow can't complain, When he meets an' greets his sweetheart at the grindin' of the cane. RICHES. Have you a little baby boy A few months more than two years old, With soft brown eyes that brim with joy And silken ringlets bathed in gold, Who, toddling, follows you around And plays beside you near the hearth ; Whose prattle is the sweetest sound To you of all glad notes of earth ? Have you a little baby boy Who, when the voice of slumber calls, Reluctant leaves each tattered toy And in your strong arms weary falls ; Who, yawning, looks with sleepy eyes Into your own and faintly smiles ; Then shuts his lids and quiet lies, And drifts away to Dreamland's isles ? Have you a little one like this, Who puts all troubling thoughts to flight When climbing up, he plants a kiss Of love upon your lips at night? If so, then humbly bow your knee And lift your heart in thankful prayer, For you are richer far than he Who, childless, is a millionaire ! — IK L. Sanford. IN BLOSSOM TIME. Who would have thought, awhile ago, when bitter winds were raging, And all the wintry world was chill, that deep be- neath the snow The heart of summer life and heat a victor's strife was waging, Till in the trees that gave no sign the sap began to flow? Before a single tiny leaf had shown the bud's increas- ing, Before a glimmer of the spring had brightened twig or spray, The bloom and beauty all were pledged ; a loving hand unceasing Was working in the winter time to bring the sum- mer's day. And now the fields are like the sea, with foamy rip- ples tossing. And o'er the blushing crest of May the bluebird glances free ; The sunshine and the diamond shower like shuttles swift are crossing, And the gladness of our childhood days comes back to you and me For God has brought the blossoms, and the fruit in time will follow ; The seed within the furrow dropped, aud then the golden grain ; The patient work and working still, and then o'er hill and hollow The happy songs of harvest and the overflowing wain. Ah ! never when the winter about our way is beating, In sorrow's breath, or burden of the toil that we must share, Should our trustful souls grow timorous, or falter to retreating, For the blossoms of the spring time are in our Father's care, —Margaret E. Sangster. AFTER THE QUARREL. Laws' sakes, I'd rather hev him here His ownself kind and ready, A potterin' roun' an' whis'ling clear Jist as he was yestedday. To think that thirty years and more Has gone a rollin' by, An' never a fuss tull this before Has come 'tween him an' I. Three sons and darters merried now, An' two our boys is dead ; An' he an' I to hev this row When bitter words was said. The house seems all so quiet, still, The sun has left the mark ; An' soon I'll hear the whipper-will Call through the lonesome dark. The clock keeps going tick, tick, tack, I wish that I was dead, Not cryin' here an' rockin' hack, My apron o'er my head. Eh ! what's that noise at the door ? Oh, Paw, it's you, it's you ! I'll never scold you enny more, No matter what you do. Fer real old folks like us to fuss It seems a dreadful sin — An' you've got the kitchen all a muss With your muddy boots ag' in ! 14 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY KATIE AND ME. Katie an' me ain't ingaged anny moor. Och, but the heart of me's breakin' fer sure ! The moon has turned grane and the sun has turned yallow, And Oi am turned both and a different fallow. The poipe of me loiftime is losin' its taste ; Some illigant whuskey is goin' to waste ; Me heart is that impty and also my arrum ; Pertaties an' bacon have lost all their charrum. And Oi feel loike a tombstone, wid crape on the dure, Since Katie an' me ain't ingaged anny moor. Yit most of the world is a-movin' alang As if there was nawthin' at all goin' wrang. Oi notice the little pigs lie in the mud, An' the fool of a cow is still chewin' her cud ; The shky is still blue and the grass is still bright ; The stars shine in hivin in peaceful delight ; The little waves dance on the brist of the lake ; Tim Donnelly's dead an' they're bavin' a wake, An' the world's rich in joy, and it's only me poor, Since Katie an' me ain't ingaged anny moor. She was always that modest an' swate, Oi declare She wud blush full as rid as her beautiful hair At the fought of another man staling the taste Of her lips, or another man's arm around her waist. An' now— och.-McCarney, luk out or O'll break Yer carcass in fragments an' dance at yer wake, As you're dancin' at Donnelly's ! What shud Oi fear ? Purgatory ? Not mooch, fer the same is right here, With me heart on the briler, an' never a cure, Since Katie an' me ain't ingaged anny moor. — J. Edmund V. Cooke. NOVEMBER. Lingering fretworks of russet and crimson, Soft tones of gray in the sea and the sky ; Kondels from bluebird and throstle and swallow, As towards the jessamine thickets they fly ; Loud-chantiug torrents, encrusted with carmine Flung from the boughs like a deluge of flame ; Golden-crowned gorse and imperial asters, Yielding their bloom to the frost's ruthless claim ; .Dark lines of storm-birds ; pellucid rain fringes ; B Passionate songs from the deep, pulsing wind ; „ , ," N v _>r,^m>r&wt ( upraised from the billows embrined : — Mystic November ! O brief intermezzo, Set the year's glory and dying between ; Leading us into, by rich modulations, Silence and sleep, and December's pale sheen ! — Helen Cluise. SUGAR WEATHER. When snowballs pack on the horse's hoofs And the wind from the south blows warm, When the cattle stand where the sunbeams beat And the moon has a dreamy charm ; When icicles crash from the dripping eaves, And the furrows peep black through the snow Then I hurry away to the sugar bush, For the sap will run, I know. With auger and axe and spile and trough To each tree a visit I pay, And every boy in the countryside Is eager to help to-day. We roll the black logs into their place, And the kettles between them swing, Then gather the wood for the roaring fire And the sap in pailfuls bring. A fig for your arches and modern ways, A fig for your sheet-iron pan, I like the smoky old kettles best, And I stick to the good old plan • We're going to make sugar and taffy to-night On the swing pole under the tree, And the girls and boys for miles around Are all sworn friends to me. The hens are cackling again in the barn, And the cattle beginning to bawl, And neighbors, who long have been acting cool, Now make a forgiving call. For there's no love feast like a taffy pull, With its hearty and sticky fun, And I know the whole world's at peace with me, For the sap has commenced to run. —P. McArthur. BEWITCHED. I KNOW not if her fingers small Were brown or snowy white ; Howe'er I strive I can't recall Their form and tint aright. I know it seemed the softest hand, The night when first we met ; And, oh, the clasp she gave me I never can forget. I know not if her eyes were blue, Or jetty black, or gray, They owned a very charming hue, But more I cannot say. Have I forgot? I frankly vow I'm quite ashamed ; and yet The gaze within them gleaming I never can forget. I know not where her dimple danced, If on her cheek or chin ; I only know I gazed entranced And felt my heart fall in. A dimple ! 'tis a tiny thing To dream of and regret ; But how that dimple twinkled I never can forget. — Samuel Minium Peck. OLD LOVE LETTERS. Deep in a cedar chest they lie Far removed from the light of day, The ink on their pages long since dry, The soul of their longing fled away. Lines that vary from grave to gay, And yearnings tinged with the heart's desire, And words that promise and plead and pray — These are the springs of Love's sad lyre. Many a year has passed them by, Many a month from March to May, The snows have gathered on hillocks high, And birds have sung in the orchards gay, Minstrels carolled their roundelay, And nights grown black o'er the sunset's pyre ; Yet such as these have survived decay — These are the strings of Love's sad lyre. All too sacred for mortal eye, Let them dream in the silence gray, For love remains though the lovers die, Slow passing out from their house of clay ; These shall last while the waters play. And on till the steadfast winds may tire, For this is the music living aye — These are the strings of Love's sad lyre. — Ernest McGaffey. SELECTED POEMS. 15 THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. Between broad fields of wheat and corn Is the lowly home where I was born ; The peach tree leans against the wall, And the woodbine wanders over all ; There is the shaded doorway still, But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill. There is the barn — and, as of yore, I can smell the hay from the open door ; And I see the busy swallows throng, And hear the peewee's mournful song ; But the stranger comes— oh 1 painful proof— His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. There is the orchard — the very trees Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, And watched the shadowy moments run Till my life imbibed more shade than sun ; The swing from the bough still sweeps the air, But the stranger's children are swinging there. Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, Step lightly, for I love it still ; And when you crowd the old barn eaves Then think what countless harvest sheaves Have passed within that scented door To gladden eyes that are no more. Deal kindly with these orchard trees ; And when your children crowd their knees Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, As if old memories stirred their heart ; To youthful sport still leave the swing, And in sweet reverence hold the spring. The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds, The meadows with their lowing herds, The woodbine on the cottage wall — My heart still lingers with them all. Ye strangers on my native sill, Step lightly, for I love it still. — Thomas Buchanan Bead. THE OLD TRUNDLE BED. Oh, the old trundle bed, where I slept when a boy ! What canopied king might not covet the joy ? The glory and peace of that slumber of mine, Like along, gracious rest in the bosom divine, The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light, But daintily drawn from its hiding place at night. Oh, a nest of delight, from the foot to the head, Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle bed ! Oh, the old trundle bed, where I, wondering, saw The stars through the window, and listened with awe To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept Through the trees where the robins so restlessly slept, Where I heard the low murmurous chirp of the wren And the katydid listlessly chirrup again, Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed. Oh, the old trundle bed ! Oh, the old trundle bed ! With its plump little pillow and old-fashioned spread, Its snowy white sheets and the blankets above, Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love ; The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep With the old fairy stories my memories keep Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle bed ! — James Whi/comb Riley. THOSE PICKLES OF MARM'S. It doesn't need eyesight to tell that it's Fall, Up here in Maine. Though the glamour of yellow is over it all, And the cold, swishing rain Comes peltering down and goes stripping the leaves, And smokes in cold spray from the edge of the eaves. Ah, it's wild out of doors, but come in here with me, Where mother's as busy as busy can be, And you need not your eyes, sir, to know it is Fall In this stifle and stirring and steam like a pall. For there's savor of spices and odorous charms When your nose gets a sniff of these pickles of marm's. You know it is Fall without using your eyes, Up here in Maine. There is fragrance that floats as the flowerpot dies In the tears of the rain. And the hand of the frost strips the sheltering leaves From the pumpkins, those bombs of the sentinel That stiffly and starkly keep guard in the field, A desolate rank without weapon or shield. And the fragrance of death like a delicate musk Floats up from the field through the crispness of dusk ; Yet out from the kitchen, more savory far, Drifts the fragrance of pickles compounded by ma. The Autumn sweeps past like a dame to a ball, Up here in Maine. Her perfumes would stagger shy Springtime, but Fall, Like a matron of Spain, Puts musk on her bosom and scent on her hair, And prinks her gay robe with elaborate care. Yet the fragrance she sheds has the savor of death, The brain is turned giddy beneath her fierce breath, Till over it all floats the vigorous scent Of spices and hot things and good things all blent. It's wonderful, friend, how it tickles and calms — That whiff from those simmering pickles of marm's. — Holman F. Day. THE CONJURE WOMAN. Dat ole Aun' Tempy, she wot live Yander in de grove, she give Sumpin' to our muley cow, An' no soul cain't milk her now : An' we all's hawgs, dey runs an' squeals Lak some un chase 'em throo de fiel's ; An' more'n dat, dar's ole Unc Saul Cain't sca'cely use his laigs at all, An' says she's cunjered him, he know. Ya-a-ap'm ! dat's so. An' wunst dey was a 'oman, too, Heerd all 'bout what Aun' Tempy do ; An' she gwiue ax her, so she sayed, To kyore de risin' in her haid. Aun' Tempy mighty mad dat day. She nuver had a wu'd to say, But gin a cur'ous kin o' cough, Dat 'oman's head hit fell smack off An' rolt across de cabin flo'. Ya-a-ap'm ! dat's so. Wunst me an' Uncle Isham's Bill We dumb up to de window sill At ole Aun' Tempy's, an' peeped in, An' dar dat pizen 'oman been A-cookin' sumpin' in a pot ; Smell mighty bad, I dunno wot. She spat 'er han's toge'r like dat, An' 'gun a-talkin' to de cat ! Den we lit out to'ds home for sho\ Ya-a-ap'm ! dat's so. 16 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY An Incident of the Strike at the Bonny Belle Mine. You're right ! Not every time you'll meet a million- aire like me That planks you down a check like that for your Christmas charity. It's downright joy for me to give, but they've more sense, they say — The other fellows— but, you see, somehow that's not my way. Tell you just why? Well, I don't care; but now there's quite a lot 0' men who make their pile of cash and hope the past's forgot ; But I'm not one o' them, no, sir ! I don't care if 'tis true That, once, instead of being rich, I was poor as Lord knows who ! And far from owning the Bonny Belle, I worked for a miner's pay — As black as any, and just as tough — hard at it, day by day. Well, at that time, I was crazed almost ; for months the strike was on ; My wife had died ; I'd taken to drink ; and most everything was gone. The rent was due for the very house where I lived with little Jim — Her boy and mine — you've guessed it right, the story's concerning him. And it's not a pleasure for me to tell this story ; but then, you see, I don't know why — somehow my heart will burst, it seems to me If I don't tell somebody, 'specially now, when every- thing kiud o' draws Us to the little folks, bless their hearts ! who are looking for Santa Clans. 'Twas Christmas then, the night before ; no wonder my eyes get dim When I think, while all the world was glad, there was nothing for little Jim. And the year before — how proud he was ! He set out his little shoe, And Santa clans filled it to the top. He made such a big ado When he woke and saw it by the bed, stuffed full and blacked so fine ; He was sure Saint Nick stayed long enough to give his shoes that shine ! But as I said, 'twas a year from then, the strike was at its height ; We men were all wild with drink and rage ; for a train that Christmas night Was to bring in the troops and a new supply of hands to take our place. They'd drive us out like dogs, they said. There was murder in every face When we met and swore they'd kill us first, then, oh, that drink-cursed brain That planned the ruin and death of all, that proposed to wreck the train ! Quick as a flash, for the time was short, we'd torn the long bridge down ; We had no fear of the telegraph, for the mob it held the town. And there yawned a chasm wide and deep, a chasm black with death ; The train was due in five minutes more, the dense mob held its breath ! But just before this, I'd run up home to get an axe. 'Twas dim Inside the house, yet not so dark but I soon spied lit- tle Jim. He'd knelt down close by the smouldering fire, his hands were cold and blue, And when I'd struck a match I saw he'd set out his little shoe. Somehow — forgive me, God ! — I felt a demon rage within At sight of that simple trust of his. I thought of what once had been ; SELECTED POEMS. 17 But It brought no softness to my heart. I cried out, " Get you gone ! You needn't look for Santa Glaus, for we've fixed the train he's on, And there'll be a wreck where the bridge is down !" 1 spurned the little shoe. "Get to bed 1 What do you care for Santa Claus? He's mad atnie and you !" Like the fiend I was, I dashed outside, and I never can forget How I heard him cry as I slammed the door, " Oh, daddy !" I hear it yet. Down where the mob in frenzy surged ! It makes me faint ; my brain Seems turning round ; I hear it yet — the roar of the coining train. I see the rows of lights flash out, hear the locomo- tive's breath As onward it bore that human freight, nearer and nearer to death ! Then a whistled shriek far up the road as a light swings 'cross the track ! The train is upon it — still swinging yet — the wheels they begin to slark ! The engine crawls to the chasm's edge, we hear the loud alarms, A brakeman leaps out, then returns — with something in his arms ! 'Twas Jim ! With his little face all white — to the lantern holding on — His little body crushed, Oh, God ! And his breath and speech most gone. "Daddy, the train is safe, ain't it? I— waved — the light." A pause. The men crowd round, then he faintly said : " Is that one Santa Claus?" The Bonny Belle's owner in heavy coat, said, " Yes, my little man ; You've saved his life! And Santa Claus will help you all he can." A light broke over the little face — so like his ma ! He said : " Then you ain't mad at daddy nor me?" The big man shook his head, And couldn't speak. " Oh, I'm so glad ! Now, daddy, set my shoe Up by the chimney, and when I wake " His little fingers blue Clasped like his ma had taught him, then — that's all. My story's done, Except to tell you, because of Jim, there wasn't a single one Of the men' punished nor one turned off; and because of him, you see I've been made what I am to-day. "Santa Claus" has been good to me. But I'll never get over that awful night. Somehow, I can't forget His little blue hands that reached for mine ; and his shoe, I've got it yet. All rusty and worn at heel and toe, and wrinkled down at the side, Just like when it waited for Santa Claus that night before he died. And you may think it's a foolish trick, but every Christmas eve I set the little, old, worn-out shoe by the fireplace, and make believe He put it there, and Santa Claus fills it full up to the brim With all that it waited for years ago. And it seems that little Jim Comes back again and climbs my knee — such won- drous things to show ! And pats my cheeks and says, " Daddy !" like he used to, long ago. Dear little lad ! 'Tis years and years since they made his grave that day ; The bells have rung out their story old, oft-times since he went away ; But with each return of their happy chimes, my heart it bleeds anew ; And Santa Claus finds at my empty hearth a little worn-out shoe. — Minnie Reid French. 18 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE MAGIC OF A WHISTLE. I have heard his boyish whistle in the dark and dewy gloam As he trudged across the meadows, as he drove the cattle home. I have heard him thrill a measure with the cadence of a lark, And his boyish reason for it is : " It frightens off the dark." Oft there seems a something lurking in the tall-grown plots of grass, And his blood runs cold at thinking it may grab him should he pass. But he knows fear cannot linger in a bfain for very long If two lips are pursed for whistling and a heart is tuned to song. Though the eerie shadows hover and the clouds shut out the stars. Up the pasture path he whistles, whistles taking down the bars, And the tune he pipes would surely any tired heart "When he times it to the splashing in the frothed-o'er milking pail. All the shadows, all the darkness grow affrighted at. the joy, And the happiness that bubbles from the glad heart of a boy, While Fear's pickets scout and scatter 'fore the hosts of Courage strong If two lips are pursed for whistling and a heart is tuned to song. In my worldly walks of living, in my struggle after pelf, His philosophy of courage I have taken to myself, When the clouds of care and trouble veil the blessed air of hope, And Misfortune waits to grab me as along the path I grope, When beset by fear I falter ; see of light no feeble spark, Then his boyish plan I welcome, " for to frighten off the dark." And I reach my hope's bright haven, since one can- not wander wrong If two lips are pursed for whistling and a heart is tuned to song. —Roy Farrell Greene. THE PRAYER- CURE IN THE PINES. A kind of a purty boy was Hank, With a girlish tace, an' an honest, frank, Confidin' light in his big, blue eyes, Thet looked with a sorter half-surprise At the things they seen in Stiggiu's camp, An' suthin', somehow, that seemed to stamp A triflin' flavor of upper crust. Nothin' put on, but nateral — see? Friendly an' social, but not too free, A gentleman born was young Hank Shaw, An' he didn't driuk. nor didn't chaw, An' never cussed — that is, not much, An' when "he did he did in such An awkward way you could tell for sure He was more or less of an amachure. Never said nothin' about his kin. Never let on whar his home hed been, AVorked right along with the rest of us, A n' held his own with the best of us, Till Big Foot Zekel, who used to laff At his genteel manners, quit his chaff. An' give out the statement, cold an' chill, He'd lick the duller as used Hank ill. Now, the boy was young — jest turned sixteen — An' the work was hard an' the chuck was mean, But he tuffed it out through cold an' damp, Till, jest as Stiggins was breakin' camp, He tuk with fever so mighty bad, He couldn't move to town, poor lad ; So me an' Zekel an' Long John Drew Staid thar in the woods to see him through. One day — 'twas Sunday — he'd got so weak He couldn't move nor he couldn't speak, But lay in his bunk so still an' white, We 'lowed he never could last till night ; When 'long in the mortiiii , --~say near ten — We heerd the jangle of bells, an' then A woman dashed through the shanty door An' knelt by Hank on Ihe rough plank floor. Her face was lit with a look of joy, As she cried. " Thank God ! I've found my boy I" But he didn't know her. An' then she prayed. No other sech prayer was ever made. I sorter reckon the angel bands, As she begged Hank's life at the good Lord's hands, Must have stopped to listen. 'Twas rather more Than I could stan', and I broke for the door. The others follered. " Say, lads," says Dan, " Do you think pra'rs ever cured a man ?" " Dunno," says Zeke, " but I know ef I Was a-settin' up there on the throne on high, A-runnin' this yer concern, an' she Come prayin' an' pleadin' that way ter me, I'd cure that kid ef it bust the plan Of the whole durned universe." " Shake 1" says Dan. An' jest three weeks from that very day Hank and his mother rode away, Down the loggin' trail. Now, some may doubt An' argy 'twas nussin' pulled him out An' thet pra'rs don't go : but as forme, I was thar an' I know what I hearn an' see. An' I hold thet thet day at the Throne of Grace Thet mother's pra'r was wuth its face. — Clarence H. Pearson. THE OLD GUM SPRING. From its green and mossy lip Pearls of limpid coolness drip, Echoing to the feet of time With a silver tinkling rhyme, Day and night unwearying. O'er it leans a berry spray, Round it partridge blossoms play ; Naught its shadowed beauty mars ; Mirrored blossoms, birds and stars, Peep up from the old gum spring. As the calm hours glide to noon, From the roadside floats the tune That some dusky muleteer trolls, While his groaning wagon rolls, Through the spring-branch glistening. Or anon a childish face Comes to gaze with dimpled grace — Then the russet drinking-gourd Plunges in the crystal hoard, Sparkling in the old gum spring. Oft at night, as o'er the pine Drowsily the moonbeams shine, Fragrant bay flowers white arrayed, Spotless vestals of the glade, All night long their censers swing. And, perchance, the mock-bird wakes, Poet of the laurel brakes, And with love-enraptured heart Thrills the night with minstrel art, Swinging o'er the old gum spring. — Samuel Minium Peck. SELECTED POEMS. 19 LITTLE WILLIE. They cut pa's trousers down for me ; I don't get nuthiu' new ; I have to wear his old coats out, his old suspenders, too! His hats and shoes don't fit me, but s'pose they will some day. And then they'll come to me instead of being thrown away. My sister Grace is twenty-two ; And she can sing and play, And what she wears is always new — Not stuff that's thrown away ! She puts on style, I tell you what ! She dresses out of sight ; She's proud and haughty and she's got A beau 'most every night. I never get new things to wear ; I'm just a boy, you see, And any old thing's good enough to doctor up forme : 'Most every thing that I've got on one day belonged to pa — When sister's through with her fine things she hands them up to ma ! THE OLD BLUE WRAPPER. I can see the old blue wrapper that my mammy used to wear, "With the braiding round the border and the bits of lace so rare, For I've often dried my tears against that wrapper on her breast, When my boyish heart was breaking and I wished to be caressed. There was nothing half so homelike as that old blue dress to me, There was nothing half so rich as those old frillings seemed to be, And no arms have ever pressed me with a love so rare and true As the hugs I got from mother when she wore that dress of blue. I have seen old Neptune's color, as the blue waves billowed by I have seen the velvet starlight in the azure tropic sky, I have seen a maiden's glances that the light of heaven bore, But there's not a blue so pretty as the dress my mammy wore. THE THINGS IN THE BOTTOM DRAWER. There are whips and toys and pieces of string, There are shoes which no little feet wear ; There are bits of ribbon and broken rings, And tresses of golden hair ; There are little dresses folded away Out of the light of the sunny day. There are dainty jackets that never are worn ; There are toys and models of ships ; There are books and pictures, all faded and torn, And marked by the finger tips Of dimpled hands that have fallen to dust, - Yet I strive to think that the Lord is just. But a feeling of bitterness fills my soul Sometimes when I try to pray, That the Reaper has spared so many flowers And taken all mine away ; And I almost doubt that the Lord can know That a mother's heart can love them so. They wander far in distant climes, They perish by water and flood ; And their hands are black with the direst crimes That kindle the wrath of God. Yet a mother's song has soothed them to rest, She has lulled them to slumber upon her breast. And then I think of my children three, My babies that never grow old, And know they are waiting and watching for me In the city with streets of gold. Safe, safe from the cares of the weary years, From sorrow and sin and war, And I thank my God. with falling tears, For the things in the bottom drawer. A TONGUE FOR BLARNEY. Oh, Larry, now Larry, it's no use a talkin', Ye're too bould enthirely to suit a girl's taste ! Ye' re niver content wid a shmilean' a curtsey, An' here ye are now wid yer arm round my waist ! Ye bodther my life out wid beggin' for kisses. An' the more ye do get, why, the bouldher you're grown ; An' when I don't give 'em, it just makes no differ — Ye take 'em ; but, Larry, now lave me alone. Faith, what would the misthress say, man, did she find ye Foriver a-foolin' round me at my work ? Ye're a tyrant that takes what ye happen to fancy — No betther, I'll swear, than a haythen-born Turk ! Oh, Larry, my lad, ye've the tongue for the blarney ! Sure, now, 'twould be meltin' the heart of a shtone, Wid both hands in the dough I can never resist ye — Ye know it — an' yit ye won't lave me alone I Oh, Larry, now Larry, be good and shtop taysin' ! There's somebody comin,' quit foolin' and hush 1 An' will I say "Yes," will I have ye? Oh, Larry, Ye'd be charmin' the very birds off of the bush ! I must name a day soon when the bans shall be pub- lished ; Kin I niver escape ye, och, hone, lad, och hone? Must I marry ye whedder or no — ye're a villain? But, Larry, I will — ef ye'll lave me alone 1 AT EVENFALL. The far-off woods spread out in sombre shadow Beyond the lane ; An owl upon a snag beside the meadow, Moans as in pain. Across the brooklet's bar, in wild derision, The kildees call, And all existence seemeth half a vision, At evenfall. Among the weeds beside the fence, the elders Loom faintly white ; The fireflies dart among the blowing guelders — Wee lamps a-light. The evening's breathings scarcely seem to dally The poplars tall ; And calm the night and peaceful as Death's Valley, At evenfall. The years of life are passing surely star-ward Unto the end ; The borders of the Now and Then move forward, And, glimmering, blend. And when there comes an end to woes and blisses, And Death shall call, May Time's last moment be as calm as this is, At evenfall. — Will T.Hale, "Showers and Sunshine." 20 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY CHRISTMAS DREAMS. I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill Decem- ber night ; And in dressing gown and slippers I had tilted back " my throne" — The old split-bottomed rocker— and was musing all alone. I could hear the hungry winter prowling round the outer door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor ; But the sounds eatue to me only as (he murmur of a stream That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing ilio am. ****** And I saw a happy mother and a group surrounding her, That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh ; And I thrilled with awe aud wonder, as a murmur on the air Came drifting o'er the hearing of a melody of prayer — By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee — We feel thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee Ami lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to thee. The messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled aud gone As the dark aud spectral shadows of the night before the dawn ; And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon. You have given us a shepherd — you have given us a guide, And the light of'heaven grew dimmer when you sent him from your sidi — But he comes to lead thy children where the gates will open wide To welcome his returning when his works are glori- fied. By the splendor in the heavens and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee We feel thy kingly presence aud we humbly bow the Uut'f, And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to thee. Then the vision slowly failing, with the words of the refrain, Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window paue, And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel Who brings the world good tidings : " It is Christmas — all is well." — James IVkilcomb Riley. > »♦ FEED IN' THE STOCK. Hear the chorus in that tie-up, ruuch, ger-runch and much and runch ! — There's a row of honest critters ! Does me good to hear 'em munch. When the barn is gettin' dusky and the sun's behind the drifts, — Touchin' last the gable winder where the dancin' hay-dust sifts, When the coaxin' from the tie-up kind o' hints it's five o'clock, Wal, I've got a job that suits me— that's the chore of feedin' stock. We've got patches down to our house — honest patches, though, and neat, But we'd rather have the patches than to skinch on what we eat. Lots of work, and grub to back ye— that's a mighty wholesome creed, — Critters fust, s'r, that's my motto — give the critters all they need. And the way we do to our house, marm and me take what is left, And — wal — we ain't goin' hungry, as you'll notice by our heft. Darn the man that's calculatin' when he measures out his hay, Groanin' ev'ry time he pitches ary forkful oat the " bay ;" Darn the man who feeds out ruff-scuff, wood and wire from the swale, 'Cause he wants to press his herd's grass, send his clover off for sale. Oh, the dim old barn seems homelike, with its over- hanging mows, With its warm and battened tie-up, full of well-fed sheep aud cows. Then I shet the door behind me, drop the bar and drive the pin And, with Jeff a-waggin' after, lug the foamin' milk pails in. That's the style of things to our house — marm and me we don^t pull up Until ev'ry critter's eatin', from the cattle down to pup- Then the biskits and the spare-rib and plum preserves taste good For we're feelin', me and mother, that we're actin' 'bout's we should. Like or not, s'r, after supper mother sews another patch And she says the duds look trampy, 'cause she ain't got goods to match. Fust of all, though, comes the meal bins and the hay- mows ; after those If there's any extra dollars, wal, we'll see about some clothes. But to-night, why, bless ye, mother, pull the rug acrost the door — Warmth and food and peace and comfort — let's not pester God for more. — Holrnan F. Day. AULD LANG SYNE. Don't get any more hick'ry nuts Like them 'at use' to grow On the hick'ry trees on the ol' home farm When the boys an' gals 'lid go A-gatherin' nuts when school was out, On the hill agin the wood, Where the hick'ry trees growed tall an' stout, An' the hick'ry nuts was good. Don't get any more sugar now Like we did long ago, When the boys an' gals went bilin' sap Where the maples use' to grow. 'Twas down in the lots through the pasture gate, Where the browsiu' cattle stood, An' the maple trees growed roun' an' straight, An' the maple sap was good. Don't get any more apple juice Liks that 'at use' to flow So clear au' sweet from the apple press In the mill I used to know. 'Twas up thro' the fields o' new mown hay, On the edgeo' the old birch wood, Where the cider mill stood grim an' gray, An' the apple juice was good. SELECTED POEMS. 21 A CHRISTMAS CAROL Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night ! Christmas in lands of the fir trees and pine, Christmas iu lands of the palm tree and vine ; Christmas where snow-peaks staud solemn and white, Christmas where cornfields lie sunny and bright, Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night ! Christmas where children are hopeful and gay, Christmas where old men are patient and gray, Christmas where peace, like a dove in its flight, Broods o'er bravamen in the thick of the fight, Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night. For the Christ-child who comes is the Master of all. No palace too great and no cottage too small. The angels who welcome him sing from the height, " In the city of David a King in his might," Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night. Then let every heart keep its Christmas within, Christ's pity for sorrow, Christ's hatred of sin, Christ's care for the weakest, Christ's courage for right ; Christ's dread of the darkness, Christ's love of the light, Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night. So the stars of the midnight which compass us round, Shall see a strange glory and hear a sweet sound, And cry, " Look ! the earth is aflame with delight. Oh, sons of the morning, rejoice at the sight !" Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas io-night. — Phi/lips Brooks. HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS The roses are sweet and the lilies are fair. As they bend 'neath the dews from above ; They are splendid and fair — but they cannot compare With the beautiful hands of my love. No jewels adorn them — no glittering bands — They are just as God made them, these sweet, sweet hands ! And not for the world with its splendor and gold, Nor the pearl's from the depths of the sea ; Nor, the queens of the land, with their beautiful hands, Should these dear hands be taken from me. ! What exquisite blisses await their commands ! They were made for my kisses — these dear, sweet hands 1 ! Aye, made for my kisses! And when, some day, My life shall be robbed of its trust, And the lips that are colder shall kiss them away, And hide them in daisies and dust, I will kneel in the dark where, the angel stands, And my kiss shall be last on these dear, sweet hands ! — Frank L. Stanton. AN OLD-FASHIONED CHRISTMAS. The year is old, the night is cold, A cloak of snow lies over all ; Come maid and page, come sire and sage, And join the revel in the hall. Now higher, higher, heap the fire Till rafters glisten with the glow, Revealing there to every fair The tempting sprays of mistletoe. For every miss must, yield a kiss — Such is the meaning of the wreath, Whose every berry seems quite merry With thoughts of what will hap beneath. Room for the dance ! Advance ! Advance ! Ye blushing maids, ye jovial swains, Curtsey and bow, be ready now To hear the music's op'ning strains. At last the fun has quite begun, The couples cross, link and unlink, And twist and twirl till boy and girl Are ready with fatigue to sink. But rouse ye up, 'tis time to sup, Beneath its load the table groans. Turkey and chine none will decline, And soon the bird is naught but bones. And then the ale ! Not thin and pale, But strong and brown ; come, drink aflagon- A single glass won't hurt thee, lass, But give thee courage for snapdragon. THE LODGEKEEPER'S DAUGHTER. The lodgekeeper*s daughter sits sewing alone All day in the shade of the vine-covered porch, Where the marigold scatters its wealth at her knee, And the salvia tosses the flame of its torch ; And he turns from the side of his scornful betrothed As they enter the gate in her carriage and pair. " Such beauty is rare in a calico gown ; Pray, who is the maiden ?" says Captain Adair. When the moon to the fountain its silver has lent, And each languorous lily shines white as a star, In the dusk of the trees by the ivy-bung lodge There is nightly the gleam of alighted cigar. Ah ! why dost thou linger so long in the dew By a lattice unclosed to the sweet summer air? The scent of the marigolds cling to thy coat, And thy heart is a rover, oh, Captain Adair ! Where the lights in their amber and amethyst globes Fall softly as summer on silken divan And curtains of velvet, his fiancee fair Sits nervously waving her ivory fan. Take off thy rich robe and thy necklace of pearls, Thou wilt listen in vain for his steps on the stair, He will come nevermore, so return him his ring And forget the gay graces of Captain Adair. It is silent and dark in the lodgekeeper's house, And the little white bedchamber under the eaves, Where the lattice stands wide to the wind and the rain, And the roses look in through the taugle of leaves. Her mantle of crimson is gone from the wall, And here's a blue ribbon she lost from her hair, The lodgekeeper's daughter, who slumbers to-night On the soldierly bosom of Captain Adair. — Minna Irving. WHEN THE SUN GOES DOWN. Though the morning may lie dreary, And the day be long and weary, Though the clouds may darkly lower, And the tempest fiercely frown, We shall quite forget the shadows That have lingered iu the meadows If there be a golden hour When the sun goes down. What, though fate our hopes opposes, What though thorns shut out the roses, And the cross be borne in sorrow That we carry to the crown, By and by we'll cease to wander And we'll rest forever yonder If there dawns a bright to-morrow When life's sun goes down. 22 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE. Through memory's magic I behold The meeting-house, a structure old, Well streaked with weather stains and mold, Despite its guard of firs ; While just beyond the rustic mill Stretched wide a rugged, briery hill, Alive with warbles song and thrill Of rival worshipers. Through varied pastimes lured the boy A season, each to pall and cloy, It was a more abiding joy When dawned the morning fair That ushered in a day of rest To don his suit of Sunday best And drive with eager, youthful zest Unto the house of prayer. The country folk in groups and bands From hillside farms and valley lands Stood round and joined in shaking hands And common aims reviewed ; There neighbor greeted neighbor fair ; The humblest brother had a share. None wounded him with haughty stare, Or salutation rude. Ere invocation down they file Through vestibule and narrow aisle, Their garments mirroring every style Seen there for many a year ; The sexes part, each take their way Alone ; the unconverted say That sheep aud goats on Sabbath day Are separated here. Then music ! bass and tenor beat The time with heavy thumping feet To straius that sounded wondrous sweet When set to solemn rhymes ; Again I hear the viol's chord"; Again, Forever with the Lord ; And Boylston that I so abhorred Ring out like belfry chimes. The sermon follows, more of good And doctrine than we understood, Yel strangely fancied mental food Was better served too strong For our digestion ; with a zest We listened, pondered, nor confessed That simple homilies were best, And liked them rather long. There men with eager interest heard The wise persuasion, threatening word, Of lofty faith and creed absurd, With broad or narrow scope ; The Wesleyan's exhortation wild, Stern Calvinism undeflled, And Murray's theologies mild Of universal hope. Around the spot what memories throng Of earnest prayer and discourse long And soul-uplifting sacred song ; And many a dream in sooth, And cherished hope would I forego To hear once more their accents flow And feel the spirit's fervent glow With buoyancy of youth. — A. Albert Sherman. COMING HOME. I have come to the dear old threshold, With eager, hurrying feet, To scent the odorous lilies" That once were so white and sweet. To taste the apricots mellow That crimson the garden wall ; To gather the golden pippins That down in the orchard fall. I passed by the uncut hedges, And up through the thistled walk, And beside the fall of my footsteps There was only the crickets' talk. The weeds grew high in the arbor, And the nettles, rank aud tall, Had throttled the sweet-breathed lilies That leaned on the latticed wall. The little white house is empty, Its ceilings are cob webbed o'er, And the dust and mold are lying Thick on the trackless floor. There are no prints in the doorway. No garments hung in the hall, And the ghosts of death and silence Sit and gloat over all ! No eager faces of children Brighten the window-pane, Never a peal of laughter Rippled along the lane ; So I turned through the daisies yellow, That nodded to see me pass, To seek for the mellow pippins That drop in the orchard grass. But I found a worm in my apples, And flung them sadly away ; The pool that I thought eternal All foul and poisonous lay. A black snake crept from its hiding And hissed in the marshes wild, And I bent my head in the rushes And sobbed like a homesick child ! — May Riley Smith. BIRTH OF THE DIMPLE. I s"OKE of the rose leaf within her chin, And she said, with a little nod, As she touched a dimple as sweet as love; " Oh, that was a kiss from God." —Ella Higginson. SELECTED POEMS. 23 THE FIRST BLUEBIRD. Sweetheart ! Our locks are thin and gray, Our eyes lack lustre, and men say, " Their youth has vanished." Well-a-day, I hear a bluebird singing. The lambs go leaping down the lane, The sunlight flickers on the paue, The guineas clank a shriller strain ; I hear a bluebird singing. The children's voices clearer ring, The elm buds well, the grasses spring, And maple drops are pattering ; I hear a bluebird singing. Ah ! love, was never yet so old. So dead and lost, so dumb and cold, It leaped not to the warmth untold That thrills the bluebird's singing. They call us old, who years decry, The bird sings down the cruel lie, We're young forever, you and I ; I hear a bluebird singing. WHEN PEGGY GOES TO MARKET. When Peggy takes her basket up And off to market goes, I'm stupefied with wonder at How very much she knows. She makes her way between the stalls And with judicial air Decides that this is " so and so " And that is " pretty fair." She knows if fish are fresh or not, And, wise as any owl, She differentiates between A chicken and a fowl. She thumbs the breastbone of the one And pulls the other's legs ; She squints her pretty little eyes To test the new-laid eggs. The veg' tables must be just right, For with a critic's eye She scans them, not inclined to pass The imperfections by. She calls the market folks by name ; Ah, what a lot she knows, When Peggy takes her basket up And offto market goes ! When Peggy does the marketing My heart with pride she fills ; I go along, a useless thing, Except to pay the bills ! — Johnstone LITTLE RAGTAG. Say there, Little Ragtag, Whose sweet child are you ? Teeth as white as ivory, eyes the sky's own blue, Lips like dainty rose buds dipt in the morning dew ; A face that's even tiner than a face of Grecian mold, Hair all matted, tangled, like tangled thread of gold. A voice that's even softer than the song an angel sings, Softer than the melodies that slumber in the strings Of harps and mandolins, softer than the croon Of meadow larks and orioles sung in the summer noon. Say there, Little Vagabond, tell me, little shrew, Whose sweet child I wonder, Whose dear child are you ? Tell me, Little Ragtag, Whose sweet child are you? Impudent the sunbeams that kiss these little ra»s I Naughty, scented breezes, when they touch these lit- tle tags, These little strings and tatters that grace a form, I ween. That would arouse the envy of an oriental queen. Are you a bit of daylight in the darkness of a life? A sunlight in the fastnesses? A triumph in the strife? Are you cheering some poor fellow as adown the way he plods? Are you mamma's child, or papa's, humanity's, or God's? Tell me, Little Vagabond, out here in the street, Smiling, winking playfully, at every soul you meet — God bless the little urchin ! God save the little shrew ! Say there, Little Ragtag, Whose sweet child are you ? OUR LITTLE BOY ATS GONE. A sight of help he was — our little boy 'at went, Pudgin' around with little trousers on ! But what was more than all his working meant, He seemed to be our sunshine, now he's gone. He'd go to take the cows to pasture morns, An' seems I hear his tiny whistle now, As I go out and walk about the barns, Or take the team afield and try to plough. About the house he kept a sight of noise, Singin' or tramping' at his boyish will ! It did not seem with health jest like my boy's, His voice could hush so quick, an' be so still. But he weren't sick much more'n a week, I b'l'eve, And kept his little senses durin' all ; An' didn't grumble 'cause he had to leave, But lay there still-like lis'nin' for a call. That evenin' that I never will forget, He lay beside thr binder an' looked out. I'd sorter hoped ' at, God would spare him yet, An' give us back his noisy step an' shout. But sudden-like he gazed intent ahead, While crooned the katydids jest out the door, An' — " Angels, mammy 1 See 'em, pap?" he said, An' then was still an' never said no more. Now, sometimes standin' by the medder bars Waitin' the cows, all lonesome an' forlorn, The heavens twinklin' with the cur'ous stars, The breezes whisp'rin' 'mongstthe rustlin' corn- I wush the rustle was of angels' wings, The stars the guidiu' lamp of seraphs, come, To waft us after all our sorrowin's Where we 'n' our boy will be again at home. — Will T. Hale, " Showers and Sunshine." WHEN MILKING TIME IS DONE. When milking time is done, and over all This quiet Canadian inland forest home And wide, rough pasture-lots the shadows come, And dews, with peace and twilight voices fall, From moss-cooled watering-trough to foddered stall The tired plough-horses turn — the barnyard loam Soft to their feet — and in the sky's pale dome Like resonant chords the swooping night-jar's call. The frogs, cool-fluting ministers of dream, Make shrill the slow brook's borders ; pasture bars Down clatter, and the cattle wander through — Vague shapes amid the thickets ; gleam by gleam Above the wet gray wilds emerge the stars, And through the dusk the farmstead fades from view. — Charles G. D. Roberts. 21 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY IN AN OLD GARDEN. BLOOM, crimson rose ! the summer winds entreat thee, Earth is all radiant, June is in the air : Warm streams the sun, a golden world shall greet thee — Leaves full of sap, and plenty everywhere. Bloom, lovely flower ! for twenty years ungatherea, Thy damask leaves the careless turf have strewn ; Mid the rude race by rock and tempest fathered, All pitying nature claims thee for her own. Look ! ruthless time has seized the ancient dwelling — Look ! the kind walls are crumbled to decay ; Scarce a pale star in earth's broad bosom telling Of short-lived hopes and dreams as brief as they. Though many a sun, though many bleak Decembers That generous hearth has lain in ruin drear, None save the traveler stirs its ashen embers, Courts the green shade, or tastes thy fragrance here. Bloom, silvren rose ! gone is the hand that cherished — The hand that reared, the eye that dwelt ou thee. Tell the wise heart, when larger deeds have perished, Sweet are the gifts of humble ministry. — Dora Read Goodale. UNCLE DAVIDS SUMMER BOARDERS. We've been takin' summer boarders — they come down a week ago- Thought we'd make a little extry, kind of on the side, you know — Had a piece put in the paper so's to let the people see Just what kiud of 'commodations we could give 'em, ma and me. Purty soon we got a letter from some people up in town, Savin' they had read about us, and they'd bring the children down. Ma and me done lots of plannin' when we'd got the bargain made, As to how we'd use the money that the summer boarders paid ; I says : " Ma, you've got to spend it buyin' clothes 'n things you need." But she shook her head decided, and she answered : " No, indeed ! You've been wantiu' a new buggy 'n the barn needs roofin', too — I won't touch a single penny, but I leave it all fer you." There is purty Mrs. Plimley, with her little bits of feet, That, somehow, you're always seein', and her smile so awful sweet ; And there's Plimley with his golf sticks 'n his coat as red as blood, And their little darlin' daughter, like a rose jest in the bud ; And, besides them three, another— if I'd saw him first, I vow We'd of took no summer boarders, and we'd still be happy now. First a wheel ran off the wagon, smashin' things all up ; but, oh, Little Willie didn't do it. He's so innocent, you know ! Then we found the turkeys crippled— hit with stones 'n sticks 'n things — But we couldn't blame sweet Willie — all he hasn't is the wings ! There's a dozen broken winders 'n the pump's all out of gear, And the chickens run fer cover since dear little Wil- lie's here. Gates, somehow, keep comin' open, so the pigs go tearin' loose, In among the corn 'n taters, rootin' 'round to beat the Jews ! Guess our fruit '11 be a failure from the way it's drop- pin' down — My 1 I wish these summer boarders had to hurry back to town ! Then our barn 'most caught fire Monday— burned a ton of hay ; but, oh, Little Willie never done it! He's too good for that you know ! Worst thing happened, though, when Plimley, with his red coat on, went out To the pasture where the cattle had been left to browse about ; He was busy knocklu' golf-balls when our Jersey bull caught sight Of that coat, and came tearin' down the hill with all his might ! There were bags and golf-sticks flyin' — with a man up in the all — Little Willie'd be an orphan if the fence had not been there. Well, the doctor's very hopeful— thinks he'll pull the patient through — He has bruises most all over, and a broken rib or two, And they say I'll have to settle — It'll be a whoppin' bill ! We've got through this kind of business — me and ma have had our fill : I don't wisTi the town folks roasted — that, you know, 'ud be a sin, But I've got a big sign painted : " NO MORE BOARD- ERS TAKEN IN." —A E. Riser. RAINY DAYS. Women like a rainy day — suits 'em to a " t," Men folks set aroun' an' growl, mis'bal as can be ; It's women's time for rummagin' in chists an' trunks an' things ; For readin' old love letters an' foolin' with old rings. I sometimes watch Maria when the groun's been wet a spell An' the rain is fallin' lonesome an' nobody's feelin 1 well ; How she bustles roun' as busy as a bumble-bee an' takes The pictur's down an' dusts 'em till a feller has the shakes. An' the old chist inside out'ards— quilts an' patches on the floor ; An' the letters what I wrote her, spellin' through "em all once more ; An' she smiles while she's a-readin', an' sometimes you'll see a tear A-fallin' on the paper that she's kept for twenty year. An' then I've got to comfort her, an' so I make a show An' tell her it's the rainy day what hurts her feelin's so ; An' jest one word— it starts her on the biggest kind o' cry, Till I almos' wish there'd never been no happy days gone by. That's how the weather does 'em — these women ! Never saw A fine, sunshiny day but they was layin' down the law ; But rainy days is women's time fer lookin' over things ; For readin' old love letters an' foolin' with old rings. — Frank L. Stanton. SELECTED POEMS. 25 THE MEADOW. "' Run man, poor man, beggar man, thiet^' Which do you s'pose 'twill be? ' Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief,' Oh, he will marry me. There goes a butterfly, yellow and black, he pretty, oh my ! Where is my hat? Oh, here on my back. Come on. We'll catch it. Let's try. There ! It's flown off and over the wall. Aren't you tired? Let's rest. We'll hide here where the grass is tall, And play we are birds in a nest. Ugh ! there's a bug right down by my toe. No, it's a cricket. I say, Won't the men scold when they come here to mow, Because we have trampled the hay. Say, can you make such a loud squealy noise With a blade of grass and your thumbs? I learned to do it from some of the boys. This one, I tell you, just hums. I'm going to roll you over and over. Now, don't kick out your feet Ob, see, here is a four-leaf clover ; Who's the first boy I'll meet?" Two little pinafored gypsy maids Out in the meadow green, Eollicking, romping, making raids, Treasures of summer to glean, Astrologers gay in the warm mid-day Of the star-flecked daisy field Read fortunes bright by the rays of white A nd the disks of the golden shield. One by one as the petals fall From their fingers' brief caress A fate is sealed beyond recall To burden, or bear, or bless. One for happiness, one for grief, One for you and me, " Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief," Which do you s'pose 'twill be? —Chas. Elmer Jenney. MR. SKINNER'S VALENTINE. Mr. Zachariah Skinner was a Janky ruralist, Kather loose at knees and elbows, but extremely tight of fist. With a local reputation as to sharpness in a trade And an appetite for saving every cent that could be made. Twice he'd stood at Hymen's altar, but his wives were now asleep In that portion of the graveyard where the lots were few and cheap, And their broken-hearted relict, with an eye for num- ber three, Was attracted very strongly toward the widow Mar- tha Bee. Now, the widow she was rosy and the widow she was fair, And her age was nigh to forty, with a year or two to spare, And her first connubial venture left her pretty well- to-do, As, perhaps it's well to mention, crafty Zachariah knew. So he thought as Mrs. Skinner she would be exactly right, And the question how to win her vexed his brain both day and night, Till there came an inspiration from Dan Cupid's sacred shrine, And he thought, " Perhaps 'twould fetch her if I sent a valentine." So he wrote : " Dear Mrs. Martha— I'm a steady man. you see, And, if you're a frugal woman— as I understand you be— With a faculty for saving and a little cash on hand- As I've always heard you did have — and no mortgage on your land, Why, as I'm sort of anxious for a partner during life, I just kind of thought I'd write you asking you to be my wife. P. S.— My heart I send you, just chock full of love divine, And I'd like to have you take me for to be your val- entine." This he mailed, and then he waited till the answer came at last, And he burst the seal to read it, with his pulses beat- ing fast ; " Mr. Zachariah Skinner," formally the note began ; " Yours received and contents noted. Glad that you're a steady man. That there heart you mention sending, couldn't find it round about ; 'Fraid it must have been so little that the mail folks lost it out. Got some cash and got no mortgage, but your offer I decline, 'Cause I've got no use at present for a comic valen- tine." ******** How the story reached the gossips probably will ne'er be known. Possibly the widow told it to some crony of her own, But through all that country village, to the town- ship's farthest line, Zachariah Skinner's nickname is, " The Comic Val- entine." — Jot Lincoln. MY FATHER S DINNER PAIL. I FOUND it in the attic in a corner dark and dim, 'Twas dinted on the cover, and 'twas broken on the rim, Yet it thrilled my heart with pleasure as I took it from the nail, That simple link of girlhood's days, my father's din- ner pail. It was dusty, it was rusty, it was broken on the rim, Yet it thrilled me for the moment with sweet mem- ories of him, Of the bloom upon the orchards, and the fragrance in the gale, As I walked through shining meadows, with my father's dinner pail. I can see the garden pansies and the sunflowers by the wall, And, through the woodbine covered porch, I hear my mother call, " Come, Janey, quick, put on your hat ; there comes old Father Kail : You're none too soon ; come in, my dear, and take the dinner pail !" I pass beside the woodland where the tender violets grow, And through the pleasant meadows where the honey- suckles blow, Across the bridge, along the brook, and through the broken rail, Where some one waits to help me with my father's dinner pail. I can hear the wild birds singing and the drone of humming bees, And the voices of my children playing 'neath the shady trees. Yet memory comes crowding like a pleasant fairv tale, And once more I trip through meadows with my father's dinner pail. 26 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY DADDY'S COMIN' HAME. Clap your han's, my bonnie bairnie— Clap your ban's an' craw ; Sing a sang to welcome daddy — Lang he's been awa'. Noo I see his boatie comin' Ow'r the snaw-white faeni. Clap your han's, my bonnie bairnie, Daddy's comin' hame ! A' nicht lang, when you were sleepin' Snug in bed an' warm, Daddy's boat was tossin' sairly In the ragin' storm. But you kent na' o' his danger, Smilin' as you slept ; You were damn' wi' the angels While your mammy wept. Lang I watched for mornin' dawnin' Thro' the winnock wee, While the waters lood were rushin' An' the win's were hie ; A' the time my he'rt was prayin' For your daddy dear, That the Lord wad guide his boatie — Guide it safely here. Yon's my answer, bonnie bairnie — Ton's your daddy's boat ; Sune into the peacefu' harbor It will safely float Sune you'll hear him ow'r the water Cry his laddie's name ; Clap your ban's my bonnie bairnie, Daddy's comin' hame ! SUMMER TIME IN GEORGIA. O Summer time in Georgy, I love to sing your praise, When the green is on the melon and the sun is on the blaze ; When the birds are pantin', chantin', an' jes' rantin' round the rills With the juice of ripe blackberries jes' a-drippin' from Iheir bills ! kj the summer time in Georgy, when through leaves of green an' brown The bright an' violet-sceuted dews jes' rain their rich- ness'down On the cool an' clingin' grasses where the fickle sun- beam slips An' the famished lily puckers up its white, resplen- dent lips ! O summer time in Georgy, with the glory in the dells, Where the rare and rainy incense from the fresh'nin' showers swells, An' o'er the bars to twinklin' stars float twilight's sad farewells In the lowing of the cattle an' the tinklin' of their bells ! summer time in Georgy, when 'neath the listenin' vine, Where the purple mornin' glory an' the honeysuckle twine, The whippoorwills were siugin' their notes of love an' bliss, An' to my lips were clingin' the lips I used to kiss. Stay, like a dream eternal, while dearest dreams de- part, An' rain your honey sweetness in showers round my heart. Pshaw ! I'm getting so pathetic my eyes can hardly see ; O summer lime in Georgy ! You're the best of times to me. — FVank L. Stanton. IT COULD NOT HAPPEN NOW. Ere country ways had turned to street. And long ere we were born, A lad and lass would chance to meet Upon a summer morn ; The willows bowed to nudge the brook, The cowslips nodded gay, And he would look, and she would look, And both would look away. Yet each — and this is so absurd, Would dream about the other, And she would never breathe a word To that good dame, her mother. Our girls are wiser now. 'Twas very quaint, 'twas very strange, Extremely strange, you must allow. Dear me ! how modes and customs change I It could not happen now. Next day ihat idle, naughty lass Would rearrange her hair, And ponder long before the glass Which bow she ought to wear ; And often she'd neglect her task, And seldom care to chat, And make her mother frown and ask, " Why do you blush like that?" And now she'd haunt with footsteps slow That mead with cowslips yellow, Down which she'd met, a week ago, That stupid, staring fellow. Our girls are wiser now. 'Twas very quaint, 'twas very strange, Extremely strange, you must allow. Dear me ! how modes and customs change '; It could not happen now. And as for him, that foolish lad, He'd hardly close an eye, And look so woe-begone and sad He'd make his mother cry. f He goes," she'd say, " from bad to worse I My boy so blithe and brave ; Last night I found him writing verse About a lonely grave !" And, lo ! next day her nerves he'd shock With laugh, and song, and caper ; And there ! — she'd find a golden lock Wrapped up in tissue paper. Our boys are wiser now. 'Twas very quaint, 'twas very strange, Extremely strange, you must allow. Dear me ! how modes and customs change ! It could uot happen now. — F. Langbridge. THE CURATES COURTSHIP. A curate once courted a nice little miss, Grace by name, and by nature a sinner ; He never dared ask for " Just one little kiss," P'raps he thought by his preaching to win her ; His most passionate speech, when they sat down to- gether, Was " A very fine day " or " Most singular weather !" " Ah, me ! He is vowed unto silence," she cried ; " 'Tis my mission to make liiru abjure it ; Pa must ask him to dinner ; I'll sit by his side, And I really should think I could cure it !" So he came, and they all tried their hardest to make Him feel really a home ; to insure it He was seated by Grace, and, his silence to break, Said her father (who couldn't endure it) — Forgetting the " blessing "—" Now, what will you take?'.' "I should like to say — Grace," said the curate. SELECTED POEMS. 27 THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD. Brinc;, novelist, your note-book ! bring, dramatist, your pen ! And 1 11 tell you a simple story of what women do for men. It's only a tale of a life-boat, of the dying and the dead — Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head. Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south ; Maybe you are friends with " the natives " that dwell at Oystermouth ; It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way, And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blues of Swansea Bay. Well, it isn't like that in the winter, when the light- house stauds alone, In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone ; It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when There was news of a wreck and the life-boat launched, and a desperate cry for men. \\ hen in the world did the coxswain shirk ? A brave old salt was he ! Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast 'twas said, Had saved some hundred lives apiece— at a shilling or so a head ! So the father launched the life-boat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar. Out to the wreck went the father, out to the wreck went the sons, Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns ; Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love, Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above ! Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, For men like the e who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head? It didn't go well with the life-boat ; 'twas a terrible storm that blew ! And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew ; And then the anchor parted— 'twas a tussle to keep afloat ! r But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. Then at last on the poor doomed life-boat a wave broke mountains high ; " God help us now !" said the father. " It's over, my lads! Good-bye!" Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the shel- tered caves, But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves ! Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, And saw in the boiling breakers a figure— a fighting form ; ° It might be a gray-haired father ; then the women held their breath ; It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death ; It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. They had seen the launch of the life-boat, they had seen the worst and more, Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse straight to shore. There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, Beheld once more .that desperate man who struggled to reach the land. 'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, But what are a couple of women with only a man to save ? What are a couple of women ? Well, more than three craven men Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refus- ing to stir — and then Off went the women's shawls, sir ; in a second they're torn and rent, Then, knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went ! " Come back ! ' cried the lighthouse keeper ; " for God's sake, girls, come back I" As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. " Come back !" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea ; " If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me !" " Come back !" said the three strong soldiers who still stood faint and pale ; " You will drown if you face the breakers, you will fall if you brave the gale !" " Come back ?" said the girls. " We will not ! Go tell it to all the town : We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown !" " Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess, give one strong clutch of your hand ! Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land ! Wait for the next wave, darling, only a moment more, And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them ! You know the rest. Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, And many a glass was tossed right off to " The Wo~meu of Mumbles Head !" 28 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY A CHILD S PROGRESSIVE THEOLOGY. This man was homely as a satyr, And thrown together in a clatter, His little girl, surpassing fair, Stood, like' » grace, beside him there. So fair was she, she looked, indeed, A lovely flower beside a weed ; But gaunt, and gawky like was he, As any mortal man may be. " Say, pa, did God make you?" asked she. " He did, my child ; yes, God made me." "Did God make me?" she asked again, Her father tried to make it plain ; "Yes, God," he said, "makes great and small, And God, my child, He made us all." She then looked in the mirror there, And saw her own self, sweet and fair ; She then gazed upon her father's face, So lacking in all rounded grace. " I find that God has learned His trade Much better," said the little maid, " And does abetter job, don't you, Much better than He used to do?" —S. W. Foss. THE CAPTIVE SUNBEAM. A ray of sunshine, that playing late On the purple bloom of the hill, Was caught in the grasp of the cold north wind, Imprisoned against its will ; And its tears in falling wrapped it round ; In a crystal cage was the sunbeam bound. And all the day when the frozen fringe Like a princess' girdle shone, Would the suntieams come, in their furtive play, When the wintry winds had gone ; Yet her mother mourned, as a mother might, The loss of her beauteous child of light. And so, when the wind was far away, A legion of sunbeams came ; And they smote, in their warmth, the crystal cage Till the hillside seemed aflame. And the doors of its prison flew apart As the sunbeam hid in its mother's heart. THE LOST K/SS. I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, Writes on : " Had I words to complete it, Who'd read it, or who'd understand?" But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over it all. So I gathered it up — where was broken The tear-faded thread of my theme, Telling how, as one night I sat writing, A fairy broke in on my dream. A little inquisitive fairy — My own little girl, with the gold Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy Blue eyes of the fairies of old. 'Twas the dear little girl I had scolded. " For was it a moment like this," I said. " when she knew I was busy To come romping in for a kiss?" Come rowdying up from her mother, And clamoring there at my knee, For "one 'ittle kiss lor my dolly, And one 'ittle uzzer for me !" God pity the heart that repelled her, And the cold hand that turned her away I And take from the lips that denied her This answerless prayer of to-day I Take, Lord, from my mem'ry forever The pitiful sob of despair, And the patter and trip of the little bare feet, And the one piercing cry on the stair I I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, Writes on : " Had I words to complete it Who'd read it, or who'd understand?" But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over it all. " — James Whitcomb Kiley. THE OLD-TIME SWIMMING HOLE. A path that leads by the forest's edge, Where the south winds murmur low, Past the worn rail fence and the tangled hedge Where the first wild roses blow ; Then up and over the haze-wrapt hill And down to the gleaming goal Where the shadows play through the livelong day O'er the old-time swimming hole. The tall oaks bend o'e' the water's side, The willows are golden green, Gnarled roots reach out in the twinkling tide Where the minnows dart between. And with hearts a-tune to the song of June And joy in each youthful soul We would quickly hie in the days gone by To the old-time swimming hole. And then with a leap and a sudden dash We would plunge in the shady pool, And there we would linger and swim and splash And sport in the waters cool While the ripples raced to the farthest shore And broke on the pebbly shoal, And our merry cries reached the arching skies From the old-time swimming hole. Ah, me ! But the summers have flown since then More fleet than the wild bird wings,. And we boys have grown to be worldly men With sorrows that manhood brings : But whenever a glamour enwraps the hills And the scrolls of the past unroll, How the winged thoughts speed over wood and mead To the old-time swimming hole! — Hilton R. Greer. THE FARMER'S HOARD. Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard ! Heap high the golden corn ! No ricner gift has autumn poured From out her lavish horn ! Let other lands exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The clusters from the vine. All through the long bright days of June Its leaves grew greet, and fair, And waved in hot. midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair, And now with autumn's moonlit eyes., Its harvest time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves, And bear the treasure home. SELECTED POEMS. 29 AN OLD-TIME PICNIC. OEEP in the woods, and by a brook that made Perennial laughter to what jests wen; uttered — No other impulse but pure joys obeyed, And free of wing as ever wild biro fluttered — We made our picnic of the old-time .sort, With country girls and country lads matched fairly For honest pleasure, and such homely sport As our forefathers must have^relished rarely. Mauds, Nells, Fans, Carolines aad Belles were there, And 'Poms, Dicks, Harrys — but why stop to name them? Love, lite and joy were in the woodland air, With ne'er a rule conventional to tame them. Short preparation for the festive scene ; Soon were the swings fixed, soon the lasses soaring ; With lightsome games that make the mind serene — Grace-hoops in air, croquet and battledoring. Then the white cloth upon the turfy bank, With platters tew, but viands in profusion: Ham and cold chicken — places without rank Of wealth or power — and fear of no intrusion. Cool bottles dripping from the icy spring, Sweet cider bubbling and clear soda popping ; With shy birds blinking o'er the jocund ring, Or some, more fearless, for the stray crumbs hop- ping Then the gay dance upon the fresh-cleared sward, The queer old " sets," for partners the contention ; The merry badinage, the breathing hard. The romping " forms" unknown to late invention ; Then wreaths of wild flowers, shading many a brow, Ami garnered uosegaysofthe blooms prized highly ; Stray couples missed, and soft conjectures how, And why, and when they slipped away so slyly. Then home, by lone path, cross-cut and old lane, In the last glow of sunset's dying embers ; Now at this farmhouse, now at that, the train Making slight pause to drop some weary members ; Till, thread by thread, the party fell apart, Worn out, perchance, but brimmed with healthful pleasure. Oh, what of freshening joy to mind and heart Did not the old-time picnic often measure ! HER FRIEND. 'Twas in the Boston fast express a little maiden sat ; She occupied the seat alone, beside her lay her hat. She clutched her dolly to her breast in childish, mother play, As if she feared some dreadful giant would snatch it right away. "Are you alone, my little girl ?" I asked, as I stooped down. "My main ma told me Dod was here," she said, with half a frown. " She tissed me an' my dolly, an' I dess I don't know you." "But, dear," I answered, smiling, " tell me where you're going to." She twisted in her seat, and then she tossed her tangled hair. "I'm doin' on to Boston, an' my pop'll meet me there." " But, dear," I questioned, gently, "if the choo choo cars should stop, And you should walk, and walk, and walk, and then not find your pop, What would you do?" The little maiden shook her head and frowned. "My mamma says when pop is gone that Dod is somewhere round." The train rolled into Boston town. I waited there a while, And watched my little blue eyes, with her half- expectant smile. "Dess waitiu' for my pop," she said, " with dolly fast asleep." And then a man came rushing in. I knew him by his leap. He snatched his little daughter up with frantic, feverish glee ; And then, with father's instinct, quick his eye was turned on me. "Well, Bess," he asked, "who is your friend?" With quaint, expressive nod The maid replied : " I dess I know. I fink it must ho Dod." — Tom Masson. THEIR MOTHER My boy sat looking straight into the coals, From his stool at my feet one day, And the firelight burnished the curly head, And painted the cheeks with a dash of red, And brightened his very eyes, as he said, In a most confidential way : " Mamma, I think when I'm a grown-up man, I shall have just two little boys." I smiled ; he was six ! but he did not see, And I said : " Yes, how nice that will be ! But if one were a girl, it seems to me, It would add to your household joys." " Well, yes," reflectively, " that would he nice, And I'll tell you just what I'll do ; I'll name one Robbie, for me, you know," Then the hright eyes shone with a deeper glow, " And there's just the two of us now, and so I'll name the girl Annie, for you." " But how would their mother like that ?" I asked, Do you think that she would agree For us both to have names while she had none ?" With the mystified, puzzled look of one Wholly befogged, said my logical son, " Their mother ! Why, who is she?" AT CRISTMASTIDE. Last Christmastide there hung above my hearthstone Four little stockings, waiting in a row, And Santa Claus came softly in and filled them, And smiled upon each hulging little toe. But, now, to-night he gazes on them sadly, For there are only three that wait for him ; And as he fills each one with Christmas treasures, His hand it trembles, and his eyes grow dim. Perhaps he knows the other little stocking Was laid away with many a silent tear ; Perhaps he, too, the little foot remembers, The baby voice, so tender and so dear. And he, perhaps, regrets he had not known it, That there would he but three left in the row. No douht he fears the little stocking waited For gifts which were forgot a year ago. And I— could I have known God had so willed it, That there should be one stocking less to fill, How I'd have kissed the little foot that wore it, The little hands that, now, fore'er are still ! But all in vain ; three little dreamers only Are there to wake to Christmas morn's delight. And, ah ! 'tis not alone above my hearthstone That there's a little stocking missed to-night ! — Minnie He id French. 30 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFT1 THE HOME-MADE EASTER HAT. I'vje got to kill a jaybird — a robin an' all that, Fer we're goin' to econbmize on Mollie's Easter hat. She's goin' to trim it up herself — them wuz her very words — An' so, I've took the contract fer to bring her in the birds ! Now, thar's a woman sensible !— don't put on any frills, En never tries to break a man with millinery bills ! What does she want with feathers iu the shiny shops in town, When I kin load my rifle up" an' bring the feathers down? She's got the proper idee — that woman has ; she knows It don't cost much to "wing" a bird an' then, she gits the rose An' the lily from the gardens, whar' they're alius growin' at ; An' a yard or two o' ribbon blue, an' thar's yer Easter hat! She's powerful fond o' fancy things, but I — I tells her still She's sweeter in a hat like that — completely fills the bill! An' underneath the birds I kilt she lifts her purty eyes Aa' sorter reads her title clear to mansions in the skies! THE OLD GARRET. Swing ajar the garret door, How the rusty hinges creak ! Pause before you venture o'er The old threshold, worn and weak. Comes, as oft such questions will — Who knows what's beyond the sill? Here, all things are plain to see — There all things are mystery, Where old treasures are shut fast In the storehouse of the past. From the rafters overhead, Withered herbs, in dusty rows. Hang like branches sere and dead ; But, whene'r a soft wind blows Through the window's broken pane Faint, sweet fragrances again From their leaves are shaken free, As an old-time memory In the cobwebbed minds of men Stirs, and tries to live again. Here the spider's web is spun In the dust and in the gloom. Here are woven, one by one, In a viewless, noiseless loom, Fabrics fit for fairy wear, Frail as frost and quite as fair, Showing patterns rarer far Than those of old laces are When a light of heaven's blue Shines the silken meshes through. In that shadowy corner stands An old cradle, and it seems Slowly rocked by phantom hands While a baby sleeps and dreams On a pillow, long unpressed, On a lullaby of rest Trembles softly through the gloom Of this memory-haunted room, From the lips that long ago Turned to dust where grave-flowers grow. In that old, worm-eaten chest, What quaint things are stored away ! Stomacher and 'broidered vest — Satin gown and wig of gray. I can fancy phantom folk Dancing at the midnight's stroke, In the garments hidden here For who knows how many a year? 'Twere an eerie sight to see Their grim, ghostly revelry? Almost hidden from the sight By the wreckage of the past In the dim and dusty light From the cobwebbed window cast, Shows a mirror, and therein Many a ghost of what has been Seems to rise and swiftly pass Like a shadow o'er the glass. In the depths of it I see Things that almost frighten me. Faces moldered into dust Long ago look out at me From the tarnished frame whose rust Mocks at human vanity. As a shadow forms, for they Form, and fade, and pass away, Like the ripple on a stream, Or the fancy of a dream. Here — then lost in shadows vast, The procession of the past. Longer here I dare not stay, For it somehow seems to me We are trespassers to-day. Shut the door and turn the key. Leave it to the dead, who quit Their old graves to visit it. Whence they come or where they What they come for — who shall I shall solve the mystery When the grass grows over me. —JSben E. Rezford. go, enow? CHRISTMAS ROSES. When all the skies with snow were gray, And all the earth with snow was white, I wandered down a still wood way, And there I met my heart's delight, Slow moving through the silent wood, The spirit of its solitude. The brown birds and the lichened tree Seemed less a part of it than she. Where pheasants' feet and rabbits' feet Had marked the snow with traces small I saw the foot-prints of my sweet — The sweetest woodland thing of all. With Christmas roses iu her hand One heart-beat's space I saw her stand, And then I let her pass and stood, Lone in an empty world of wood. And, though by that same path I've passed Down that same woodland every day, That meeting was the first and last, And she is hopelessly away. I wonder was she really there — Her hands, aud eyes, and lips, and hair? Or was it but my dreaming sent Her image down the way I went? Empty the woods are where we met — They will be empty in the spring ; The cowslip and the violet Will die without her gathering. But 1 dare dream one radiant day Ked-rose wreathed she will pass this way, Across the glad and honored grass, And then— I will not let her pass. SELECTED POEMS. 31 A TOAS'. Oh, Feb'ua'y fo'teenth, dat's detime When you heab dem glasses chink an' chime, A.n' de boys dey drinks de toas'es down To all de pooty ladiz dat's in dis town. Sing hi, sing ho, Now doan' say no, You mus' drink to de pooties' ladiz ! Dar's one he'll drink to de gal whar fat, An' turrs dey' 11 up an' laugh at dat ; An' oue'll drink to de gal whar thin, Wid de hatchet face airde p'inted chin. Sing hi, sing ho, But he doan' know Dat she ain' jes' de pooties' lady. Dars cne he'll drink to de gal whar tall, An' one'll drink to de gal whar small ; An' one'll drink to de gal whar kine, An' one to de gal dat meks him mine ! Sing hi, sing ho, Each think he know Dat he drinks to the pooties' lady. Now, I ain't sayin' no name a-tall When dey drinks to de ladiz, gret an' small, But I lifs my glass an' drinks dis toas' " To de li'l honey-gal what loves me de mos' 1" Sing ho, sing hi, Now dat's jes' why I think she's de pooties' lady. But de gals so pleasin', shawt er tall, Dat I 'claie we boun' to toas' dem all ! So fill yo' glasses, je3' one mor' roun', To all de pooty ladiz dat's in dis town. Sing hi, sing ho, Now doan' sav no, You mus' drink to de chawmerin' ladiz. — Ann V. Oulbertson. CONTENT. All day I've ben a-workin' hard Down in the blue grass medder, A-plowiu' up the mealy.loam, An' musin', sorter, whether I'd better put in oats this year, Or plant the field with barley ; An' cogitating like betwixt I'm bavin' quite a parley. The April sun is mighty warm, An' down behind the holler I see a crocus pushin' up Its creamy buds ol yaller ; The fros', I hope, has left the ground, And spring seems really here, Old Nature dandles in her lap The smiling baby year. The sleepy silence broken by The sheep bells on the hill", An' all the world seems lazy-like, An' kinder soft an' still ; I heard a robin singin' shrill, An' see a jay sail by — It seems like Nature's wondrous kind To such poor trash ez I. Fer I'm hones', jest as happy Ez a cat-bird on a tree, An' I can't help a-singiu' For the very life of me ; An' the fitful, fannin' breezes From the southland seems to play, And make me feel like laughin' In a most amusin' way. Ez the sun to-night was settin' In a purplish bank of gold, An' the cattle was a-lowin', An' the sheep was in the fold ; Ez I looked across the lowlands, Where the silver river lies, An' I thought of all our bounties Till a mist came o'er my eyes. For the Lord is free with mercies, An' with blessings generous, too ; An' in His kind benevolence He brought me safely through ; A happy home, a humble roof, An* plenty's been my lot — Outside of Eden never was A more contented spot. — James Wkilcomb Riley. A NUTTING SONG. When November days are thrilling With the north wind's vibrant shrilling And the leaping pulses tingle with a joy that will not drown — Oh, it's out across the meadows To the woodland's shifting shadows Where the dead leaves, gold and red leaves, crisp and crinkled, flutter down ! How the echoes of our singing Set the coppic aisles to ringing While from out the golden stubble pipes the quail in tuneful mirth ! And between songs, hark ! the patter And the quick, incessant chatter Of the ripened nuts. that clatter, glad and gleeful, down to earth. Every hollow holds its burden ; Everywhere a toothsome guerdon Underneath the fallen leaflets and the grasses may be found, While the brown burrs, pelting, shatter, And the nuts, unprisoned, scatter, Making mad and merry music as they patter on the ground. What though all the skies be sober Since the passing of October — Though the forest boughs are thinning and the meadow slopes are brown ? There is naught so rare as nutting When the winds wax keen and cutting And the dead leaves, gold and red leaves, crisp and crinkled, flutter down. FORFEITS. They sent him round the circle fair To bow before the prettiest there. I'm bound to say the choice he made A creditable taste displayed ; Although — I can't say what it meant — The little maid looked ill-content. His task was then anew begun — To kneel before the wittiest one. Once more that little maid sought he, And went him down upon his knee. She bent her eyes upon the floor — I think she thought the game a bore. He circled then — his sweet behest To kiss the one he loved the best, For all she frowned, for all she chid, He kissed that little maid, he did. And then — though why I can't decide — The little maid looked satisfied. — H. C Bunner. 32 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE TELEGRAM. " Is this the tel'grapb office?" Asked the childish voice one day, As I noted the click of my instrument With its message from far away ; As it ceased, I turned ; at my elbow Stood the merest scrap of a boy, Whose childish face was all aglow With the light of hidden joy. The golden curls on his forehead Shaded eyes of deepest blue, As if a bit of the summer sky Had lost in them its hue ; They scanned my office rapidly From ceiling down to floor, Then turned on mine their eager gaze, As he asked the question o'er. " Is this the tel'grapb office ?" " It is. my little man," I said, "pray tell me what you want, And I'll help you if I can ;" Then the blue eyes grew more eager, And the breath came thick and fast ; And I saw within the chubby hands, A folded paper grasped. " Nurse told me," he said, " that the lightning Came down on the wires some day ; And my mamma has gone to heaven And I'm lonely since she is away, For my papa is very busy And hasn't much time for me, So I thought I'd write her a letter, And I've brought it for you to see. " I've printed it big so the angels Could read out quick the name, And carry it straight to my mamma, And tell her how it came ; And now won't you please to take it, And throw it up good and strong, Against the wires in a funder shower, And the angels will take it along." Ah ! what could I tell the darling? For my eyes were rilling fast ; I turned away to hide the tears, But I cheerfully spoke at last: " I'll do the best I can, my child," 'Twas all that 1 could say ; " Thank you," hesaid, then scanned the sky ; " Do you think it will funder to-day ?" But the blue sky smiled in answer, And the sun shone dazzling bright, And his face, as he slowly turned away, Lost some of its gladsome light ; " But nurse," he said, " if I stay so long, Won't let me come any more ; So good-bye, I'll come and see you again Righ*. after a funder shower." AUNT MARTHAS SPINNING-WHEEL. With spider-webbing tattered In travesties of lace, Mid treasures years have shattered — Once miracles of grace — Imploring Time to spare it With rusty tongue of steel, Behold it in the garret — Aunt Martha's spinning-wheel. With slow and pensive fingers I wipe the webs away, While loving Fancy lingers To paint an olden day. When youth and beauty crowned it What gay songs used to peal ! Now crickets wail around it — Aunt Martha's spinning-wheel. I softly touch the treadle ; It gives a plaintive squeak ; It begs me not to meddle In murmurs sad and meek. Alas ! the feet that lithely Once twinkled through the reel, No more shall pat it blithely — Aunt Martha's spinning-wheel. How oft its noisy turning Hath served a lover's need, And kept Age from discerning What only Youth should heed ! 'Twould drown both vows and kisses That lovers love to steal ; A dear old treasure this is — Aunt Martha's spinning-wheel. For fear of house adorner In search of bric-a-brac, Far in the garret corner With sighs I put it back ; And there, just as I found it, I leave for woe or weal, With ghosts to glide around it, Aunt Martha's spinning-wheel. — Samuel Mintvrn Peek. LET MISS LINDY PASS Lizard on de fence rail, Black snake in de grass, Babbit in de brier patch — Oh, let Miss Lindy pass ! Let Miss Lindy pass — Her foot won't bend de grass! Rabbit, lizard, black snake, Oh, let Miss Lindy pass! Squirrel in de co'nfiel', Eat yo' br'akfas' las' ! Set up straight an' watch de gate An' let Miss Lindy pass. Let Miss Lindy pass Lak' de sunshine on de grass ! Set up straight an' watch de gate An' let Miss Lindy pass. White rose in de garden walk, Wid a dewdrap lookin'-glass, Bresh dat dew f'uro off en yo' An' let Miss Lindy pass. Let Miss Liudy pass An' she'll pin yo' "ii at las': De goodness knows she's de sweetes' rose- So let Miss Lindy pass. — Frank L. Stanton. SELECTED POEMS. 33 LITTLE JOHNTSS CHRISMUS. We got it up a purpose, jes fer little Johnts', you know ; His mother was so pore and all, and had to manage so — Jes' bein' a war-widder, and her pension mighty- slim, She'd take in weavin' er work out, er anything fer him. And little Johnts was puny-like — but law ! the nerve he had ! — You'd want to kind o' pity him, but couldn't very bad— His pants o' army blanket and his coat o' faded blue Kep' hiutiu' of his father like, and pity wouldn't do! So we collogued together, ouc't, one wintertime 'at we — Jes' me and mother and the girls, and Wilse, John- Jack and Free — Would jine and git up little Johnts, by time 'at Christnius come, Some sort o' doin's, don't you know, 'at would su'- prise him some ! And so, all on the quiet, mother she turns in and gits Some Dlue-janes — cuts and makes a suit ; and then sits down and knits A pair o' little galluses to go 'long with the rest — And puts in a red-flannel back, and buckle on the vest. The little feller'd be'n so much around our house, you see, And be'n sich he'p to her and all, and handy as could be, 'At mother couldn't do too much for little Johnts — no, sir ! — She use to jes' declare 'at " he was meat-and-drink to her!" And Piney, Lide, and Madaline they watched their chance and rid To Fountaintown with Lijey's folks ; and bought a book, they did, 0' fairy-tales, with pictur's in ; and got a little pair 0' red-top boots 'at John-Jack said he'd be'n a- pricen there. And Lide got him a little sword, and Madaline, a drum ; And shootin'-crackers — lawzy-day ! and they're so dangersome ! And Piney, ever' time the rest would buy some other toy, She'd take and turu in then and buy more candy fer the boy ! Well, thinks-says-I, when they go back, your pocket- books is dry ! But little Johnts was there hisse'f that afternoon, so I— Well, all of us kep' mighty mum, tel we got him away By tellin' him be shore and come tomorry — Chrismus day— And fetch his mother 'long with him ! And how he scud across! The fields— his tow-head, in the dusk, jes' like a streak o' frost ! — His comfert, tluttern as he run — and old Tige, don't yon know, A-jumpin' high fer rabbits and -a-plowin' up the snow It must a-be'n most ten that night afore we got to bed — With Wilse and John-Jack he'ppin' us ; and Freeman in the shed, And Lide out with the lantern while he trimmed a Christmas tree Out of a little scrub-oak top 'at suited to a t ! All night Idreamp' o* hearin' things a-skulkin' round the place — And " Old Kriss," with his whiskers off and freckles on his face — And reindeers, shaped like shavin'-hosses at the cooper-shop, A stickin' down the chimbly, with their heels out at the top ! By time 'at mother got me up 'twas plum daylight and more— The front yard full o' neighbors all a-crowdin' roun 1 the door, With Johnt's mother leadin' ; yes— and little Johnts hisse'f, Set up on Freeman's shoulders, like a jug upon the she'f ! Of course I can't describe it when they all got in to where We'd conjured up the Christmus-tree an' all the fixin's there — Fer all the shouts o' laughture— clappin' han's and crackin' jokes, Was heap o' kissin' goin' on amongst the women folks :— Fer, lo-hehold-ye ! there they had that young un — and his chin A-wobblin' like ;— and shore enough, at last he started in — And — sich another bellerin', in all my mortal days I never heerd, er 'spect ter hear, in woe's app'inted ways ! And mother grabs him up and says : " It's more'n he can bear — It's all too suddent fer the child, and too su'prisin' ! —There ! "Oh, no it ain't"— sobbed little Johnts— " I ain't su'prised — but I'm A-cryin' 'cause I watched you all and knowed it all the time !" — James Whitcomb Riley. BUBBLES. From a small bowl of fancy these bubbles I blow, 'Tis a sport fit for folly, I humbly agree ; For the briefest of moments their gay colors glow, And who lists may laugh at my bubbles and me. With a thorn from the hedges I scribble in play On the green budding leaves as they hang from the tree : The first gust of wind whirls them all far away ; Let it blow ; and the further the better for me. — Lillian Eleanor Barlow. OCTOBER. These forest ways are like the cave of sleep, Where gentians lure the color from the skies To come and live within their fringed eves. And bleaching ferns are ghostly in the shade; And the stray nut falls as if half afraid ; And whimpering rills have sobbed themselves to sleep. — Augusta Lamed. u SIX HUNDBE1) AND FIFTY DAYS GONE BY. Oh, the days gone by ! oh, the days gone by ! The apple in the orchard, and the pathway through the rye ; The chirrup of the robin and the whistle of the quail, As he piped across the meadows sweet as any night- ingale; , ,, When the bloom was on the clover and the blue was And my happy' heart brimmed over," in the days gone by. In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped By the honeysuckle's tangles, where the water lilies dipped, And the ripple of the river lipped the moss along the brink, Where the placid eyed aud lazy footed cattle came to drink, Aud the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant's wayward cry, And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days . gone by. Oh, the days gone by ! oh, the days gone by ! The music of the laughing lip, the lustre of the eye : The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin's magic ring, The simple, sou) reposing, glad belief in everything, When life was like a story, holding neither sob nor sigh, In the olden, golden glory of the days gone by. — James Whitcomb Riley. THE OLD BOAT. There lies at rest the dear old boat, Beside the river's brim, In which of yore, when day was o'er, I oft have steered with him. The weeds are thick upon it now, With age its wood is gray, And, desolate from stern to bow, It looks full sad to-day ! He whispers cherished words to me ; My hand is in his own ! I am forever more to be His love, and his alone ! Ah, me ! it. is a vision sweet, That oft to me appears ; Altho' we ne'er on earth can meet, I know he sees and hears ! — Edward Oxenford. THE POOR MANS SHEAF. He saw the wheat-fields waiting, All golden in the sun, And strong and stalwart reapers Went by him one by one. " Oh, could I reap in harvest," His heart made bitter cry, " I can do nothing, nothing, So weak, alas, am I." At eve, a fainting trav'ler Sank down beside his door. A cup of cool, sweet water To quench his thirst he bore. And when, refreshed and strengthened, The trav'ler went his way, Upon the poor man's threshold A golden wheat-sheaf lay. When came the lord of harvest, He cried : " Oh, Master, kind, One sheaf I have to offer, But that I did not bind. 1 gave a cup of water To one atbirst, and he Left at my door in going. This sheaf I offer thee." Then said the Master, softly : " Well pleased with this am I. One of my angels left it With thee as he passed by. Thou niay'st not join the reapers Upon the harvest plain, But who so helps a brother Binds sheaves of richest grain." — Eben E. Rexford. A SONG IN WINTER. A robin sings on the leafless spray, Hey, ho, winter will go ! Sunlight shines on the desolate way, And under my feet I feel the beat Of the world's heart that never is still, Never is still Whatever may stay. Life out of death, as day out of night, Hey, ho, winter will go ! In the dark hedge shall glimmer a light, A delicate sheen Of budding green, Then silent the dawn of summer breaks, As morning breaks, O'er valley and height. The tide ebbs outj and the tide flows back ; Hey, ho, winter will go ! Though heaven be screen'd by a stormy rack, It rains, and the blue Comes laughing through ; And, cloudlike, winter goes from the earth, Goes from the earth That flowers in his track. Sing, robin, sing on your leafless spray, Hey, ho, winter will go ! Sunlight aud song shall shorten the way, And under my feet I feel the beat Of the world's heart that never is still, Never is still Whatever may stay. — A. St. John Adcock MIDSUMMER SONG. The amber smile of early morn Hath flashed across the ripening corn ; And on the spider's netting frail The dew is gleaming bright, As if an elf had lost her veil While fleeing from the light. From out of the wood the streamlets run On silver feet to greet the sun ; No bramble snare their steps can bind, Their laughter rings above, Where balmy blossoms weight the wind With messages of love. Now swells the din of merchant bees Along the meadow's flowery seas, While music floats from every bough In carols sweet and clear ; It is the heart of summer now — The moontide of the year. — Samuel Minium Peck. SELECTED POEMS. 35 MATILDA' S SPRING CLEANING. I find the world outside my house is often all awry, But my household is a model to direct the planet by, Excepting in spring cleaning time — my home is then destroyed— 'Tis made a primal chaos then without a form and void. 'Tis scoured from the rafter to the bottom cellar stair ; And I leave behind all hopes whenever I enter there ; For the washbrush, like a whirlwind, devastates the peaceful scene, For Matilda is the cleanest of the cleanest of the clean. But Matilda' 8 just like Nature, for early every spring Does Nature get her scrub brush out, her duster and her wing ; With her mighty soap and bucket does she travel all about, And swashes through the universe and cleans the old thing out. And she puts up new lace curtains in the windows of the oky, Made of white cloud mixed with sunshine, floating, filmy tapestry, When the gorgeous sun at sunset finds the cloud about him curled, And he sticks his jeweled hairpin through the back- hair of the world. And she takes her dull-brown carpet and she rips it from the hills, And she sprays her floors with showers till they soak through to the sills ; Then her tulip-ed carpet, with its background of bright-green, Spreads she, rich as the floor-mat 'neath the high throne of a queen. So, Matilda, whisk your wash-rag ; it is music to my ears, And it beats with perfect rhythm to the music of the spheres, Reach your long brush for the cobwebs, swing it ever high and higher, A baton that beats the measure for the mighty Cosmic choir. You are cleaning house with Nature ; you are step- ping to the march, To which the planet legionsHrail across the starry arch, Though the table's on the bureau, and the whisk- broom does not cease, I will eat my supper standing, lapped in universal peace. — Sam Walter Foss. REUBENS VALENTINE. Little Susie Winterblossoni was the sweetest girl in town, Not another girl in Tompkins had sech roguish eyes of brown ; Not another girl in Tompkins had sech curly golden hair Ner a cheek so full o' roses when the frost was in the air. Little Susie Winterblossoni, how my lovin' heart would beat, Jua' to see her twenty rod ahead a-walkin' 'long the street ! Little Susie Winterblossoni, how my lovin' heart stood still When I onexpected met her near the old McVickar mill I How I hated Willie Haskell when he seen her home from church, Leavin' bashful me a-cryin' 'cause he'd left ma in the lurch ! How I waited near the willows till he came along that night, With a chip upon my shoulder, so's to make him stop an' fight ! Little Susie Winterblossoni, I am old an' gray an' yit There's a Valentine occasion that I never kin fergit. I had saved me up two shillin' by the hardest kind o' toil, But I spent it unbegrudgin' in the store of ITruggist Hoyle, Fer the beautifullest Valentine, with lovers' knots o' blue, An' the fattest kind o' Cupids an' the motto "I'll be true !" An' I sent it off to Susie, hopin' she would know the hand, (But without my 'nitials on it, fer I didn't have the sand). Little Susie Winterblossom, I remember how that day, Mamie Perkins gave a party an' we 'all rode in a sleigh Up to Salamanca Corners on the Chipmunk Hollow road, And with me the saddest youngster that was in the lively load. Little Susie Winterblossom, years have come an' years have sped, Bringin' many sorrows with 'em on this grizzled farmer's head ; But no sorrow of the number kin in any way com- pare With the sorrow that I suffered as I see you settin' there. Makin' eyes at Willie Haskell jest across the narrow sleigh, Smilin' sweet at Willie Haskell in the most distractnr way, Blushin' red fer Willie Haskell (darn the pesky little cur !) Thinkin' he had sent the Valentine I paid two shillin' fer ! « ■ * WHEN THE BOARDERS IS GONE. Jeeushy, go clear out them grasses an' vines, The parlor 's a sight with sech rubbishin' stuff— And pull down the curtings an' close in the blin's — The dear gracious knows, they be'n open enough ; An' fetch in the chairs that 's all over the lawn, We '11 hev time to set down, now the boarders is gone. You best burn them papers an' magazines up, The picters that 's in 'em ain't fit to be seen, An' if here ain't cigars in the baby's gilt cup, An' somebody's necktie hung over the screen ! There 's jes' sech a clutter, as sure as ye 're born, That 's left, every time, when the boarders is gone. I've got to hev Hiram's bed fixed up agen — His mattress and blankets is out in that L ; He'll be glad to git back from the barn, where he's be'n No better 'n camped out — an' I ain't slep' well ^-wantin' my pilla's — I ain't had but one. I'm glad as ol' glory, the boarders is gone ! Let's hev a good dinner, for once, to ourselves ; I'll beat up a custard with some eggs that 's left, An' I think there 's a pie on the buttery shelves, An' one piece of pork, not a very big heft, But Hi '11 kill a chicken — so, put the pot on ; We da'st hev a meal, now the boarders is gone ! — Madeline S. Bridges. 36 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY TISS ME DOOD NIGHT.'' " Pease, mamma, pease, tiss me dood night," My blue-eyed love with sunny curls Stood pleading, 'tween her sobs and tears. I said, " I can't kiss naughty girls." I led her to her snowy cot, " Pease, mamma, pease," she sobbed again, " I won't be naughty any more." I left her, all her pleadings vain. I had been reared in Spartan school, And deemed it duty to control With rigid rule, nor never knew That love with love should sway the soul. I heard her sob, my mother heart With yearning filled to soothe and cheer, Yet I refrained, and in her sleep My baby still lay sobbing there. 'Twas midnight, when I felt a touch— A fevered hand lay on my brow, My white-robed baby pleaded still, " Pease, mamma, pease, I tan't s'eep now." All through that agonizing night Delirious she moaned in pain, The little broken heart still plead For kisses that I gave in vain. At dawn the angels hovered near ; She nestled close, and smiled and said, " I won't be naughty any more." And in my arms my babe lay — dead. And I am old ; the passing years Have brought no comfort in their flight, My heart still hears that sobbing cry, " Pease, mamma, pease, tiss me dood night." — Kale Tyson Marr, " Form." THE W I MM EN FOLKS.' If 'twasn't fer the wimmen folks, it seems to me, I'll jest be bound. As if this earth 'u'd be so dull I wouldn't care to stay around. And while I ain't in any sense what might be called a ladies' man, I allers like to keep within a speakin' distance when I can. It's funny how a woman's smile can sort o' brighten up a place, A man fergits the shadders while he sees the sunshine in 'er face. The poets call 'em clingin' vines and say we men are mighty oaks, But somehow I believe the strength o' earth is in the wimmen folks. Yit, when it comes to buyin' gowns' and hats and all that sort o' thing— (I've knowed the time my wife has spent ten dollars in one fall or spring !) Then when a feller sees the bills come tumblin' in they sort o' vex His Christian soul and make him wish he'd never seen the fairer sex. But he gits over that, you bet, when trouble shows her gloomy face, Fer when he sees 'em goin' round a sowin' sunshine every place. Fer sorrer that disturbs the heart until it swells and burns and chokes Is seldom soothed exceptin by the presence of the wimmen folks. And can't you call to mind the time when you was sick and through the night The neighbors come and sit around and watched you in a flickerin' light, And talked in whispers, 'cause they feared they'd worry you with what they said, And you notknowin' if you'd live and carin' less if you was dead ? I'm sure that you can recollect you didn't mind the doctor much, But wasn't it distressin' when some other man 'u'd dare to touch Yer fevered flesh ; and yet what joy it was to feel the lovin' strokes On cheek an' brow of lovin' hands belonging to the wimmin folks. I've seen a right smart heap o' life, of sunny days and dark ones, too ; I've tried to think out lots o' things and failed, but jest 'twixt me and you, I've got a lot o' sympathy for any man who goes a mile Along life's weary road without its brightened by a woman's smile. And Heaven's merciful, I know, for right through every cloud of doubt It reaches down its gracious hand and hangs Hope's lovin' lantern out. It gives to men a thousand joys to lighten up their heavy yokes, But all the other gifts combined ain't equal to the wimmen folks. — Nixon Waterman. IN AN OLD BOOKSTALL. Here for a song you may command Old books, well thumbed and hoary ; Along the grimy walls they stand, Tomes oi immortal story. And out of reach, on loftier shelves, 'Beyond our small ambitions And slender purse, dwell by themselves The costlier " first editions." There let them rest till Croesus comes, We really do not need them. Content to banquet on the crumbs, We buy our books — and read them ! The one that bears the marks of use, Back-broken ; worn and shattered, Is dearer that its leaves are loose, Its poor frame rent and tattered. This grim old keeper of the stall Teuds these dead things in leather And sheep and cloth and parchment — all Close sepulchred together ; A few, alas ! besides ourselves Who prowl about the portals, Seek out along the dusty shelves The names of these immortals. Here where the city's life goes by, Where wheel and wagon rumble, Wrapped in their cerements they lie, The lofty and the humble. Dust unto dust — but from their sleep Come bright immortal flashes ; Their spirits into being leap From out their crumbling ashes. They are not dead, these silent tomes ; They die not, save in seeming ; Far from these bookish catacombs They fill the world with dreaming. And each that some small message gives, Or makes for high endeavor, Puts oft' mortality, but lives And works its will forever ! — Joseph Dana Miller. SELECTED POEMS. ■r, THE LEAST FREQUENTED WAY. In the golden autumn weather Once a couplaffwalked together ; And, where woodland boughs were burning, Crimson-dyed, they, homeward turning, Sauntered where the village lay By the least frequented way. And the path their steps had taken, Save by them, seemed quite forsaken ; Only her light laughter's riot, His low tones, disturbed the quiet Where the blithe birds carolled gay Down the least frequented way. Autumn-tinted leaves were flushing; Brighter still her cheek was blushing As she paced beside her lover, And the breeze, around, above her, Kissed her curls' sweet disarray On the least frequented way. Happy lover, happy maiden, Life for you with joy is laden ! We, whom age assails, may borrow Past delight to vanquish sorrow, While, in memory, we stray Down the least frequented way ! — J. R. Eastwood. WATCHING THE HARVESTERS. The wheat glows like a golden sea, Whose billows fall and rise, And gleam in yellow loveliness Beneath the summer skies. Afar across the waves of gold The reapers steer their way ; Their scythes they ply like shining oars Amid the sparkling spray. The sighing winds come crooning down, And ripples softly creep Across the sun-kissed sea of grain Where wavelets hide and peep. The reapers shape with brawny skill The course they wish to take, And leave behind their flashing prow An ever-widened wake. WHEN OUR GAL SPOKE A PIECE. I ben t' doin's oft' an' on, Like apple-bees an' spellin's, T' quart'ly meetin's, public sales, Hangin's an' weddin' bellin's. But nawthin' since th' shootin' scrape Down ou Bill Jones's lease Hez worked me up like t'other night When our gal spoke a piece ! 'Twuz down't th' old frame meetiu' house — They called it Children's Day ; Th' younguns done it purt' nigh all Except th' preacher's say ; An' that whole programme wiggled off Ez slick ez melted grease — But th' place where I forgot to breathe 'S when our gal spoke a piece. The sup'intendent spoke right up — I heerd him call her name ! An' ther she come a trottin' out ! 'Tothers may looked the same, But they wa'u't nary notherone, Not even Thompson's niece. That looked wuth shucks t' Moll an' me When our gal spoke a piece. Me an' my woman set down front, Right clost t' th' mourners' bench ; A-hearin' that there young 'un speak Give me a nawful wrench, An' when we heerd 'em cheer an' cheer We set like two ole geese Wipin' th' silly tears away — When our gal spoke a piece. 'Twuz jest some leetle, easy thing Like " Twinkle, Little Star," Er Mary's leetle cosset lamb Er somethin' like that 'ar, But 'twan't no twinklin' starlight beams Ner tags fr'in lammie's fleece That made us blow our noses hard When our gal spoke a piece. I hain't ben what I'd orto ben, I've stayed away fr'm church, An' sometimes Moll an' me hez thought They'd left us in th' lurch, But — well, we've kind o' rounded up An' iet our wand'rin's cease Sence we wuz down there t'other night, An' heerd her speak a piece. -S. W. Gillilcm. THE HALF-OPEN DOOR. Oh ! wings that are folded and drooping, Spring wide in the evening's uplift ; Reach out to the stars that are showing The skies in a silvery rift. No day of our days is so hallowed As that when we see, just before, The light in the house of our Father Shine out through his half-open door. — Margaret E. Songster. TIME TO TINKER ROUN'. Summah's nice, wif sun a-shinin', Spring is good, wif green and grass, An' dey's somethings 'nice 'bout wintah, Dough hit brings de freezin' bias'; But de time dat is de fines', Whethah fields is green er brown, Is w'en de rain's a-po'in', An' dey's time to tinker roun'. Den you men's de mule's o' ha'ness, An' you men's de broken chair, Hummiu' all de time you'se wukin' Some ol' common kind o' air. Evah now an' then you looks out, Tryin' mighty ha'd to frown, But you cain't, you's glad hit's rainin', An' dey's time to tinker roun'. Oh, you 'ten's lak you so anxious Evah time it so't o' stops, W'en it goes on, den you reckon Dat de wet' 11 he'p de crops. But hit ain't de crops you's aftah ; You knows w'en de rain comes down Dat hit's too wet fu' wukin' An' dey's time to tinker roun'. Oh. dey's fun inside de co'n-crib, An' dey's laffin' at de ba'u ; An' dey's alius some one jokin', Er some one to tell a ya'n. Dah's a quiet in yo' cabin, t Only fu' de rain's sof soun' ; So you'se mighty blessed happy W'en dey's time to tinker roun'. — Paul Lawrence Dunbar, 38 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE BAPTIZING OF SISTER CA'LINE. Dey baptise Sistah Ca'line — Dey wash huh sins erway. Dey ain't no one in (lis hyah town Dat gwine fergit dat clay Dey baptise Si stab Ca'line — She weigh-th'ee bund'ed poun', En Pahsou Po'teh had ter swim Er else he sho'ly drown. Dey baptise Sistah Ca'line — She say she full er grace. De sinnehs say she fohined er trust, El' so be dat's de ease. She walk inter de wateh — All sho'ly had ter laugh — En when dey finish wif de wuk Dey ou'ly baptise half. Dey baptise Sistah Ca'line— She des so thick en wide Dey hat' ter take her back ergin En do de otheh side. Dey baptise Sistah Ca'line — She shout she done been save, But Pahson Po'teh's hat float off On top de tidal wave. — Josh Wink. SARY EMMA'S PHOTYGRAPHS. Our Sary Emma is possessed to be at somethin' queer ; She's allers doin' loony things, unheard of fur and near ; One time there wa'n't no limit ter the distance she would tramp Ter git a good-fer-uothin', wuthless, canceled postage Another spell folks couldn't rest ontil, by hook or crook, She got 'em all to write their names inside a leetle ' book ; But though th*m fits were bad enough, the wust is nowadays, Fer now she's' got that pesky freak, the photygraphin' craze. She had ter have a camera, and then things cost a sight, So she took up subscriptions fer the " Woman's Home Delight." And got one for a premium — a Warned new-fangled thing, . That takes a tin-type sudden, when she presses on a spring. And sense she got it, sakes alive ! there's nothin' on the place That haiu't been pictured lookin' like a horrible disgrace ; The pigs, the cows, the horse, the colt, the chickens, large and small, She goes a gunnin' fer 'em, and she bags 'em one and all. She tuk me once a-settin' up on top a load er hay, My feet shets out the wagon, and my head's a mile away ; She took her ma in our back yard, a-hangin' out the clothes, With hands as big as buckets, and a face that's mostly nose. A yard of tongue and monstrous teeth is what she calls a dog, The cat's a kind er fuzzy-lookin' shadder in a fog, And I've got a suspicion that what killed our brindle calf Was that he see his likeness in our Sary's photy- graph. She's " tonin' " er " develerpin' " er " printin' " half the time ; She's allers buyin' pasteboard ter mount up her latest crime ; Our front room and the settin'-room is like some awful show, With freaks and framed outrages stuck all round 'em in a row. But next spring I'll take them picters and I'll fetch some of 'em out, And hang 'em round the garden when the corn begins to sprout ; I'll be safe from crows and blackbirds and that kind er feathered trash, Fer them photygvaphs of Sary's, they beat scarecrows all ter smash. — Joe Lincoln, " Cape Cod Ballads. " I KNOW ED THEM EYES WUZ ELLEN' S. They driv' a kerridge to the door An' out of it a lady got, All dressed in silks and furbelows, An' walked right up to whur I sot. Sez she, " I come from Obedstown, I'm huntin' fer a Cap'n Brown." I looked, and when her face I see, Thinks I, "No, marm, you kain't fool me" — I knowed them eyes wuz Ellen's. My darter, married twenty year An' gone to live in Idyho ; She'd giowed an' changed, but then, law me ! Queer ef a mother wouldn't know — Her hair was fetched a bit with gray, An' mebby she wa'n't quite so gay ; A leetle stouter in her size ; Yit, as I look in them blue eyes, I knowed them eyes wuz Ellen's. An' so I riz up right at once An' grabbed her close an hilt her tight, An' she sez " Mar !" an' I sez " Nell !" An' then we hugged with all our might ; For time might ketch me on some things, Consid'rin' all the change it brings ; But when I looked I knowed her shore — I seen my baby's eyes once more — I knowed them eyes wuz Ellen's. —Ernest McGaffty. SELECTED POEMS. 39 A THANKSGIVING WOOING Tiik frost was on the cottage pane, The skies were gray and chill, But with a trembling hand she smoothed Her kerchief's dainty frill. For lo ! she saw the youthful squire Dismounting in the snow, Iu velvet coat and buckled shoes, Thanksgiving, long ago. While with her wrinkled sire he talked Of weather and of wheat, His ear was ever strained to catch The music of her feet. Her dimpled arms were deep iu flour, Her rounded cheeks a-glow, Her father slept, he stole a kiss, Thanksgiving, long ago. His stately mother and her guests Were waiting at the Hall, Before the feast in silver served, But he forgot them all. ' And at the farmer's humble board, With curly head bent low, He called a courtly blessing down, Thanksgiving, long ago. Gear rose the moon above the woods, And twilight veiled the farm ; But still he lingered at the gate, The bridle on his arm. " Oh, bake and brew for me alone ; Be mine for weal or woe ! I love you, dear," he softly said — Thanksgiving, long ago. In yonder carven frame she stands, In pearls and blue brocade ; And still tradition handeth down The pumpkin pies she made. And tells again the story sweet, When granaries overflow, Of how the squire a-wooing went, Thanksgiving, long ago. — Minna Irving. THE CHECKER BOARD. I hev watched 'em playin' checkers in the summer, fall an' spring, Bill Bogs, Wes. Jones, Newt. Lane, Hi Smith, an' Jason Fox, I jiug ! I know 'em all jes' like a book, they're players good an' strong \ On 'special 'casions they've been known t' play the whul night long. They gather at the grocery as regular as clocks On evenin's in winter, an' they pick 'em out a box High enough t' lay the board on. Then wise-heads begin t' pore O'er the mystic game o' checkers there in Silas John- son's store. The board they play on 's worn so that the squares are dim, I swan ! And the checkermen, er pieces, all their varnished beauty 's gone. Why, I'll bet a million games hev on that faded board been played ! No cricket ever made the jumps them checkermen have made ! Year in, year out, the same size crowd 's been gath- erin' of nights, An' movin' some, and studyin' more, till Si put out the lights. The youngsters follow in the path their fathers trod before, An' keep that game o' checkers up in Silas Johnson's store. I've known o' folks a-movin' 'way, be gone maybe fer years, And when they'd comeback visitin' they'd say t' me : "It 'pears Like nothin' looks jes' natural. All 's changed 'at once we knew, Except the store — they're doin' there jes' what they used V do !" You couldn't stop it if you'd try ; it's just as much a part Of life 'roun' here as eatin', an' lots closer t' the heart ! I reckon Gabriel's trump, when blown, will catch at least a score C fellers playin' checkers there in Silas Johnson's store ! — Roy Farrell Greene, in Puck. THE CHRYSANTHEMUM. Many petaled " Christmas flower," Fairest in my winter bower, Once I saw my love's sweet lips Pressed against thy snowy tips. Since that moment, flower fair, Thou hast been my dearest care, Evermore thou art to me Loveliest bloom on bush or tree. THE OLD GIN HOUSE. Swaying pines have grown around it, Trumpet vines with garlands bound it, Yellow jasmines climbed and crowned it, Laughing down their green and gold ; Tendrils through each crack escaping Hide the worn roof widely gaping, Every hole with beauty draping In the gin house gray and old. In the morn the squirrels peeping, O'er the rafters lightly leaping, With a bark awake the sleeping Owl, who blinks up, drowsy-polled ; And at night, with sudden stirring From the eaves, the wan light blurring, Flit the bats with dusky whirring Bound the gin house gray and old. Oh, the days, well-nigh forgotten, When along the floor, now rotten, Waves and waves of snowy cotton Oft in billowy beauty rolled. While the toilers wrought a-singing Mellow lays that yet are ringing, O'er the tide of time still wringin 7o n .i From the gin house gray an' Oh, those songs with sweetness teeming, Chasing care and pain redeeming ! Often still they soothe my dreamiug, By sad memory softly trolled ; And at eve their edhoes dying Haunt me, 'neath the pine-trees lying, Listening to the wind low sighing Round the gin house gray and old. Lorn is now the old plantation, Fairest spot in all creation ; Teardrops choke the sad relation, And its sorrow can't be told. Poets lilt of ruins hoary Over sea in song and story : All must yield iu beauty's glory To the jasmiued gin house old. — Samuel Minturn Peck. 40 SIX BUND RED AND FIFTY HAYMAKING IN MAINE. Ephrum Wade sat down in the shade And took off his haymaker hat which he laid On a tussock of grass ; and he pulled out the plug That jealously gagged the old iron-stone jug ; And cocking his jug on his elbow, he rigged A sort of a " horse-up," you know, and he swigged A pint of hard cider or so at a crack And set down the jug with a satisfied smack. " Aha !" said he, " that grows the hair on ye, bub ; My rule durin' hayin's more cider, less grub. I take it, sah, wholly to stiddy my nerves, And up in the stow hole I pitch 'em some curves On a drink of straight cider, in harnsomer shape Than a fellow could do on the juice of the grape. Some new folderinos come 'long every day, All sorts of new jiggers to help git yer hay. Improvements on cutter bars, hoss forks and rakes, And tedders and spreaders and all of them fakes. But all of their patents ain't fixed it so yit That hayin' is done without git-up-and-git. If ye want the right stuff, sah, to take up the slack, The stuff to put buckram right inter yer back, The stuff that will limber and ileup yer j'ints, Jest trot out some cider and drink it by pints. It ain't got no patents— it helps you make hay As it helped out our dads in their old-fashioned way. Molasses and ginger and water won't do, 'Twill irrigate some, but it won't see you through. And icp water' 11 chill ye, and skim milk is durn Mean stuff any place, sah, except in a churn. I'm a temperate man as a general rule — The man who gits bit by the adder's a fool — But when it comes hayin', and folks have to strain, I tell you, old cider's a stand-by in Maine." Then Ephrum Wade reclined in the shade, And patiently gazed on the hay while it " made." THE FANCY DRESS BALL. There's been fun at a wedding, and, faith, no mis- take, The best of good sport can be seen at a wake ; There is fun at a fair, but the best of them all Was Mrs. O'Flaherty's fancy dress ball. The boys in disguises were anxious to go, So one wiut as \\'hisky, another as Snow, And one wint. as Gas, saying, " The divil a doubt "Twill be morning before they will thin turn me out." There was Mrs. MacSweeney, a Franco-Bulgarian, And Mrs. O'Rourke was a Spanish Bavarian ; There was Andy, a Tiger, and Dinnis, a Goose, And Richard the Third, but his hump had got loose. There was ould Bonyparty, as gay as you plase, With Mrs. O'Rafferty, quite at her aise ; There was Shakespeare of Avon, and Limerick Bacon, They were not to say dhrunk, they had only dhrink taken. But a big man comes in, and he causes disaster; He was dressed as a Jockey, he called himself Mas- ther ; The man was in liquor, and walking contrary, When his spurs they got caught in the skirts of Queen Mary. So he fell on the shoulder of Helen of Troy, Who shoved him against Cleopatra Molloy. Says he, " Cleopatra, me darlint, you're dull," When she gave him the needle on top of the skull. Thiu in runs a peeler, and, faith, would you b'lieve, He wint and arrested ould Adam and Eve, When the boys they all shout, " Here ! no more of the ball, They have taken the father and mother of all !" Well, the polis ran here, and the boys they ran there, And Socrates lost the best part of his hair, When ould Noah comes up, and he makes no remark, But he stritched them for dead with a blow of his Ark. To see them in coort the next day, faith, you should, The Jockey 'longside of the Babes in the Wood, And Andy and Dinnis, and other poor cratures, While the tears, full of whiskey, all rowled down their fatures. But the Jockey he proved, in a wonderful way, 'Twas Diogenes Clancy that led him asthray. And says he, " Just to prove that my argument's sound, If yees all come outside I will stand yees a round." Says the magistrate, " Now, the facts I have learned, I think it is time that the coort be adjourned." And they wint out to dhrink, just a bottle to crack, And the coort and the prisoners they never came back. So it all ended right, and without a mistake, You may talk of the sport that goes on at a wake, As I said at the start, it is nothing at all To Mrs. O Flaherty's fancy dress ball. THE MERRY HUSKING TIME. The fields are filled with a smoky haze, The golden spears Of the ripening ears' Peep from the crested and pennoned maze. All down the rustling rows are rolled The portly pumpkins, green and gold ; Altogether 'Tis very fine weather, Just as the almanac foretold. All day we cut and bind ; till at night — Where a field of corn in The misty morning Waved in the level September light — All over the shadowy stubble-land, The stooks, like Indian wigwams stand, Compact and secure ; There leave them to cure, Till the merry husking time is at hand. Then the fodder will be to stack or to house, And the ears to husk, But now the dusk Falls soft as the shadows of cool pine boughs ; Our good day's work is done ; the night Brings wholesome fatigue and appetite ; Up comes the balloon Of the huge full moon, And home we go singing gay songs by its light. —J. T. Trowbridge. THE OLD TUNE. From out a windless realm it flowed Fragrant and sweet as balm of rose ; Upon its breast soft sunlight glowed, And still it glides where jasmine blows. An old, sweet tune of other days ! Full of the tints of autumn time ; Scents of russets and August haze Gathered and fell like thoughts in rhyme. May never again that once-loved tune Fall in my heart as a stream that flows ! Let it run as it will like a vine in June Fragrant and sweet as a summer rose. — Eugene Field. SELECTED POEMS. 41 BLIND MANS BUFF. The farmer had five buxom girls, Joau, Betty, Hester, Peggy and Kate, And all had dimples, blushes, curls, Had dewy lips and noses straight ; And four, in truth, were not sedate, Hut Kate was quiet as a mouse, And I loved Kate, And I dwelt in her father's house. And when at night all work was o'er, The girls and we, the farmer's boys, Would clear the great worn kitchen floor For games accompanied with noise ; And when none knew what more to play — The games each having served enough, I'd shyly say : " Let's have a round at blind man's buff." Then, while all minds were occupied With searching for that kerchief red Of size sufficient to be tied Around the boyish, bullet head . . . Kate, with one finger on her lip, Her long, moist eyes on mine that glowed, Would stilly slip From out the busy, laughing crowd, And spend among the window plants One careless minute, casually, Lifting the window blind perchance, And gazing out — as if to see ; Returning wnence she held between Slim finger and unconscious thumb A trifle green — A sprig of rose geranium. That, when the game began at last She'd tease until her finger smelt . . And then its sweetness she'd make fast Between her panting heart and belt ; And when my turn came to be blind Fate must have slyer been than fate, But I could find My little rose geranium Kate. Oh, happy, groping in the dark Through fifteen thicknesses of red ! . . , I'd stop and make believe to hark When I'd sniff the air instead ; And at my sleeve fair Peg would pluck, And Joan into my arms would burst. But no — I'd duck . . . She must smell of geranium first ! Oh, pleasure ! . . . blindly following That fleeting perfume — haunting, fine — And when I'd caught the sweet, scared thing, Mine, for one little moment mine — Oh, bliss ! . . . for I might kiss her cheek As was the custom at that date . . . She's not so meek — As she was then — now. Are you, Kate ? — Gertrude Hall. COURT IN' THE WIDDER. It's as slick a job as ever I see — A-courtin' the Widder Beasly ! She Don't fire up red when she comes to the door, Ner snicker, ner nothin'. She's b'en there before. She'll hand me a chair, an' she'll say, like's not, " I'll be 'long in a minute or two. I got " My risin' to set ; do you want to sit down An' look over these beans while I'm putterin' roun' ?' The run of 'em fluster themselves, an' light The parlor up, stiddy-comp'ny-night, An' raise a rumpus. The widder an' me — We set in the kitchen gener'ly. She says she don't know's she's got no call To see things wastin' ; she's give me all O' Anthony's clo'es ; I ain't built like him, Him bein' chuckle an' me bein' slim, An' she's had to fix up so's they'll fit, An' she's powerful handy a-doin' it. We sha'n't undertake to have no kind O' frills an' fussin' when wegitj'ined; I'll git a new neck-tie, an' have my hair Trimmed up, an' my things took over there, An' we'll git the parson to change her name, An' we'll jog along jest 'bout the same. — Emma A. Opper, in Puck. AUTUMNAL DREAMS. When the maple turns to crimson, And the sassafras to gold ; When the gentian's in the meadow And the aster's on the wold ; When the moon is lapped in vapor And the night is frosty cold. When the chestnut burs are opened And the acorns drop like hail, And the drowsy air is startled With the thumping of the flail — With the drumming of the partridge And the whistle of the quail. Through the rustling woods I wander, Through the jewels of the year, From the yellow uplands calling, Seeking her that still is dear ; She is near me in the autumn, She, the beautiful, is near. — Bayard Taylor. DAT GAWGY WATAHMILLON. Oh, that Gawgy watahmillon an' dat gal of Gawgy wif 'in ! She foun' 'm an' she poun' 'm an' he ripe enough to lif 'em. I tote 'em to the well an' den I cool 'em in de watah, An' me bress de Lawd foh libin', like a Gawgy niggah ought to. She pat him an' she punk him, like ol' mammy wif de chillum. An' ma haht it keeps a-punkin' ev'ry time she punk de millon ! I look into heh yalla eyes an' feel dat I can trus' 'm. An' 'n I take de millon an' I drop 'm down an' bus' 'm. Oh, dat Gawgy watahmillon wif de sweet and coolin' flowin' ! Poke yoah face deep down, ma honey, an' jus' keep youah mouf a-goin'. Dar ain't no use ob talkin',but I 'clar to Gord I's willin' Foh to nebeh hab no heab'n 'cept that Gawgy gal an' millon ! Foh dey filled de haht an' stomach ob dis happy Gawgy niggah, An' he couldn' be no fullah, 'less de Lohd 'd make him biggah, Lohdy, Lohd ! I'sedone been dreamin' an' ma haht is mos' a-breakin' , An' ma lips dey is a-burnin' an' my stomach is a- achin'. I been dreamin' ob de summah an' ma mouf is just a-fillin' Foh dat honey gal ob Gawgy an' dat Gawgy watah- millon ! — J. Edmund V. Cooke. 42 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY LIFE'S JOURNEY. As we speed out of youth's sunny station The track seems to shine in the light, But it suddenly shoots over chasms Or sinks into tunnels of night. And hearts that were brave in the morning Are filled with repining and fears, As they pause at the City of Sorrow Or pass through the Valley of Tears. But the road of this perilous journey The hand of the Master has made ; With all its discomforts and dangers, We need not be sad or afraid. Paths leading from light into darkness, Ways plunging from gloom to despair, Wind out through the tunnels of midnight To fields that are blooming and fair. Though the rocks and the shadows surround us, Though we catch not one gleam of the day Above us, fair cities are laughing And dipping white feet in some bay. And always, eternal, forever, Down over the hills in the west, The last final end of our journey, There lies the Great Station of Rest. 'Tis the Grand Central point of all railways, All roads center here when they end ; 'Tis the final resort of all tourists, All rival lines meet here and blend. All tickets, all mile-books, all passes, If stolen, or begged for, or bought, On whatever roador division, Will bring you at last to this spot. If you pause at the City of Trouble, Or wait in the Valley of Tears, Be patient, the train will move onward And rush down the track of the years. Whatever the place is you seek for, Whatever your aim or your quest, You shall come out at last with rejoicing To the beautiful City of Rest. You shall store all your baggage of worries, You shall feel perfect peace in the realm, You shall sail with old friends on fair waters, With joy and delight at the helm. You shall wander in cool, fragrant gardens With those who have loved you the best, And the hopes that were lost in life's journey You shall find in the City of Rest. — Ella Wheeler Wilcox. NOTHING NEW. The spider weaves his gauzy web, Quick each false step retrieving ; He's weaving on, and weaving on — Fast in and out his swift thread grows From mom till night, from night till morn. And why so fast? the whole world knows That old, old web he's weaving. The drowsy bee on limber perch, Is all day droning, swinging, As up and down, then dowu and up He sings and hums and hums and sings, As sipping from a rose-leaf cup, He swings and sips and sips and swings, That old, old tune he's singing. Two lovers sit beneath the tree — Oh, happy, happy meeting ! What do they say ? Oh, dear — my fair, 'Tis nothing new, no nothing new, Oh, peach-bloom cheek and golden hair — Just " I love you," sweet, "I love you," ' The old, old tale repeating. OCTOBER. De leafs turned yaller an' de cuckle-burr's brown An' de grass is streaked wid de gray o' age — Natur is er wavin' 'twixt er smile and er frown An' de red in de sky puts de bull in er rage. De old woodpecker has hushed up his song An' de old crow scratches whar we thrashed out de wheat, An' de old bluejay sorter haster hop er long Caze de frost made him stiff in de j'ints o' his feet. De po' ole dove is er mou'nin' ergin An' it 'pear mighty like dat her heart is gwin'er break, An' it makes de yaller-hammer sorter nod his head and grin — Ah, Lawd er massy, dat bird he is er rake. De sof win' comes like de sighin' o' er child An' scatters dead leaves o'er de graves on de hill, An' de eyes o' de rabbit look strange an' wild As he hops 'mong de rocks by de moss-covered mill. I strolls in de woods w'en de evenin's come An' listens to der music o' de trees dat wave, An' mer heart beats low like er muffled-up drum As I kneel by de side o' er little boy's grave. We laid him ter slum'er w'en de grass was gray An' de leaves had blushed at degaze o' desun ; W'en natur had got down on her knees fur ter pray — W'en er dead cricket lay whar er spider had spun. —Opie P. Read. A COMFORTER. Vexed with the trials of a dismal day, I sat me down to rail at God and man, To pour into a bitter, venomed lay All vile anathema a curse, a ban : Hope seemed to stumble on her weary way, And a dark purpose, like a river, ran Through my sad soul. But how, oh, friend, I pray, Can one long murmur at the ordained plan When to the haveu of his arms there slips A baby daughter, robed in snowy white, Who, with love's prattle on her infant lips, Has come to kiss and bid a sweet good night And whispers, cuddling close her precious head, " I'm sleepy, papa, come put me to bed?" A SINGLE STITCH. One stitch dropped as the weaver drove His nimble snuttle to and fro, In and out, beneath, above, Till the pattern seemed to bud and grow As if the fairies had helping been — One small stitch which could scarce be seen ; But the one stitch dropped pulled the next stitch out, And a weak spot grew in the fabric stout ; And the perfect pattern was marred for aye By the one small stitch that was dropped that day. One small life in God's great plan, How futile it seems as the ages roll. Do what it may, or strive how it can, To alter the sweep of the infinite whole I A siugle stitch in an endless web, A drop in the ocean's flow and ebb ! But the pattern is rent where the stitch is lost, Or marred where the tangled threads have crossed ; And each life that fails of its true intent Mars the perfect plan that its Master meant. — Susan Ooolidge. SELECTED POEMS. 43 TWO CHRISTMASES. Money was tight that Christmas, and we were a-feel- in' poor, And we found it a constant struggle to keep the wolf from the door. The mortgage was weighin' on us and spoilin' our rest o' nights, And it seemed we couldn't be spendin' for Christmas doiu's by rights ; But while we were plannin' and frettin', with hearts that were bare of joy, We never thought what a Christmas 'twould be for our little looy. Yet I had a guilty feelin', as if I was mean and sly, And uiy work went wrong, and I couldn't look little Jim in the eye, For the boy kept hintin' and tellin' what the other boys would get, And I saw he was lottin' on somethin', and hopin' to get it yet. So I begged pa to get somethin', and he said he wouldn't refuse, And he went down town and bought him a pair of cowhide shoes ! I cried when I saw him bring 'em, but we couldn't afford no more, And I dreaded Christmas mornin' worse than I'd done before. It came at last, and a sleetstorm set in in the early day; But Jim come down to breakfast, eager and bright and gay. When he saw the shoes a-waitin' — all there was at his place — My heart fell down within me as the laugh went out of his face. Not one word, but he caught 'em, and flung 'em sav- agely by, And he stumbled out o' the kitchen, too mueh of a man to cry. Father jumped up and followed, though I tried to take his part, And the sound of the blows he give him fell stingin' on my heart. I longed to go and comfort him till I couldn't wait no more, And I made him some 'lasses cookies and took 'em up to his door. I spoke, but there came no answer ; I turned the knob and went in, And the stillness all about me was worse than the loudest din. I hurried down to father, and we searched for the missin' child, And the day grew darker and darker, and the storm more fierce and wild. Father went for the neighbors ; 'twas so dark it seemed like night, And he hadn't left the garden before he was out of sight. Hours went by, till I saw them slowly come up the hill, And their lanterns streamed on somethin' that was muffled and limp and still. They brought him into the kitchen, that -was whirlin' and growin' black, And I heard them trying to break it how they found him on the track. The roar of the storm was louder than the roar o' the comin' train, And they couldn't stop the engine, though they strove with might and main. So to-night we aresittin' silent and lone in the kitchen place ; Father is old and broken, with a strange gray look in his face ; He doesn't take the int'rest in the farm that he used to take ; Them that has lost their children we know how folks' hearts break. Christmas Eve ! last Christmas it was that our boy— ah, me ! Christmas ha3 been a cruel day, 'tis all it can ever be! Father gets up, and slowly begins to wind the clock. " Bed-time, father? Listen ! Did you hear a knock?" And then the door flew open, and there on the thres- hold rim Oh, God in heaven! My darling! My own little baby — Jim ! I guess I fainted, or somethin'. It wasn't you they found, But you have been in the city workin', and safe and sound ? Then you didn't know ! oh, Jimmy ! whose boy could that other be? And you've got a place to work in, and the money is all for me ! Oh, friends ! let's learn this lesson that God has meant us to know ; Let's have a happy Christmas, and let our worries go! For the sake of the Child that was given to bless us all this day, Remember the little children who were meant to be glad and gay. And when you have made your children a happy, joyous crew, Remember the poor folks' babies, and make them happy, too ! — Florence E. Pratt. THE WISH. Should some great angel say to me to-morrow, " Thou must re-tread thy pathway from the start, But God will grant, in pity, for thy sorrow, Some one dear wish, the nearest to thy heart." This were my wish ! from my life's dim beginning Let be what has been ! wisdom planned the whole ; My want, my woe, my errors, and my sinning, All, all were needed lessons for my soul. —Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 14 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY MARRIED AN' GONE. The house is dretful lonesome since Milly's gone away ; Tho' she's only gone across the road it's 'cause she's gone to stay ; An' when she conies to see me now she's full o' talk o' Fred, Tell I'd like to take him back the barn an' punch him in the head. It seems to me the good old days is over now an' gone, An' uothiu' left hut lonesomeness an' gray hairs comiu' on. Why, I 'member when she used to come a-toddliu' to the gate An' be watehiu' down the lane fer me, and couldn't hardly wait Tell she saw me come a-hurryiu' up the lane to her an' home, An' then uothiu' couldn't hold her, she's so glad to see me come. Theu when old sand-mau come around an' sleepy- time would be, No one could tell the stories right exceptiu' only me. An' then when she was older how her purty cheeks would glow When she'd say "she'd stick to father, 'an want no other beau." There's no one now to scold me ef I wear a shabby coat, There's nobody to lead me in the way that I should vote, There's uothiu' but remember tell suthin's like to break, Though I try to seem as chipper as old times jest fer her sake. Oh, Milly, ef you only could be little once again— Jest ui y" ton 1 -year-old, t.het didn't love no one but father — then Jest to keep ye so— unchangin' tell the sleepy man come round ; An' you an' me, my baby, slept together under- ground ! — Florence E. Pratt. SUMACH. We climbed the slope above the valley's edge. Behind, the country road, a ribbon lay Of powdery dust, down-winding, dim and gray ; A bird 6ang sweetly from a thorny hedge And ripples circled in the river sedge, While brown October dozed the hours away ; And northward, and beyond the hillside clay The clustering sumach flamed along a ledge. The life of ruddy Autumn filled its veins Deep-growing masses glinting in the sun, Redder than the wild strawberry, where it stains The woodland ways, 'mid light aud shadow spun ; A gorgeous dream, a color-draught divine. Spilled on the golden afternoon like wine. —Ernest McGaffey. MY FIDDLE. My fiddle? Well, I kind o' keep her handy, don't you know, Though I ain't so much inclined to tromp the strings and switch the bow As I was before the timber of my elbows got so dry, And my fingers was more limber like and caperish and spry, Yet I can plonk, and plunk, and plink, And tune her up and play, And jest lean back and laugh and wink At every rainy day. My playin's only middlin' — tunes I picked up when a boy — The kind o' sort o' fiddlin' that the folks call cordu- roy ; " The Old Fat Gal," and " Ryestraw," and " My Sail- yor's on the Sea," Is the cowtillions that I saw when the ch'ice is left to me. And so I plunk, and plonk, and plink, And rosum up my dow, And play the tunes that make you think The devil's in your toe ! That's how this here old fiddle's won my heart's in- durin' love ! From the strings across her middle to the screechin' keys above — From her apern, over bridge, and to the ribbon round her throat, She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin' " Love me" every note ! And so I pat her neck and plink Her strings with lovin' hands, And list'uin' clost, I sometimes think She kind o' understands ! — James Whitcomb Riley. WHERE MOTHER IS. Old-fashioned flowers, with fragrance sweet, Bloom where mother is ; Life's a psalm — a song replete With joy — where mother is. There all woes and sorrows cease. Naught but rest and heavenly peace Dwells where mother is. The jostling crowd, the wearing din, Are not, where mother is ; The flaunting rags of shame and sin Reach not, where mother is ; Heart-sick, brain-tired, nerve-racked soul, Before thy tear-dimmed eyes a goal Exists, where mother is. All grief and doubt and unbelief Flee, where mother is ; Hope and faith and sweet relief Come, where mother is ; Mother ! Mother ! name most Bweet, Heaven guide my weary feet Home, where mother is. WHEN BABY GOES TO SLEEP. When Katie takes the baby, and the nodding little head Gives token that it's weary, and would like to go to bed, An air of death-like stillness 'bout the house begins to creep. And everybody's silent when the baby goes to sleep. Sometimes I get so frightened that I almost lose my breath — If I chance to make a bit of noise it scares me most to death, When from 'ueath a tiny eyebrow I see a half-way peep From big blue eyes, when baby has almost gone to sleep. And when at last the twinkling of a tiny smile appears On lips that angel kisses softly touch as dreaming nears, I give a sigh of gladness that is full of thanks, and deep, That the world can once more move on, for baby's gone to sleep. —Edward N. Wood. SELECTED POEMS. 45 INDIAN SUMMER SONG. A lulling song of locusts, the hum of golden bees, And you seem to hear the sap How through the thrilled veins of the trees. And the hazy, mazy daisy, dreamiug world around you seems Like a mystic laud enchanted — like a paradise of dreams ! Blue smoke from happy huts, A rain of ripened nuts, And far away, o'er meadows ringing, Sweet sound, as of a woman singing, " Coiuin' through the rye — Comin' through the rye !" And then the faint, uncertain, silver tenor of a bell That summons all the wiuds to prayer in many a cloistered dell. And then a thrush's music from groves with golden The wild note of a mockingbird, and still the dreams, the dreams ! Blue smoke f om happy huts, A rain of ripened nuts, And far away, o'er meadows ringing, Sweet sound, as of a woman singing, " Comin' through the rye — Comin' through the rye !" — Frank L. Stanton. SINCE WILLIE GOES TO SCHOOL. Since Willie goes to school the days Are always full of peace, And in a hundred little ways The cares of life decrease ; The halls are littered up no more With blocks and tops and traps ; No marbles lie upon the floor, But are we happier than before? — Ah, well, perhaps — perhaps ! Since Willie goes to school the cat Lies dozing in her nook ; There are no startling screeches that Make all the neighbors look ; His playthings are all piled away, No books bestrew the floor, But I have found a hair to-day, Deep-rooted, glistening and gray, That hid itself before. Since Willie goes to school I hear No pounding on the stairs, Nor am I called to help my dear Make horses of the chairs ; A sense of peace pervades the place, And I may be a fool To shed the tears that streak my face, But a boy is in my baby's place, Since Willie goes to school. — & E. Riser. SLEEP TIME IN DARKTOWN. Sun am des a golden ball A-sinkin' in a west. De bull frog am a-singin' to De one he love de best ; An' a daylight am a gwine home To take a li'l rest- Sing a low, mah black-eye ras'al ! Sing a low ! Sing a low ! Li'l clouds am runniu' kase Da mammy tol' dem to ; Whippo'will am chimin' up A song fo' me an' you', An' a sky am feelin' happy kase De stars am peepin' frew — Sing a low, mah black-eye ras'al ! Sing a low ! Sing a low ! Wind am makin' music fo' De trees up on de hill ; Owls am des a-wakin' up Down yander by de mill? Shadows comin' roun' to see Ef yo' is keepin' still — Sing a low, mah black-eye ras'al ! Sing a low ! Sing a low ! AT THE PASTURE BARS. Leaning his head on his brown, young hands, He stands at the pasture bars, A barefoot boy, with never a care, Watching the still, clear stars. The mist drifts down on the river's breast, While softly the shadows fall ; And all about him the mountains rise, Pine-topped, and dark, and tall. He longs to know, with a vague unrest, What the future will bring to him, And wishes that he might cross the hills That stretch so far and dim ; He pictures the country that lies beyond, And sighs for the path, untried, Which will lead him across the mountain top To the world on the other side. Leaning a gray and toil-bent head On hands that are thin and worn, Hands that have battled with brush and brier, And broken the mountain thorn, He sits and dreams of the years long fled, When the world was as yet untried, Ere he climbed the path to the mountain top And crossed to the other side. For although he has found the country fair, And the skies have been blue for him, His eyes they seek, with a yearning light, The hills that stretch far and dim. He dreams of the mist ou the river's breast, And longs for the old home stars, And to be, once more, a barefoot boy, Care-free, at the pasture bars. — Minnie. Reid French. DRAWING THE CIDER. To draw the cider we were sent — We two on mirth and mischief bent ; She bore the candle, flaring high, The old blue-figured pitcher, I. What shadows o'er the cellar wall Tossed, huge and shapeless, dim and tall ! What eerie sounds from rack and bin, And casks that pent real spirits in 1 The spigot turned, both heads bent low To watch the amber current flow ; The candle-light flared strangely dim — The pitcher must not overbrim. So close, so close our faces drew, Our lips had touched before we knew ; And ere they parted — rogues disgraced — Six quarts of cider went to waste ! 4(i SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY FROM AN OLD WORK-BASKET. I touch full softly, with a tender hand, These webs of woven wool ; I marvel mutely at the skill which planned Their Mendings beautiful. Azure and golden, purple, white and rose, Soft chestnut, softer gray ; In quaint intricacy each pattern grows, Now somber, and now gay. Stitch after stitch in curious order placed, Tint after tint to form The perfect pattern, with such patience traced By fingers quick and warm ! And with each web the same sweet, skillful hand Hath left in writing fair A chart to guide, if in the task it planned Another hand should share. I touch full softly every piece she wove, Who fares on earth no more ; But if in God's undreamed of Land of Love Good work is kept in store For those accounted faithful here — we know Her share is full and sweet ; That Life's fair pattern, love-designed below, In Heaven is made complete ! No ravelled ends, no tangling of the skein, No pitiful delay For wool run short, for needles snapped in twain, Or failing light of day. Only Life's finished work — all blurs erased — Only Love's endless calm ; And in her hands, by Death's cool fingers placed, Joy's everlasting Palm ! IN THE FIRELIGHT. The fire upon the hearth is low, And there is stillness everywhere, While, like winged spirits, here and there The firelight shadows fluttering go. And as the shadows round me creep, A childish treble breaks the gloom, And softly from a further room Conies " Now I lay me down to sleep." And somehow with that little prayer And that sweet treble in my ears, My thoughts go back to distant years And linger with a loved one there ; And as I hear my child's amen, My mother's faith comes back to me ; Crouched at her side I seem to be, And mother holds my hands again. Oh, for an hour in that dear place ! Oh, for the peace of that dear time ! Oh, for that childish trust sublime ! Oh, for a glimpse of mother's face ! Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone, Sweet magic of that treble tone And " Now I lay me down to sleep !" — Eugene Field. CHRISTMAS AT BLACK MAMMY' S. T'MORO' gwine be Chris'mus, chilluns, But I dunno 'bout Sandy Claws, I s'peck de ole man's broke dis Chris'mus ; Ain't no wo'k fo' his ole claws. He bank done bus'; he los' his money : He wo'kmen quit, dat what dey said. S'pec he keep away dis Chris'mus — Mout be dat de ole man's daid. What's dat Dinah? Whar you' git it- Dat big box yo - settin' on? Full o' nuts an' toys an' candy Dune brung heah by Massa John? Massa's mighty good dis Chris'mus, Meks my ole h'aht leap wid joy Dat he 'membahs his black mammy Wha' nursed him when he li'P boy. Huh ! Marse John he sen' a possum ? Praise de Lord fo' dat good meat ! T'mor' suah be Chris'mus, honey — Dat de day we gwine t' eat. Cl'ar off t' bed, now, all yo' chilluns. Doan' yo' heah me wha' I say ? Time t' heah them sleighbells ringin', Time dem reingeers jog dis way. Gawn t' bed an' quit dat talkin', Dis yere ain' no time fur play. Ef yo' chilluns doan' be quiet, Yo' sca'h old Sandy Claws away. Pull dem khivers up aroun' yo' ; Shet yo' eyes up good an' tight. T'mor' gwine be Chris'mus, chilluns, And Sandy Claws he cum to-night. AN APRIL SHOWER. The primrose head is bowed with tears, The wood is rippling through with rain, Though now the heaven once more appears, And beams the bounteous sun again. From every blade and blossom cup The earth sends thankful incense up. — Francis Willam Bourdillon. THE OLD-FASHIONED HYMNS. You say the hymns is dogg'rel— that they ain't re- fined enough ; That all the time we've sung 'em they've been noth- in' else but stuff; You say they need revisin' — we must make 'em more polite ; " On Jordan's Stormy Banks I Stand " is not con- structed right ; But, just the same, Professor Triggs, you'd better let 'em be — The Lord — He understands 'em — so they're good enough for me. I s'pose there's nothin' finer than that good old " Beulah Land," And when our Lizzie sings it you can see the glories grand ; When " Rock of Ages" rings out from the hallelujah shore, I tell you this old sinner ain't a-goin' to drift no more; And when they strike " Amazin' Grace," each feller singin' free — The Lord— He understands it— so it's good enough for me. It isn't what you're singin' — why, I oftentimes for- get And praise the Lord to music with the good old alpha- bet, Until I strike the words again, and don't think it's wrong — It isn't what is in it, but the soul behind the song. So, I tell you, Professor Triggs, you'd better let 'em be— The Lord — He understands 'em — so they're good enough for me. — Josh Wink. SELECTED POEMS. 47 THE OLD SCHOOL-BOOKS. What pleasant memories cluster round these volumes old and worn, With covers smirched and bindings creased, and pages thumbed and torn ! These are the books we used to con, I and brother Will, When we were boys together in the school-house on the hill ; Well I recall the nights at home, when side by side we sat Before the fire and o'er these books indulged in whispered chat. And how, when father chided us for idling time away, Our eyes bent to the task as though they'd never been astray. The old-time proverbs scribbled here, the caution to beware (" Steal not this book, my honest friend ") scrawled roughly here and there, The blurs, the blots, the luncheon spots, the number- less dog's ears, The faded names, the pictures, and, alas I the stains of tears — All take me back in mind to days when cloudless was the sky, When grief was so short-lived I smiled before my tears were dry ! When, next to father's angry frown, I feared the awful nod That doomed me, trembling, to advance and hum- bly kiss the rod. How bright those days ! our little cares, our momen- tary fears, And e'en our pains, evanished with a burst of sobs and tears, And every joy seemed great enough to banish all our woe ; What pity that when griefs are real, they can't be balanced so ! The school-house stands in ruins now, the boys have scattered wide ; A few are old and gray like me, but nearly all have died ; And Brother Will is one of these ; his curly head was laid Down by the brook, at father's side, beneath the willow's shade. These books, so quaint and queer to you, to me are living things ; Each tell a story of the past, and each a message brings. Whene'er I sit, at eventide, and turn their pages o'er, They seem to speak in tones that thrilled my heart in days of yore. The schoolboy of to-day would laugh, and throw these old books by ; But, think you, neighbor, could his heart consent if he were I ? — R. W. McAlpine. THE CANDY PULL. You kin talk about y'r op'ras, y'r germans, an' all sich, Y'r afternoon r'ceptions, an' them pleasures o* the rich ; You kin feast upon y'r choe'lates an' y'r creams an' ices full But none of 'em is ekal to a good old candy pull. For ther' isn' any perfume like the 'lasses on the fire, A bubblin' an' a dancing', as it keeps a risin' higher. While the spoon goesstirrin'.stirrin', till the kittle's even lull — No, I reely think ther's nothin' like a good old candy pull. Then the exercise o' pullin', how it sets the cheeks aglow, While the tongue makes merry music, as the hands move to and fro ! An' with scarcely hidden laughter the eyes are brim- mi n' full, For the happiness is honest at a good old candy pull. It's true we miss the music, an' the ball room's crush an' heat, But ther' isn't any bitter that stays behind the sweet ; An' I think the world'd be better, an.' its cup o' joy more full, If we only had more pleasures like the good old candy pull. — A. R. Luce. THE DESERTED HOUSE. Back from the road, up the old path, Unmindful of harvest and aftermath, With empty casements, drear and gray, The house stands facing down the bay — And either side the slanting gate The faithful sentinel lilacs wait. Deep tangling vines with close embrace The porch's fluted columns trace, And busy swallows dart and call From out the rain-stained, sagging wall And longing, watching, desolate, The faithful sentinel lilacs wait. At dusk, in the old house I see A dancing light's weird mystery. Is it a firefly's fitful gleam. Or some ghost-candle's flickering beam ? Is it for this, when the hour grows late, The faithful sentinel lilacs wait ? — Mary Pisher Bosson. THE OLD ALBUM. We found it 'mid the volumes that we took From the old shelves where it had stood so long, While lazily we lingered o'er each book, Picking out here a phrase and there a song ; Memoirs of men whose names had passed away, Records of deeds, whose glory is forgotten, Annals of science, wonders in their day, And now, to keener insight, ripe and rotten. We found it 'mid vast tomes where master hands Had left a glorious legacy to time ; 'Mid journals of old quests in stranger lands, Stories grown stale and reams of faded rhymes ; The Book, within whose yellowing pages laid, Stil faintly hued we saw the pale "pressed" flow- ers, A quaint collection, long dead hands had made, And given it gathered lore of studious hours. The " simples " that our mothers prized so well, The use of each in dainty order writ ; The rarer blooms of lonely hill or dell, Each with its Latin title marked to it. Turning the crackling pages one by one, We saw the ghosts of blossoms that we know, The petted darlings once of air and sun Looked at us from the land of long ago. We dared not touch them, since or leaf or stalk Had crumbled 'neath a finger into dust, And as we gazed on them, the careless talk Was to a strange, half-conscious reverence hushed. Beside us, in a cluster fresh and fair, The earliest primrose flowers whispered " Spring," And their pale sisters in the album there Through darkened centuries were withering. 48 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THREE CHRISTMAS GIFTS. The snow was in the valley, the snow was on the hill, The Christmas stars were shining, and all the house was still, The midnight clocks awoke me, I saw beside my bed An angel in a moonbeam, with lilies on his head. He spoke, in tones of music like sweetly chiming bells, That ring on crystal mornings o'er frosty fields and fells ; " The ice is on the fountain, the world is in a drift ; I come from Christ the Giver, what wouldst thou for a gift?" I saw as in a vision a castle in the air. With coffers full of jewels, and all for me to wear. " Oh, give me gold in plenty !" was my impatient cry. " So be it," said the angel, and left me, with a sigh. The snows were changed to roses, the vale was bright below, But round my rocky castle no living flower would blow. I loved the roses better than all the gems I wore, The pink and dewy roses that climbed the cottage door. Came Christmas bringing gladness to all the homes of men. I pressed a sleepless pillow, the angel came again. I prayed him "Give me glory, a long and bright career !" He dropped a wreath of laurel, and vanished, with a tear. Unheeded round me blossomed the beauty of the Spring, Blue violets in the meadows, and birds upon the wing. In musty tomes I pondered the fate of ancient Rome, Nor heard the larks of heaven that sang about my home. The world and all its passions was like a printed scroll To me, its sins and sorrows were branded on my soul. I knew the bitter flavor, the Dead Sea fruit of fame, When at the Christmas season again the angel came. The room was half in shadow, for low the tapers burned, And wearily the pages of antique lore I turned, When lo ! I felt his presence, a breath of Eden rare, And caught the lilies' perfume that lay about his hair. I bent the knee before him ; " Oh, give me love I" I cried, " For all an empty pageant is wealth, and fame, and pride." With hand upraised in blessing, behold ! he bent and smiled. Then broke the Christmas morning, and all the bells went wild. The angel was aTision of moonlight and the snow. The rest — I slept and dreamed it, that midnight long ago. But as I twine the holly the walls of home to cheer, Blue eyes and tender glances and loving lips are new. For Christ is still the giver, and life the Christmas tree, And love, and gold, and glory upon its branches be. But let the bells or Christmas proclaim it east and west, Of all the gifts upon it, true love is still the best. — Minna Irving. SAYING GRACE. When we're at grandpa's house to dine, He looks about with sober face, Then clasps his hands and shuts his eyes, And sister says he's " saying grace." He says big words that I don't know— I'm only four years old — but then I know two words he always says, And one is " Thanks " and one " Amen." While walking in my grandpa's woods', We saw a squirrel, big and gray, He held a nut between his paws, But did not eat it right away. He closed his little shining eyes, His hands raised just like grandpa's. Then I said, oh, sister, keep real still, He's saying " Thank you " and " Amen." — Laura F. Armitage. THE BAD BOY. His hair is red and tangled, and he has a turned-up nose ; His voice is loud and strident, and it never gets re- pose ; His face is full of freckles, and his ears are shaped like fins, And a large front tooth is missing, as you'll notice when he grins, He is like a comic picture, from his toes up to his head — But his mother calls him " darling" when she tucks him into bed. It is he who marks the carpet with the print of muddy boots ; And rejoices in a door-bell that is pulled out by the roots. Who whistles on his fingers till he almost splits your ear, And shocks the various caller with the slang he chanced to hear. He fills the house with tumult and the neigborhood with dread — But his mother ealls him "darling" when she tucks him into bed. SELECTED fOE3lS. » WHEN THE WOODS TURN BROWN. How will it be when the roses fade, Out of the gartlen and out of the glade? When the fresh pink bloom of the sweet-brier wild, That leans from the dell like the cheek of a child, Is changed for dry lips on a thorny bush ? Then, scarlet and carmine, the groves will flush. How will it be when the autumn flowers Wither away from their leafless bowers ; When sun-flower and star-flower and golden-rod Glimmer no more from the frosted sod, And the hillside nooks are empty and cold ? Then the forest tops will be gay with gold. How will it be when the woods turn brown, Their gold and their crimson all dropped down And crumbled to dust? Oh, then as we lay Our ear to Earth's lips, we shall hear her say, " In the dark I am seeking new gems for my crown." We will dream of green leaves when the woods turn brown. — Lucy Larcom. A SONG OF FAITH. There are ships far away on the ocean That landward no breeze will blow. There are yearnings some fate's put in motion That never fruition will know There are snows sleeping cold on the mountains That never will yield to the sun. There are feelings with ever locked fountains That will melt to the wishes of none. In the forests are suffering creatures, Whose moanings are heard but by God. In the bo^om are griefs whose white features Are as I iddeu as those under sod. But, mortal, take heart, and the muttered Rebellion of spirit disown. Nut a prayer, saith the seer, was yet uttered But it went without loss to the throne. —Will T. Hale. THE STORY OF SANTA CLAUS. I hain't got so far as religion And I'm dull when you talk about creeds ; I've had an idee the commandments Was pretty much all that one needs. I've been kept so busy a-wrestlin' With the duty afore me each day That I hain't got so far as religion, Though I'm sorry for it, I say. Maybe I might ferret out doctrines, And not get my brain out o' jint, If I'd ever had city folks' chances To sharpen my wits to a pint. And I hain't never had the assurance When I heard their smooth-spoken prayers, To send up my awkward petitions To heaven, alongside o' theirs. But to-night as I stood in the starlight Aud thought who had made it so fair, I just dropped my head in the silence And made bold to thank Him right there. I hain't had the time to be graspin' For doctrines, and creeds, and all such, Hut I've tried to keep clean for my babies And not soil their lives with my touch. And I thought maybe I had done it Till to-night when the parson come in, And seein' those stockin's a-hangin' Accused me of nursin' a sin ! Yes, me ! who has alius lived honest"; And able to look in the face Not only wife, neighbor and conscience, But every brute thing on the place ! I was talkin', you see, of our Alice, How peart and how happy she was ; A-hangin' her little gray stockin' And prattling about Santa Claus. And how Fritzy said as he kissed me, A-ieachin' my neck on tip-toe, That he " couldn't hold any more gladness, Leastwise unless he could grow." But the parson sat gloomy and solemn And wife looked just ready to cry, When he said : "Is it right, my good brother, To still teach that old-fashioned lie? Do you look for a rose or a lily In a garden where thistles are sown? Or for truth from the lips of your children ? If you let falsehood blacken your own ?" Then he said " Merry Christmas " and left us That dazed and so sort of unstrung, That we stared at those little gray stockin's Till the bells in the church-steeple rung. And their chimes took me back to my mother When I stood a wee chap at her knee, And heard that same Santa Claus story That Alice and Fritz hear from me. And if the Lord reckons it sinful, I hope He will punish it light, For the sake of the world full of sinners Who have told this same story to-night. I hain't got so far as religion, I've said, and I say it again ; But I'm willin' to trust to His mercy, If He gives me a chance to explain. — May Riley Smith. THE RIVER OF REST. A beautiful stream in the Biver of Rest ; The still, wide waters sweep clear and cold, A tall mast crosses a star in the west, A white sail gleams in the west world's gold ; It leans to the shore of the River of Rest— The lily lined shore of the River of Rest. The boatman rises, he reaches a hand, He knows you well, he will steer yon true, And far, so far from all ills upon land, From hates, from fates that pursue and pursue. Far over the lily lined River of Rest — Dear mystical, magical River of Rest. > A storied, sweet stream is this Biver or Best ; The souls of all time keep its ultimate shore ; And journey you east, or journey you west, Unwilling or willing, sure-footed, or sore, You surely will come to this River of Rest — This beautiful, beautiful River of Best. — Joaquin Miller. THE OLD RED SUN-BONNET. The belles of to-day in their scorn would deride it And wonder how maidens could wear such a fright ! But when 'twas protecting a dear head inside it To old-fashioned boys 'twas a heavenly sight. No ornaments decked' it,- it bore no tine laces, No ribbons of bright-colored hues did it bear, But hid in its depths was the sweetest of faces — That old red sun-bonnet our girl used to wear. 60 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY HANNAH'S WAY. She has a kind of a sort of a way, A sort of a kind of a manner, A kind of a sort of an every day, Yet a pooty way has Hannah. The way she tangles and tosses her head An' shakes her bangles out, Wile her mouth puts on a compermize Betwixt a smile and a pout I No other girl I'd druther have, No other girl I'd druther, On account and because er things er this sort An' about one thing an' another. She has a sort of a kind of a way, A sort of a kind of a manner, A sort of a way that you can't say, But a way you can feel, has Hannah. An' her laugh is so sweet an' her eyes is so bright, An' her ways an' her talk is so cute, An' she has such a way thet you can't say, But a kind of a way to suit. I hain't got no flower langwidge to tell, But she beats ev'ry girl — ev'ry other — On account an' because er things er this sort — An' one thing an' another. — Sam Waller Foss. HOME IN MISSOURI. Jes' ther home life suits me bes', Snug as birds into a nes', Fishin', hoein', choppin' wood, Like a man mos' alius should ; Ploughin', weedin', huntin' coon, Dinner bell can't ring too soon ; Gimme my share 'ith the res', Jes' ther home life suits me bes'. Jes' ther home life suits me bes', Bes' on earth for grub, I guess. Liver 'n bacon, pork and greens, Fry pertaters, corn an' beans ; Things is plain and things is good, No place kin beat home for food ; Feel no call to change address, Jes' ther home life suits me bes'. Jes' ther home life suits me bes', Alius has an' will, sah, yes, One harsh word to milliun sweet, This yer home life cain't be beat ; Little comferts mount up still, Like as how an hour-glass will ; Laughin' kids in dirty dress, Jes' ther home life suits me bes'. — H. Cochrane. A DINNER AND A KISS. " I have brought your dinner, father," The blacksmith's daughter said, As she took from her arms a kettle, And lifted its shining lid. " There's not any pie or pudding, So I will give you this — " And upon the toil-worn forehead She left a childish kiss. The blacksmith tore off his apron, And dined in happy mood, Wondering much at the savor Hid in his humble food ; While all about were visions Full of prophetic bliss, But he never thought of the magic In his little daughter's kiss. While she, with her kettle swinging, Merrily trudged away, Stopped at the sight of a squirrel, Catching some wild bird's lay ; And I thought how many a shadow Of life and fate we would miss, If always our frugal dinners Were seasoned with a kiss. -♦♦♦- AT THE MILL Swallows, skimming o'er the shallows, Where above the reeds and mallows, May-flies hover light, As ye course o'er flood and lea, Twitter of my love to me — Cometh he to-night? Insect-mazes, softly droning O'er the mill-stream's fitful moaning, In your wayward flight, Murmur o'er the bridge's cope Lullabies to dreaming Hope — Cometh he to-night ? Weave your flaming splendors o'er me, Evening clouds that float before me, Rosy, gold and white ; Flood my soul with pearly rays, Harbingers of halcyon days — Cometh he to-night? Flowers that lade the zephyr's fleetness With the burden of your sweetness Cheer me calm and bright. Sweet as you my thoughts shall spring, When his soft-tongued whispering Breathes o'er me to-night. Fickle he as swallow's glancing • Wavering as the May-fly's dancing In the waning light ! Flimsy as the clouds above, Frail as petals all his love ! Where is he to-night ? He is here ! my home-bound swallow ; True to me as May-flies follow Streamlets to alight. Fair as skies in sunset hours, Sweeter far than honeyed flowers, Comes my love to-night ! TWO MA/DENS. A laddie sailed out on a calm blue eea ; And two maidens fell a-weeping. " Alas !" said they, " 'Tis a doleful day ; Mayhap nevermore To the sweet green shore Shall lover to me And brother to thee, Shall lover to thee And brother to me, Come back from the treacherous, smiling sea 1" A good ship went down in a wild, wild sea ; And two maidens fell a-weeping. The years passed by And two cheeks were dry — A wife and a mother with bane on her knee, Sat crooning a tender old lullaby, Nor thought of the lover beneath the sea. But at eventide. By a lone fireside, A sister sat weeping for him who had died, Who came never more To the bright green shore. To wander with her the sweet meadows o'er. — Zitella Cocke. SELECTED POEMS. 51 THE QUILTING BEE. One winter by the Merrimac, some two-score years You could not see the fence rails for the drifted heaps of snow ; The flocks of chickadees would come and in thedoor- yard staud, Too huuger-tamed to fear the touch of even a boyish hand. I sat beside the kitchen fire— the chores at last were done : The farmer's wife, unwilling, owned my tasks a rest had won. ■When down the road, all silver-sweet, the sleigh bells' jingle came, And through the frosty air I heard, thrice called in haste, my name. Imperious a girlish voice, "Oh, John, be quick, for see, You're wanted over at the Spragues'. They've got a quiltin' bee." A quilting bee? I held my breath. "And pray, what good are you ?" I heeded not the dame's sharp tongue, she always was a shrew: But coat and muffler hurried on, I sprung unto the And like the wind we flew along behind the squire's bay. A little hand stole into mine, a low laugh rippled •fleet, And mixed its music with the chimes, so rollicking and sweet ; Perhaps— perhaps— I kissed her cheek, the merry, blue-eyed maid, Perhaps we" whispered loving words, but pace we never stayed Till at the Spragues' our rein we drew, and saucy Kate to me Said airily, " I've brought you, John, to Sally's quilt- ing bee." The house was gay with candle light, the lamps were all aglow, v The ruddy flame came streaming forth across the shining snow. The girls were sitting by the frame, their needles out and in Went flashing, flashing to and fro, through such a merry din. You scarce could hear yourself for fun, and when the work was o'er, Then swift we piled away the chairs and cleared the kitchen floor, And Uncle Archie drew his "bow across the fiddle strings, And, men and maids, we danced that night as if our feet were wings. My word ! the very thought of that sets this old heart a-thrill, I'd dauce agaiu as then I danced, and with a right good will, If Kate could call me once again, as sweet as sweet could be, " Come, John, make haste, you're wanted, John, at Sally's quilting bee." But Kate, my Kate, for many a year, no mortal ears have heard The tones which rang with melody, surpassing any bird ; The angels wanted her too soon— they always want the best ; They take the one whose absence leaves an ache in every breast. Her grave is in the open ground, beneath the open sky, Eight in the fair home meadow, where her father's people lie. And I have been a lonely man, and cumbered oft with care, And bowed beneath the burden that my darling used to share. I little thought how soon the gold to ashen gray would be Turned darkly, when I went with Kate to Sally's quilting bee. What's that, young man? You've come to say that you and daughter Sue Would like to join your hands for life — that she has promised you, In case her father will consent. " He will, the dear old dad," She cries, and 'tis the same sweet way her darling mother had. And she, though not a touch to Kate, has dancing eyes of blue, And cheeks that hide the dimples, where the blush comes peeping through. Take her, young man, be good to her ! if I have had my day, I'll not begrudge the happiness that seems to point your way. But much I doubt if you will know the bliss that fell to me, When Kate said " Yes " that night we went to Sally's quilting bee. — Margaret E. Sangster. ♦-•-♦ THE THANK-YOU PRAYER. Once upon a time I listened, Listened while the quick tears glistened, 'Neath the drooping lids that hid them as a little prattler said, While a father's arm caressing Bound the precious form was pressing And against his pillowed bosom lay a dainty, curl- ringed head. " Papa," spoke the little trembler, " Papa, dear, do you remember When the gentleman was here to tea — his sober, sol- emn air ? How he bent his head down lowly. And his words came soft and slowly, As he prayed to God in heaven such a pretty Thank- you prayer? " And I wondered all about it, For of course I couldn't doubt it Was a funny way that made us be so kind to one another. To say ' Thank you ' for each present In a way so very pleasant, And forget that God might like it ; so I asked my darling mother, " But she looked at me so queerly, And her eyes were very nearly Full of crying, and I left her ; but I want to know real bad " — Here the shy eyes lifted brightly — " Is it treating God politely, When he gives us things, to never mind nor tell Him we are glad ? " And since then I have been thinking- Papa, dear, why are you winking?" For a slow sob shook the strong man as each keen, unconscious word Pierced him, all the past unveiling, And the cold neglect and failing, All the thoughtless, dumb receival— how the heedless heart was stirred. " God is good, and Jesus blessed them, And his sacred arm caressed them." Murmuring thus he touched the child-brow with a passionate, swift kiss, Of the little one beside him ; Of the angel sent to chide him ; And a thank-you prayer, ah, never more his living lips shall miss. sa SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY CHRISTMAS TREASURES: I count my treasures o'er with care— The little toy my darling knew, A little sock of faded hue, A little lock of golden hair. Long years ago this holy time My little ones, my aJl to me — Sat rohed in white upon my knee. And heard the merry Christmas ehime. " Tell me, my little golden head, If Santa Claus should come to-night, What shall he bring my baby bright— What treasures for my boy ?" I said. Then he named his little toy, While in his round and mournfal eyes There came a look of sweet surprise That spake his quiet, trustful joy. And as he lisped his evening prayer He asked the boon with childish grace; Then toddling to the chimney place, He huug his little stocking there. That night, while lengthening shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angel come With singing to our lowly home And kiss my darling as he slept. They must have heard his little prayer, For in the morn, with rapturous face, He toddled to the chimney place And found his little treasure there. They came again one Christmas-tide — That angel host, so fair and white — And singing all that glorious night, They lured my darling from my side. A little sock, a little toy, A little lock of golden hair, The Christmas music on the air, A-watching for my baby boy ! But if again that angel train And golden head come back to me, To bear me to eternity, My watching will not be in vain. — Eugene Field. OCTOBER. When come October days, The gray solemnity of autumn lends The sadness of a tale that sadly ends ; The dove's call is the softer for the tone That hints of old regrets and hearts alone ; The cricket's dinning rises like the gong That sounds for some retreating fairy throng ; Across the hills there hangs au azure haze, As some vast web in prehistoric days ; And echo answers all sounds readily, As though the woTld, too, heaves a sob and sigh When come October days. When come October days, The nuts drop to the splashing pools where trout- Napoleons of their spheres — the minnows rout ; The wagons to the orchards go and come, Where children's voices mellow to a hum ; The flecks of sun and shadow lie like scales Upon the road that crawls on through the vales ; The leaves fall — hiding deeper from our view The forms and faces of the ones we knew ; And we reflect we're near to the time When hearts shall feel no chill as of the rime When come October days. — mil T. Male. AN INTERVAL. You wouldn't think to look at him a-laying thar so meek, With his chubby hands both folded underneath his chubby cheek ; You wouldn't think to seethe peace his sleepin' feat- ures take — Jest what a holy terror he can be when he's awake ! I bet if you could get a peep beneath those lashes now, You'd find a spark of mischief lurkin' in his eyes somehow ; An' those curved lips that's moulded like a cherub's, soft and sweet, They're yearnin' jest to give a whoop would lift you off" your feet ! Look at his ragged little coat a-hanging on that chair — Thar ain't a thing that belongs to him that don't show signs of wear. Jest see those rusty little shoes, with both the toes stumped out, They give a sort of idea of the way he gits about ! Somehow it don't seem natural for the house to be bo still, It's full of empty spaces that it takes his voice to fill ; An' I kinder miss the racket an' the patter of his feet, An' the litter that I growl about — things look a heap too neat. It's curious how a little scamp like that kin take a part In all your thoughts and fancies, till he tills a feller's heart With the rattle and the prattle that you learn to love somehow, Till you're lonesome when you miss it — Sh ! — Great Scott ! he's waking now. FLIRTING IN THE CHOIR. The dear old hymn is read once more ; the pious people rise, And with exulting voices sing of mansions in the skies ; The deacon's voice rings clear and loud, he feels the sacred fire, And two who sing, scarce knowing what, are flirting in the choir. The people kneel and bow their heads, and hear their shepherd pray For guidance by the Lord of Hosts and succor day by day ; They hear him plead for sinners who are sinking in the mire, And up behind the curtains there is flirting in the choir. We hear him gravely read the text and then proceed to show The beauties that are set along the way the just should go; He scoff's at flesh-pots of the world, and points to something higher, And knows not that behind him there is flirting in the choir. " Praise God from whom all blessings flow " — ah, many a heart is thrilled ! And now the shepherd's hands are raised, the organ's notes are stilled ; The words of benediction lift men's aspirations higher ; But two, ignoring God and man, still flirt in the choir. SELECTED POEMS. 63 COWSLIPS. When mists beside the river kneel, Like still, gray nuns at matins, And Catkins o'er the willows steal, All dressed in silvery sctins, Before the soldier reeds unbind Their swords to tilt against the wind, Before the grass begins to toss, Its pretty fancies trilling, Or buttercups find yellow floss Enough to make their frilling, • The cowslips sit in golden crowds Beneath dim April's frowning clouds. Along within the fields they hide ; No lover that way lingers ; The alders by the brooklet's side Reach down their long brown fingers ; One lonely robin, on the wing, Is calling plaintively for Spring. But still, as brave and glad are they As any Summer beauty ; They ask no rosy holiday ; They smile, for that's their duty. And all the meadow's gladness lies Within their brave and shining eyes. They promise days in one bright wreath Of bloom and sunbeams airy ; The sweetness of their fresh young breath They give the showers to carry To lonely homesteads, near and far ; Where hearts that long for Springtime are. As if 't were dew, the raindrops wet They take with cheery lightness. None praise them ; but, with fair pride yet, They wear their homely brightness. For truest courage has its birth In au inward sense of worth. — Susan Hartley Sweet. BUT— THEY DID NT. A FARMER'S VIEW OF PREACHING. Well, wife, town sermons seems to me, Are like the ridin' plow ; They're easy, purty kind o' things, But don't go deep, somehow. They take ye over lots o' ground, An' science styles is such, Both in the sermon an' the plow, That one don't feel it much. To-day our preacher skinned along, An' 'peared to do a heap A euttin' kivrin' of the weeds He oughter plowed in deep ; An' when he halted at the end, An' got his team ungeared, The devil lafted to see the tares A-growiu', I'm afcard. This scientific plowing now, An' science preachiu', too, Both van too shaller for the work The pint has got to do. You've got to let the traces out, An' change the clevis pin. Then hist the handles, hold 'em tight, An' let the pint go in. MAPLE LEAVES. October turned my maple's leaves to gold ; The most are gone now ; here and there one lingers ; Soon these will slip from out the twig's weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers. — Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Oh, Harry came along the lane And he was very late He hurried on to catch the train And had no time to wait. He. must hasten ! — but against the pane He caught a glimpse of Kate, And he didn't, he didn't, he didn't. Oh, Katie had her doughnuts cut, Her sponge was light as air ; Her pies were in the oven shut And needed all her care j f^he must give them every moment, hut She spied young Harry there, And she didn't, she didn't, she didn't. Oh, Harry stopped and spoke a word And spoke it very low, And yet I think that Katie heard And still believed it so, . < Tho' all the while the youth averred That he would have to go, But he didn't, he didn't, he didn't. Oh, Katie said the fire was warm And she was " like to drop," And Harry seemed to think his arm Was needed as a prop ; And Katie was in such alarm, She said that he must stop, But he didn't, he didn't, he didn't. And as he held her to his breast And thought of what he'd missed With Katie waiting in her nest, Just longing to be kissed, He bent his head, her face was hid, I saw a flash and gleam Of lovely eyes, and then — he did— I thought the girl would scream, But , , ! —J. E. V. CooX LAVENDER LEAVES. The waving corn was green and gold, The damask roses blown, The bees and busy spinning-wheel Kept up a drowsy drone — When Mistress Staudish, folding down Her linen, white as snow, Between it laid the lavender, One summer long ago. The slender spikes of grayish-green, Still moist, with morning dew, Recalled a garden sweet with box Beyond the ocean's blue — An English garden, quaint and old, She nevermore might know; And so she dropped a homesick tear That summer long ago. The yellow sheets grew worn and thin, And fell in many a shred ; Some went to bind a soldier's wounds, And some to shroud the dead. And Mistress Standish rests her soul Where graves their shadows throw And violets blossom, planted there In summers long ago. But still between the royal rose And lady-lily tall Springs up the modest lavender Beside the cottage wall. The spider spreads her gossamer Across it to and fro — The ghost of linen laid to bleach One summer long ago. — Minna Irving, 54 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY NOBODY ELSE. Two little hands, so careful and brisk, Putting the tea things away ; While her mother is resting awhile in her chair, For she has been busy all day. And the dear little fingers are working for love, Although they are tender and wee, " I'll do it so nicely," she says to herself— " There's nobody else, you see." Two little feet just scampered up-stairs, For daddy will quickly be here ; And his shoes must be ready and warm by the fire, That is burning so bright and so clear, Then she must climb on a chair to keep watch. " He cannot come in without me ; When motber's tired I open the door — There's nobody else, you see." Two little arms round daddy's dear neck, And a soft, downy cheek 'gainst his own ; For out of the nest, so cosy and bright, The little one's mother has flown. She brushes the tear drops away as she thinks, " Now he has no oue but me ; /musn't give way, that would make him so sad — And there's nobody else, you see." Two little tears on the pillow just shed, Dropped from the two pretty eyes ; Two little arms stretching out in the dark, Two little faint, sobbing cries. " Daddy forgot I was always waked up When he whispered good-night tome ; Oh, mother, come back, just to kiss me in bed— There's nobody else, you see." Little true heart, if mother can look Out from her home in the skies, She will not pass on to her haven of rest While the tears dim her little one's eyes. If God has shed sorrow around us just now, Yet His sunshine is ever to be ; And He is the comfort for every one's pain — There's nobody else, you see. — May Hodge. SAINT VALENTINE. The blue-birds have flown from their home in the South, To sing at your -window, Liy sweet. My sweet. To tell you the story That winter, the hoary, Is robbed of his glory, My sweet. My sweet. O'er rill and o'er river, o'er brier and o'er bine, To tell of the coming of Saint Valentine. The blossoms have sprung from the sod by your door, To whisper their message, My sweet. My sweet. These days are for wooing, For loving, for suing, For pleasure pursuing, My sweet. My sweet. Their hearts breathe the story that echoes in mine, He cometh, he cometh, doth Saint Valentine. I haste from the distance to stand at your side And tell you I love you, My sweet. My sweet. We'll join in their singing, While blue-birds are winging, And blossoms are springing, My sweet. My sweet. Your hand in my own and my heart close to thine, We send forth our greeting to Saint Valentine. — Lalia Mitchell. WHEN MY MOTHER TUCKED ME IN. Ah, the quaint and curious carving On the posts of that old bed, There were long-beaked, queer old griffins Wearing crowns upon their heads, And they fiercely looked down on me With a cold, sardonic grin ; I was not afraid of griffins When my mother tucked me in. I remember how it stood there. With its head-piece backward rolled, And its broad and heavy tester Lined with plaitings, blue and gold, And the great old-fashioned pillows Trimmed with ruffles, white and thin, And the cover soft and downy When my mother tucked me in. What cared I for dismal shadows, Shifting up and down the floor, Or the bleak and grewsome wind gusts Beating 'gainst the close-shut door, Or the rattling of the windows, All the outside noise and din ; I was safe and warm and happy When my mother tucked me in. Sweet and soft her gentle fingers. As they touched my sunburnt face ; Sweet to me the wafted odor That enwrapped her dainty lace; Then a pat or two at parting, And a good-night kiss between ; All my troubles were forgotten When my mother tucked me in. Now the stricken years have borne me Far away from love and home, Ah ! no mother leans above me In the nights that go and come. But it gives me peace and comfort, When my heart is sore within, Just to lie right still and, dreaming, Think my mother tucked me in. Oh, the gentle, gentle breathing To her dear heart's softer beat, And the quiet, quiet moving Of her soft-shod little feet ; And Time, one boon I ask thee, Whatsoe'er may be my sin, When in dying, let me see her, As she used to tuck me in. — Beltie Garhnd. IN THE RAIN. Oh, robin, robin, singing in the rain, While black clouds lower Above your bower ; Oh, swallow, swallow, pouring forth your strain Of hope and cheer, While dull and drear The gray skies bend above your soaring flight — Come bring, come bring To us your spring Of joyous hopefulness and sure delight. Come teach our human hearts your lack of fear, From day to day, Though skies be gray ; Your happy faith and trust that somewhere near, Just out of sight, The sun's bright light Doth wait to break, and make the world anew ; Doth wait to lift The rainy rift, The lowering clouds, and show Heaven shining through. —Jfora Perry. SELECTED POEMS. 55 WHAT DOES IT MATTER? Wealth and glory, place and power, What are they worth to me or you ? For the lease of a life runs out in an hour, And Peath .stands ready to claim his due; Sounding honors or heaps of gold. What are they all when all is told ? A pain or a pleasure, a smile or a tear — What does it matter what we claim? For we step from the cradle onto the bier, And a careless world goes on the same. Hours of gladuess or hours of sorrow, What does it matter to us to-morrow? Truth of love or vow of friend, Tender caresses or cruel sneers, What do they matter to us in the end ? For the brief day dies and the long night nears. Passionate kisses or tears of gall, The grave will open and cover them all. Homeless vagrant or honored guest, Poor and humble or rich and great — All are racked with the world's unrest ; All must meet with the common fate. Life from childhood till we are old, What is all when all is told? — Ella Wheeler Wilcox. WHEN THE FIELDS ARE ABLOOM. Oh, it's easy to love, to be loyal and leal, Sweet, when the fields are abloom ; When nature keeps pace with the passions we feel, Sweet, and the fields are abloom. But, oh ! to be true when the year has grown old — When the flowers are fading and love's growing cold, Though the heart of the maiden is easy to hold, Sweet, when the fields are abloom. In your sunny smile is perpetual spring, Sweet, and the fields are abloom ; And'all the year 'round I can hear the birds sing, Sweet, when the fields, are abloom. For the sun seems to stay in your beautiful hair And the rose in your cheek ; what shall I compare With your kiss? — the scent of the summer is there, Sweet, wheu the fields are abloom. — Cy. Warman. IN THE BUREAU DRAWER. Upstairs, in the dark of the bureau drawer, He is hidden away from view, A soldier of tin, with one leg gone, And an arm th;:t is missing, too ; And close by his side is the little toy dog That has long since ceased to bark. And to him he tells his wonderful tales, Up there, in the lonely dark. His comrades, true, fell long, long ago, And his captain, brave and strong, Has gone away, be doesn't know where, And the time has seemed, oh ! so long • But he knows some day he'll again come back To lead him away to the war- All this he tells to the little toy dog In the dark of the bureau drawer. The little toy dog knows the captain, too, And he wishes he'd come once more And play with him as he used to play In the beautiful days of yore. So together they wait thro' the long, long years, " To-morrow he'll come," they say ; But the morrows come and the morrows go, And the captain is yet away. And sometimes the bureau drawer is ope'd And a beautiful face looks down ; They see two eyes, all filled with tears, Sad eyes of the darkest brown ; And somebody kisses the little toy dog, And kisses the soldier, too, Then the bureau drawer once more is shut , And the face it is lost to view. The soldier brave and the little toy dog They wonder who it can be, And if she knows where their captain is, And why so long stays he ; But they never kuow, so the long years pass While waiting for him, in vain. To lead them forth from the lonely dark To the beautiful world again. — Minnie Reid French. SEPTEMBER. Sir Goldenrod stands by and grievea Where Queen September goeth by ; Her viewless feet disturb the leaves, And with her south the thrushes fly, Or loiter 'mid the rustling sheaves, And search and fail, and wonder why. The burgher cattails stiffly bow Beside the marsh. The asters cast Their purple coronets, and below The Drown ferns shiver in the blast, And all the fretted pool aglow Repeats the cold, clear, yellow sky. The dear, loved summer days are past, And tranquil goes the Queen to die. — S. Weir Mitchell. MY FAVORITE. When Gladys treads the minuet With roses in her hair of jet, Methinks no flower that ever blows Is half so lovely as the rose. In football days she's wont to wear Chrysanthemums, and then I swear, " No flower can be more rich and gay Than that fair Gladys wears to-day." And when she kneels with humble air And murmurs low her Lenten prayer, With purple violets on her breast, Why, then I'm sure I like them best. But if for me she'll wreathe her hair With orange blossoms, pure and fair, I'll prize, till stars shall cease to shine, The blooms which make sweet Gladys mine. — Dixie Wolcott. WITH MARY. Life had been goin' the lonesomest way- All the world seemiu' so dreary, But the meadows wuz smilin' as if with the May As I come from camp-meetin' with Mary ! All the worl' beamin' with love an' with light, Hills lookin' green an' the streams flashin* bright, Birds in the branches a-singin' jest right As I come from camp-meetin' with Mary ! What did I care for the world an' its gold- She at my side, like a fairy? Love had jest all that his arms cared to hold As I come from camp-meetin' with Mary ! The green o' the world an' the blue o' the skies, Joy for Life's sorrow an' songs for its sighs, A kiss from her lips, an' the love in her eyes As I come from camp-meetin' with Mary. 56 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE LIFEBOAT. Been out in the lifeboat often ? Ay, ay, sir, often enough. When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you! this ain't what we calls rough ! It's when there's a gale a-blowiu', and the waves run in and break On shore with a roar like thunder and the white cliffs seem to shake ; When the sea is a hell of waters, and the bravest holds his breath As he hears the cry for the lifeboat — his summons, maybe, to death — That's when we call it rough, sir; but, if we can get her afloat, There's always enough brave fellows ready to man the boat. You've heard of the Royal Helen, the ship as was wrecked last year ? Yon be the rock she struck on — the boat as went out be here ; The night as she struck was reckoned the worst as ever we had, And this is a coast in winter where the weather be awful bad. The beach here was strewed with wreckage, and to tell you the truth, sir, then Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men. The single chaps was willin', and six of 'em volun- teered, But most on us here is married, and the wives that night was skeered. Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to savin' lives, But death that night looked certain— and our wives be only wives ; Their lot ain't bright at the best, sir ; but here, when the man lies dead, 'Taint only a husband missin', it's the children's daily bread ; So our women began to whimper and beg o' the chaps to stay— I only heerd on it after, for that night I was kept away. I was up at my cottage, yonder, where the wife lay nigh her end, Sne'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothin' 'udmake her mend. The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her side and prayed, With my eyes as red as a babby's, that Death's hand might yet be stayed. I heerd the wild wind howlin', and I looked on the wasted form, And thought of the awful shipwreck as had come in the ragin' storm ; The wreck of my little homestead — the wreck of my dear old wife, Who'd sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troub- lous waves of life. And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had" been my harbor lights, To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, dark- est nights. She knew she was sinkin' quickly — she knew as her end was nigh, But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on her heart must lie, For we'd had one great big sorrow with Jack, our only son — He'd got into trouble in London, as lots o' the lads ha' done ; Then he'd bolted, his masters told us — he was alius what folk call wild. From the day as I told his mother, her dear face never smiled. We heerd no more about him, we never knew where he went, And his mother pined and sickened for the message he never sent. I had my work to think of; but she had her grief to nurse, So it eat away at her heartstrings, and her health grew worse and worse. And the night as the Royal Helen went down on yon- der sands, I sat and watched her dyin', holdin' her wasted hands. She moved in her doze a little, then her eyes were opened wide, And she seemed to be seekin' somethin', as she looked from side to side ; Then half to herself she whispered, "Where's Jack, to say good-bye ? It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die !" I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran down my cheek, And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I couldn't speak, When the door of the room burst open, and my mates were there outside With the news that the boat was launehin'. " You're wanted !" their leader cried. " You've never refused to go, John ; you'll put these cowards right. There's a dozen of lives maybe, John, as lie in our hands to-night !" 'Twas old Ben Brown, the captain ; he'd laughed at the women's doubt. We'd always been first on the beach, sir, when the boat was goin' out. I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the bed— "I can't go, mate," I murmured ; "in an hour she may be dead. I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone." As I .spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on my wife was thrown ; And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a pleading look on me, While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the ragin' sea. Then she beckoned me near, and whispered, •' Go, and God's will be done I For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor moth- er's son !" SELECTED POEMS. 57 Her head was full of the boy, sir— she was thinking, maybe, some day For lack of a baud to help him his life might be east away. " Go, John, and the Lord watch o'er you ! and spare me to see the light, And bring you safe," she whispered, " out of the storm to-night !" Then I turned aud kissed her softly, and tried to hide my tears, And my mates outside, when they saw me, set up three iiearty cheers ; But I rubbed my eyes wi' my knuckles, and turned to old Ben and said, " I'll see her again, maybe, lad, when the seagives up its dead !" We launched the boat in the tempest, though death was the goal in view, And never a one but doubted if the craft could live it through ; But our boat she stood it bravely, and, weary and wet and weak, We drew in hail of the vessel we had dared so much to seek. But just as we come upon her she gave a fearful roll, And wont down in the seethin' whirlpool with every livin' soul ! We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around was dark — But only the wild wind answered the cries from our plungin' bark. I was strainin' my eyes and watchin', when I thought I heard a cry, / And I saw past our bows a somethin' on the crest of a wave dashed by ; I stretched out my hand to seize it. I dragged it aboard, and then I stumbled, and struch my forrud, and fell like a log on Ben. I remember a hum of voices, and then I knowed no more Till I came to my senses here, sir — here, in my home ashore. My forrud was tightly bandaged, and I lay on my little bed— I'd slipped, so they told me arter, and a rulluck had struck my head. Then my mates came in and whispered ; they'd heard I was comin' round. At first I could scarcely hear 'em, it seemed like a buzziu' sound ; But as soon as my head got clearer, and accustomed to hear 'em speak, I knew as I'd lain like that, sir, for many a long, long week, I guessed what the lads was hi din', for their poor old shipmate's sake, I could see by their puzzled faces they'd got some news to break ; So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to old Ben, " Look here ! I'm able to bear it now, lad — tell me, and never fear." Not one on 'em ever answered, but presently Ben goes out, And the others slink away like, and I says, "What's this about? Why can't they tell me plainly as the poor old wife is dead ?" Then r fell again on the pillows, and I hid my achin' head ; I lav like that for a minute, till I heard a voice cry "John !" And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes gazed Upon ; For there by the bedside, standiu' up and well was my wife. And who do ye think was with her? Why, Jack, as large as life. It was him as I'd saved from drownin' the night as the lifeboat went To the wreck of the Royal Helen ; 'twas that as the vision meant. They'd brought us ashore together, he'd knelt by his mother's bed, And the sudden joy had raised her like a miracle from the dead ; And mother and son together had nursed me back to life, And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on my son and wife. Jack? He's our right baud now, sir; 'twas Provi- dence pulled him through — He's alius the first aboard her when the lifeboat wants a crew. — George B. Sims. THE OLD APPLE TREE. To-day I crossed the meadows That lie beyond the town, And 'neath a gnarled old apple tree To rest I laid me down. Its branches stirred above me, A breeze swept to and fro, And high among the apple buds The bees were humming slow. A squirrel came to watch me, A bird sang from the hill, And all about the open fields The sun lay warm and still. I thought of how, in childhood, Like a dream it seemed to me, We two had told our childish love Beneath that apple tree. The apple buds seem much the same — As pure and sweet and cold, But time has changed the apple tree, And it and I are old. My life is like the apple tree, Grown harsh and rough and strange, But love is like the bursting buds — They never seem to change. — Waldron W. Anderson, THE OLD ROCKING CHAIR. My grandmother sat in the old rocking chair (But she was not my grandmother then), And her pert little face was bewitchingly fair As she laughed a defiance to men ! Her sunbonnet flutter'd like bird on its string, Her hair wandered free on the breeze ; And gayly I ween did my grandmother sing Underneath those old gnarl'd apple trees. My grandfather rode through the white orchard gate, And tethered his roan to a tree ; He'd a well-powdered wig on his silly young pate, And high-tassel'd boots to his knee ! From the pink apple blossoms that over him hung, He brushed off the dew with his hat ; Till he came to the place where the rocking chair swung, And my merry young grandmother sat. The kingcup and daisy bloomed round in their pride, And bees of their sweetness did sip ; But my grandfather blush'd and my grandfather sigh'd, As he flick'd oflf their heads with his whip : My granny she hummed her a cunning old song — " Faint heart never won ladye fair !" So he wooed and he prayed, and before very long There sat two in that old rocking chair ! — J. 6r. Brenan. 58 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY HOUSE-CLEANING. Yes, M'rilly's bin house-cleanin' 'n' I'm sleepin' in the shed, With some buggy robes for kivers ' n' the wash-bench for a bed ; There's confusion in the parlor 'n' a heap sight more up-stairs, While I kain't find comfort nowhere for the varnish on the chairs. First they tore up all the carpets, then they pulled down all the shades, Till the place looked like a homestead after one of Moseby's raids ; Next the walls were renervated, 'n' the floors was soaked and scrubbed, 'N' M'rilly bossed the workers as they pounded, shook and rubbed. Oh, I tell ver, 'tain't so funny when yer eatin' off the shelf, 'N' a feller has to hustle for a place to lay hisself : For the wimmen folks mean bizness 'n' they make a feller jump Till he's like a pesky camel with a double action hump. — Franklyn IK Lee. THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC. Oh 1 the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town, And we fellows are a-hootiu' and a-jumpin' up and down, And the girls are all a-gigglin', and a-tryin' ter be smart, With their braided pig-tails wiggliu' at the joltin' of the cart ; There's the teachers all a-beamin', rigged up in their Sunday clothes, And the parson's specs a-gleamin' like two moons across his nose, And the sup'rintendent lookin' mighty dignerfied and cool, And a-bossin' of the picnic of the Baptist Sunday- school. Y( Everybody's got their basket brimmin' full of things ter eat, And I've got one — if yer ask it — that purty's hard to beat, 'Cept that Sis put in some pound-cake that she made herself alone ; And I bet yer never found cake that was quite so much like stone. There'll be quarts of sass'parilla, yes, and " lemmo " in a tub ; There'll be ice-cream — it's vernilla — and all kinds of fancy grub ; And they're sure ter spread the table on the ground beside the spring, So's the ants and hoppergrasses can just waltz on everything. Then the girls they'll be a-yippin', 'cause a bug is in the cream, And a " daddy-long-legs " skippin' round the butter makes 'era scream ; And a fuzzy caterpillar— jest the littlest kind they make — Sets 'em holl'rin', " Kill her ! kill her !" like as if it was a snake. Then, when dinner-time is over and we boys have et enough, Why, the big girls they'll pick clover, or make wreaths of leaves and stuff; And the big chaps they'll set round 'em lookin' soft as ever wuz, Talkin' gush and actin' silly, same as that kind al- ways does. Then we'll ride home when it's dark'nin' and the leaves are wet with dew, And the lightnin'-bugs are sparklin' and the moon is shinin' too ; We'll sing "Jingle bells" and "Sailin'," "Seein' Kelly home," and more ; And that one that's slow and wailin', " Home ag'in from somethin' shore." Then a feller's awful sleepy and he kinder wants ter rest, But the stuff he's et feels creepy and like bricks piled on his chest ; And, perhaps, he dreams his stummick has been stepped on by a mule ; But it ain't ; it's jest the picnic of the Baptist Sunday- school. — Joe Lincoln, in Puck. PEGGY S KERCHIEF. Yellow, for the passing years Have with sere touch dimmed it, And the hands are vanished long That in the old times trimmed it, While a sweet herb's fragrance faint Each filmy fold discloses — The muslin kerchief, broidered white, With roses. Peggy, she my great, great aunt, On gala days to don it, With her skillful fingers fleet Put broideries upon it, And, as other maids, I wis, Oft sat with dreamy glances, The while, she weaved, 'tween silken stitch, Romances. When so tine and daintily Flower broidered, Peggy made it, With slender sprigs of lavender Away with care she laid it, Yet as springs to summers turn And years the years succeeded, Soft, fold on fold 'the kerchief lay Unheeded. For as a spring-tide blossom dies, So Peggy, ere she wore it, And with the scent of lavender That subtly hovers o'er it, Breathing of the years ago All undisturbed reposes The muslin kerchief, broidered white, With roses. THE BULL-FROG DANCE. It is lovely when the moonlight is a-shining on the bog, To watch the lively antics of the agile-legged frog ; When the moonfay boys are playing on their long and limpid flutes, It sends a thrill of pleasure down our spinals to our boots. On a mushroom seat, With the grasses at our feet, And the lightning-bugs a-flashing here and there be- neath the trees, 'Tis a very pretty sight, In the pale moonlight, With an undertone of humming and a thrumming of the bees. You can talk about the pleasure that you mortals find on earth, You can crack your funny jokelets, we don't envy you your mirth ; For you've never had the laughter That we moonfay boys get after We have watched for forty minutes three long-legged bull-frogs dance ! SELECTED POEMS. 50 A CHANGE OF TUNE. Arrah ! Missus Mulcahey, Oi'ru flattered ter sphy ye ; 'Tis long since yer blissed ould face Oi hev seen. An' there's yer gel Fanny, Bedad ( an' me Danny Is always a-talkin' about th' colleen. Shure, th' purty young darlint Is as shwate as a starlint, Wid her frish bloomin' face an' her bearnin' blue eye, An' walks jist thot shtately, An' drisses so nately, Begorra, no wonder she captured th' bye. An' thot same Dan is workiu' Fer ould Phatrick Burke in Th' coal yards beyant fer quite a long whoile ; A shmart bye an' stiddy He is, an' most riddy Ter shtart in housekeepin' in illegant shtoyle. Now, mavourneen, Oi'll. tell ye; When ye wer a gel, ye Wor as shwate as a rose, an' yer darter's thot same ; Shuppose now me Danny Kim coortin' yer Fanny, Now, wouldn't it mate wid yer wishes, me dame? ****** Phot's thot, ye ould hag, ye? Ye walkin' dishrag, ye ! Ye want somethin' better'n him fer yer cow? Ye ridhid ould tarrier, ' If Dann y'd married her He'd make her a leddy, which same she's not now. Ye big oruadhaum, ye ! Begorra, Oi'd dhrown ye If Oi had yer near wather, ye Cork county grig ! Ye slatherin' loon, ye ! Ye half-breed ould coon, ye ! Me Danny's too good fer yer freckled-face pig. Tut, tut ! Don't dare answer ; Yer wuss nor th' cancer ; Oi've got your whole piddygray down loike a book ; A chate wor yer mither, Yer sister ernither, Yer dad wor a thafe, and yer hoosband's a crook. Ye ould - fool Mulcahey, Oi mint but ter thry ye, Me Danny wants none av yersilf or yer fry ; Don't iver kim near, me, Ye moog ! or Oi'll smear ye, Yer face is an eyesore — Oi'll bid ye good-by. •> THE TRIUMPH OF MODEST MARIA. Maria's comb hung lopsy-wise And flapped athwart her filmy eyes, Exactly like a slattern's hair On washing day ; aud I declare She was the sloudiiest-looking hen That pecked in T. B. Tucker's pen. Cah-dah ! Cah-dut ! She was the butt Of every sort of jibe and cut. Maria was a Brahma dame, Broad and squat, and plucked and lame. The Leghorn's cast a pitying smile Upon her queer, old-fashioned style. The Plymouth Rocks would jeer and flout Because her legs were feathered out. The cocks would strut, Pah-rutt ! Pah-rutt ! And snigger at her bloomers' cut. The trim white Cochins tip-toed by And froze her with disdainful eye; Each tufted Houdan tossed her plume And glared at Maria's social doom. Where'er she strolled in all the yard Maria got it good and hard ! Cah-dut ! Cah-dah ! Each social star Just dropped Maria with ajar. But she pursued her quiet way, And picked and scratched the livelong day, Kept early hours and ate bran mash, Nor sought to cut a social dash. And then one day she left her nest With pallid comb and swelling breast, Cah-dut ! Cah-dah ! Hooray, hurrah ! Maria, you're a queen, you are ! The news went cackling round the pen — An egg ! It measured twelve by ten. And T. B. Tucker drove to town To take that gor-rammed big egg down. The editor put on his specs, The villagers turned rubber necks, And some collecting feller paid Bight smart for what Maria laid. And European news was set Aside that week by the Gazette In order that a glowing pen Might pay due praise to that old hen. Cah-lip ! Cah-lop ! You'll find, sure pop, That modest merit lands on top. — Ho/man F. Day, ' Up in Maine." THE OLD FOLKS' CHRISTMAS. Thar won't be any Chris'mus fun Eround our house this year, Fer Sandy Claws, in passin' by, 'Ull jest lean down his ear ; An' w'en he feels the chimbley's cold, He'll grunt : " I'll put right on — No need o' stoppin' in to Clay's, The chillern's all gone." An' yit I've seed the time when he 'Ud hev to hump hisse'f To fill the stockin's hangin' up Erlon' our chimbley she'f. An' me and maw'd be up till twelve Er one a-poppin' co'n : No use o' sech-like doin's now, The chillern's all gone. I uster feel plump like a boy, To see them young uns sit An' talk o' Chris'mus bein' nigh, An' wunder whut they'd git, An' fix theirse'ves to stay awake Till Sandy kem alon'! Thar's no one watches fer him now, The chillern's all gone. DAISIES. At evening when I go to bed I see the stars shine overhead ; They are the little daisies white That dot the meadow of the Night. And often while I'm dreaming so, Across the sky the Moon will go ; ■ It is a lady, sweet and fair, Wlio comes to gather daisies there. For, when at morning I arise, There's not a star left in the skies ; She's picked them all and dropped them down Into the meadows of the town. — Frank Dempster Sherman. GO SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THEM FLOWERS. Take a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf, All shaky and ga'nted and pore— Jes' all so knocked out he can't handle hisself With a stiff upper lip any more ; Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room As dark as the tomb and as grim, And then take and send him some roses in bloom, And you can have fun outo' him ! You've ketched him 'fore now — when his liver was sound And his appetite notched like a saw — A-mockin' you maybe, for romancin' round With a big posy bunch in her paw ; But you ketch him, say, when his health is away And he's flat on his back in distress, And then you can trot out your little bokay And not be insulted, I guess ! You see it's like this what his weakness is — Them flowers makes him think of the days Of his innocent youth, and that mother o' his And the roses that she used to raise ; So here, all alone with the roses you send, Beiu' sick and all trimbly and faint — My eyes is— my eyes is— my eyes is — old friend — Is a-leakin' — I'm blamed ef they ain't. — James Whitcomb Riley. THE POP- CORN MAN. There's a queer little man lives down the street Where two of the broadest highways meet, In a queer little house that's naif of it glass, With windows open to all who pass. And a low little roof that's nearly flat, And a chimney as black as papa's best hat. Oh, the house is built on this funny plan Because it's the house of the pop-corn man. How does he sleep, if he sleeps at all ? He must roll up like a rubber ball, Or like a squirrel, and store himself All huddldy-cuddly under the shelf. If he wanted to stretch he'd scarce have space In his bare little, spare little, square little space ; He seems like a rat cooped up in a can, This brisk little, frisk little pop-corn man ! I know he's wise bv the way he looks, For he's just like the men I've seen in books, With his hair worn off and his squinty eyes, And his wrinkles, too — oh, I know he's wise ! And then just think of the way he makes The corn all jump into snowy flakes, With a " pop ! pop ! pop !" in his covered pan, This queer little, dear little pop-corn man ! — Clinton Scollard. CONSTANCY. This dainty page, grown dim with age, Recalls a little maiden — A face so fair, bright golden hair, And eyes with mischief laden. Dear little maid ! her letter said That she'd forsake me never ; She vowed that she e'er true would be, Then signed it, " Yours forever." Ah ! little one, the years have flown, Your hands fore'er are folded ; That face so fair and golden hair To dust have long since molded. But, sweetheart, true, I know that you Will keep your promise ever. And I again shall meet you, when You'll be mine own forever. — Minnie Reid French. A MIDSUMMER STUDY. The air still quivers with the heat, Dust makes the roadside grasses gray ; Intolerable glare of day Throbs where the blaze of sunbeams beat. Silent the husky mill ; the stream, Still shrinking in its reedy bed. Has dwindled to a silver thread ; Its voice is heard as in a dream. Across the rotting dam it slips, A single line — which, dusky bright, Breaks sparkling into jeweled light, Where, on the edge, & wild rose dips ! Below, the wet weeds shine, and cool The shadow from the empty mill Stretches unbroken, black and still, Above the shallow, stagnant pool. The crumbling wheel is mossy green — A vine has caught it in a net Of yellow blossoms : rank and wet The burdock's broad leaves push between. The air is heavy with perfume ; Sudden — from out the hot, still sky, On fluttering wings, a dragon-fly Threads noiselessly the slumberous gloom. — Margaret Deland. THE MILKMAID. Across the grass I see her pass ; She comes with tripping pace — A maid I know — and March winds blow Her hair across her face. With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. The March winds blow. I watch her go ; Her eye is brown and clear ; Her cheek is brown and seft as down, To those who see it near. With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. — Austin Dobson. DOWN SOUTH IN GEORGY. The cotton's took to market an' the corn is in the bin, An' the punkin's like a big an' yellow moon ; An' there's lots o' time fer courtin' of the girls you want to win, An' the fiddle strikes the merriest kind o' tune ! An' it's, " Way down South in Georgia !" Where the music moves your feet ; Where the cane mill's grindin' — grindin', An' the juice is drippin' sweet ! It's snowin' in New England, an' they're shivering in the West, An' the icicles are hangin' in the East ; But the mountains an' the valleys sing a song of joy and rest, An' the 'possum's brown and juicy at the feast ! An' it's, " Way down South in Georgia !" Where the music moves your feet; An' the old cane mills are grindin', An' the juice is drippin' sweet 1 — F. L. Stanton. SELECTED POEMS. 61 HE MERELY DIDN'T THINK. Used to let his poor old mother go and carry in the wood, She was just a packhorse fer him, but he never under- stood ; Never thought of bringin' water from the spring down by the lane, Or of helpin' her to gether in the clo's before the rain ; Let her keep a-waitin' on him, though her back was achiir so — 'Twnsn't cause he didn't love her— he just didn't think, you know. Then he went away and married — left her livin' there alone — 'Course bis wife she didn't want her — she had people of her own — And he carried in the kindlin' and he built the fires, too, And, to tell the truth, I dunno what there was he didn't do — Had to hustle now, I tell you ! Got to thinkin', too, at last That be might of been a little mite more thoughtful in the past. After while the weary mother put her burdens all away, And we went and heard the preacher praise the poor old soul one day, And I stood and looked down at her when they pushed the lid aside — Poor old hands ! 1 didn't wonder that her boy sat there and cried Just as if he couldn't bear it— just as if his heart'd break — He had kind of got to seein' what she'd suffered fer his sake. There's a lot oi kinds of sinnin' that the Good Book tells about — Sins concerniu' which a body needn't ever be in doubt, But there's one sin that I reckon many a man who doesn't think Will be held to strict account fer when he goes across the brink — Fer the wrong that's done a person by another's want of thought s as much of a plot. Hurts as much as though the injured was the victim — S. E. Riser. FARMER JOHNS SOLILOQUY. I mout as well acknowledge, 'tain't no use o' beatin' 'round, I've done a heap o' thinkin', plowin' up this faller ground, An' suthin's been a paiuin' an' achin' me like sin — I reckoned 'twas dyspepsy or malary creepin' in. At last I got my dander up, an' to myself sez I. The biggest fool in natur's him that tells hisself a lie ; I've been a lettin' on 'tis malary, an' my stummick, when I know It's my conscience that's a hurtin' an' worryin' me so. I've been a shirkin' this here thiDg for thirty year or more. An' I orto had this shakin' up an' settlin' down afore. I've been honest, fur as payin' goes — not a penny do I owe, But the kind o' cheatin' that I done was the kind that didn't show. My mind goes back to Hanner, when I fetched her here a bride — No apple bloom was sweeter, an' she nussled to my side Like she thought she had a right to, an' could trust me without fear For the love I never hinted at for more'n thirty year. There was chuvnin', bakin', bilin', there was nussin' an' the rest, From long afore the sun riz 'till he slumbered in the west ; An' when the rest of us was done an' lollin' 'round on cheers, Hanner was recuperatin' with her needle an' her shears. But when the life was ebbin' from that faithful, pa- tient heart, I had to face the music— I hadn't done my part ; An' I couldn't help a thinkin', watchin' out that weary life, That there's other ways o' killin' 'xcept a pistol or a knife. It sounds like sacreligion, but I knew jist what she meant As I whispered, "Fly to meet me when my airthly life is spent" — "I'm tired, John, so tired, but I've alius done my best, ' An' I may feel moie like flyin' when I've had a spell o' rest." CHRISTMAS TIME. I must own that all this fussing's Rather trying on the nerves ; For a week back I've been running To the cellar for preserves, To the loft to bring the hams down, To the barn for eggs ; you see All our young folks are a-coniing Home to mother and to me. Dick is coming home from college, He has holidays just now, He is going to be a preacher (He could never learn to plow), Lucy's coming home from high school, Ben and Harry from the town, And we've made Eliza promise To bring all her children down. Mother's in a pesky fidget And she's fretting all day long. Lest with all her roasts and puddings Something may perhaps go wrong ; But I just keep on a-huniming An old-fashioned Christmas glee, For the young folks are all coming Home to mother and to me. —P. McArthur. AN EVENINGS EXPERIENCE. slow When de sun puts on his golden gown Wif de shiny purple seams, An' lays him down in Twilight Town Fob er res' in de House ot> Dreams, I takes de fiddle an' I takes de bow An' I sets when de shadows creep, An' I plays 'im fas' an' I plays 'im s Till I plays me mos' ter sleep. Miss Moon comes ober de sky right soon, Wif a smile dat am fine ter see. An' I stops de tune an' I says, " Miss Moon, Will you promenade wif rue?'' It's tie, Miss Moon — it's fie, foh shame, I didn't think you'd stoop Fer ter lead me on till I's clean done gone Kun inter a chicken coop ! — Philander Johnson. SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY " Please, sir, has your house a chimney ?" The voice was weak and sad ; And the child that asked the question was pale and thinly clad ; But the gentleman who was passing slackened not his hurried pace, Nor saw the disappointment in the little eager face. It was on the eve before Christmas, and through the falling snow, The crowds of holiday shoppers were hurrying to and fro: Each loaded with Christmas bundles, all merry with laugh and jest, And none ever paused to listen to the little waifs re- quest. But when one who passed unheeding had reached his home that night And entered the great wide hallway, ablaze with warmth and light, He recalled with a start the question, and remem- bered the childish form, Clad in its pitiful garments, and buffeted by the storm. " Please, sir, has your house a chimney?" Yes, with fireplace wide and deep, In which the bright coals sparkle and the red flames roar and leap ; But no stocking hung 'neath the mantel, no tiny feet crossed the hall, And a spirit of silence and absence seemed hovering over all. He remembered a baby stocking, unworn for many a day, Which used to hang by the fireplace ere Santa Claus lost the way ; A childish face smiled upon him from the canvas of Long Ago, And he thought, with a lonely heart-ache, of a grave beneath the snow. But a voice within was demanding: "Is not your hearthstone wide ? Then give to the poor and homeless room at your fire- side. Will you grieve for a child safe sheltered from this world's care and woe, And close your door to the outcast who wanders to- night in the snow?" He turned from his cheerful fireside, and passed out into the night To find the child and bring him into the warmth and light ; But where should he seek, he wondered ; the hour was growing late. The chill winds whirled the snowflakes as he opened the entrance gate. He started back in amazement, for a child there crouched in the cold, And hanging above on the railing were two stockings ragged and old. He lifted the tiny figure and carried it safe inside, Then carefully hung the stockings above the fireplace wide. The little one smiled and thanked him, and whis- pered : " I followed you, For you see the folks that we live with have nothing but just a flue ; But when I remembered old Santa would have to come in the gate, I hung our stockings upon it,- and thought I could sit and wait. SELECTED POEMS. 63 I don't mind a bit for myself, sir, but the baby would hate it so ; He's looking for Santa to bring him ever so much, you know. If our mamma and papa were living we'd have a big chimney, lou. But as it is we've been staying where there'.s only a little ilue." He was thin and frail from hunger, he was wet with the chilling snow, And his voice was but a whisper, painfully weak and slow : " If you don't mind to lend your chimney, our stock- ings can stay to-night, And I'll take them away to-morrow as soon as it's good daylight." ****** Bright dawned the Christmas morning o'er a world that was wondrous fair, The bells of the happy Yule-tide pealed forth on the frosty air. Santa Claus had come down the chimney as he used in the days of yore, And filled the tiny stockings as they never were filled before. The little one held them closely ; he smiled and tried to speak ; His pale lips moved but feebly and his voice was faint and weak ; But he who sat beside bim heard this whisper, bend- ing low, "Thank you, sir, for lending your chimney. It is moruiug, and I will go." The voice grew faint and fainter, his head dropped on his breast, And the poor little weary pilgrim sank to a peaceful rest. The pale hands, oft so empty, in vain would no longer wait, The little feet, tired and aching, had entered the Beautiful Gate. Years have flown, but as surely as the Christmas-tide returns, The old hall is lighted bravely, and brightly the Yule- log burns. For all who would seek its shelter the mansion is am- ply wide, And those who are poor and homeless find warmth and cheer inside. And he who was called " the baby " has found it a happy home ; He tells this tale each Christmas to all who may chance to come. Only a simple story is this which he oft relates, But it lives in the heart of the homeless who stand without our gates. — Minnie Reid French. THE COWS ARE COMING HOME." Sokt glows the western sky with red, And the clouds pile up a golden foam, The birds have found their leafy bed. With tinkling sound Of bells around, Slowly " the cows are coming home." Across the fields the shadowy light 'Twixt day and dark has glimmering come, And twilight veils the sunset bright. Slow down the hill, Past race and mill, Meekly " the cows are coming home." On, down the meadow's flowery path, 'Mong purple mists of evening's gloam, Knee-deep through scent the clover hath, Where daisies sweet With harebells meet, Slowly " the cows are coming home." Then up the shady cherry lane, And lowing for the calves to come, The Jersey, sleek, the speckled, plain, Are at the bars ; The twinkling stars Will find my cows are safely home. — Inda Barton Hays. OL' MISS CLICK. Ol' Miss Click on de mantel she'f Keep a-singin' loud an' strong, An' de chime's so quick dat I humps merse'f Fob ter keep a-moviu' 'long, An' I kain' stop a-goin' for ter take my ease, 'Case she's leadin' de music an' she's hahd ter please. F'um dawn till dusk, th'ough thin an' thick, I's steppin' in time ter ol' Miss Click. 01' Miss Click hab er smilin' face Ef yoh does yob duty good, But dah's mos'ly trouble aroun' de place, Whah for all dese y'ahs she's stood. Yoh nigh tu'ns white at huh stern comman' An' yoh takes a wahnin' when she lif's huh nan', An' yoh stab ts in lively ter make t'ings slick, When yoh takes yoh orders f urn ol' Miss Click. De 'possum laugh in de button tree, An de coon, he loaf an' growl ; An' dey bof eb 'em isn' a-skyaht o' me, 'Case 1 ain't got time ter prowl. De minutes is swif\ but de day is long, An' I wish dat I nebber had a-learn dat song Dat keep me a-movin' aroun' so quick A-steppin' in time ter ol' Miss Click. A-FOLLOWRIN' THE BAND. Some fellers'd ruther spin a top, Or fly a kite, or row A boat down on the river than 'Most any thin' they know. But me — why, I'd jes' inn an' leave Jes' any thin' on hand, An' never mind no games an' such, A-followrin' the Band ! I'd ruther walk beside the man That plays the silver horn Than eat my fill of any pie Was made since I was born ! I'd ruther be jes' Me, right there Beside the music grand, Than Pres-i-dent — 'cause he can't go A-followrin' the Baud ! But folks can't let a feller be, Don't want him to have fun ; An' when I come a-trottin' home, When supper things is done, Why Pa he always scolds, an' Ma Says "she can't understand What ails the boy, to always be A-followrin' the Band !" But granny she jes' kinder grins, An' says " she guesses boys Ain't changed so much since James's day, Regardin' love o' noise." An' then she laughs a bit an' says " She minds quite well — Good Land !— When Pa was always runnin' off A-followrin' the Band !" — Richard Stillman Powell. 64 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE DOLLS WOOING. The little French doll was a dear little doll, Tricked out in the sweetest of dresses ; Her eyes were of hue A most delicate h|ue, And dark as the night were her tresses. Her dear little mouth was fluted and red, And this little French doll was so very well bred That whenever accosted her little mouth said : "Mamma! mamma!" The stockinet doll, with one arm and one leg, Had once been a handsome young fellow ; But now he appeared Rather frowsy and bleared, In his torn regimentals of yellow. Yet his heart gave a curious thump as he lay In the little toy cart near the window one day And heard the sweet voice of that French dolly say : " Mamma ! mamma !" He listened so long and he listened so hard That anon he grew ever so tender ; For it's everywhere known That the feminine tone Gets away with all masculine gender ! He up and he wooed her with soldierly zest, But all she'd reply to the love he professed Were these plaintive words, which perhaps you have guessed : " Mamma ! mamma !" Her mother, a sweet little lady of five, Vouchsafed her parental protection ; And although stockinet Wasn't blue-blooded yet She really could make no objection. So soldier and dolly were wedded one day, And a moment ago, as I journeyed that way, I'm sure that I heard a wee baby-voice say : " Mamma ! mamma I" — Eugene Field. AT SUNSET. It isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you've left undone, Which gives you a bit of heartache At the setting of the sun. The tender word forgotten, The letter you did not write, The flower you might have scut, dear, Are your haunting ghosts to-night. The stone you Tiiight have lifted Out of a brother's way, The bit of heartsome counsel You were hurried too much to say. The loviug touch of the hand, dear, The gentle and winsome tunc That you had no time or thought for, With troubles enough of your own. The little act of kindness, So easily out of mind ; Those chances to be angels Which every mortal finds — They come in night and silence — Each chill, reproachful wraith — When hope is faint and flagging, And a blight lias dropped on faith. For life is all too short, dear, And sorrow is all too great, To suffer our slow compassion That tarries untii too late. And it's Dot the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone, Which gives you the bit of heartache At the setting of the sun. — Margaret E. Sangster. BLUE AND GOLD. Little Two Years Old, my son, Life for you has just begun ; Dew is fresh upon the grass All along the way you pass ; Every blade your dear feet press Gives a gentle, cool caress. Violets and buttercups Chronicle your downs and ups ; Blue and gold, and gold and blue, Seemeth all the world to you. Little Two Years Old, too soon You will know the heat of noon ; Dust along your path will lie, And the grass be sere and dry. Every blade will give a thrust. Cry and urge, " You must ! You must !" Rose aud flame with cruel thorn. Best will tell the sweet pain borne. Red and brown, and brown and red, Seems the world the sun o'erhead. Little Two Years Old, the light Softens when you say " Good-night." Sweet the journey will be when You are almost home again. Every footstep brings you near Faces, voices, long held dear ; Gentian blue and goldenrod Lead you onward up to God. Blue and gold, and gold and blue, So the world will be to you. — William S. Lord. LITTLE ALL-ALONEY. Little All-Aloney's feet Pitter-patter in the hall, And his mother runs to meet And to kiss her toddling sweet, Ere perchance he fall. He is, oh, so weak and small ! Yet what danger shall he fear When his mother hovereth near, And he hears her cheering call ; " All-Aloney?" Little All-Aloney's face Is all aglow with glee, As around that romping place At a terrifying pace Lungeth, plungeth he ! And that hero seems to be All unconscious of our cheers — Only one dear voice he hears Calling reassuringly : " All-Aloney !" Though his legs bend with their load, Though his feet they seem so small That you cannot help forebode Some disastrous episode In that noisy hall ; Neither threatening bump nor fall Little All-Aloney fears, But with sweet bravado steers Whither comes that cheery call : " All-Aloney !" Ah, that iu the years to come, When he shares of sorrow's store, When his feet are chill and numb, When his cross is burdensome, And his heart is sore ; Would that he could hear once more The gentle voice he used to hear — Divine with mother love aud cheer — Calling from the yonder spirit shore : " Ail. all alone !" — Eugene Field. SELECTED POEMS. 05 SUNDAY DINNERS LONG AGO. There is royal satisfaction iu the birds and bottles which Were invented for the tempting of the palates of the rich ; Pleamre lurks iu fancy dishes that imported cooks create For elated politicians who can squander "ten per plate ;" But of all the joys that eating brings to mortals here below None compares with those old dinners we sat down to long ago— The good old Sunday dinners Cooked for hungry little sinners By mother in the careless long ago ! L",ttle Dick was fond of white meat ; Fannie rather liked the thigh- How we battled for the wishbone, little Maude and Joe and I ! Father always seemed to faucy that the leg was just the thing, And at last would come dear mother, meekly asking for a wing. Oh, the gravy! Oh, the biscuits ! What contentment used to glow In the faces 'round the table where we gathered long ago— The good old chicken dinners Cooked for hungry little sinners By mother in the happy long ago ! The robins chirp serenely where the gate is torn rway, And decay has claimed the manger where the brown hen used to lay ; They are scattered who once clamored for the meat they liked the best, And the grass is growing over two who long have lain at rest, But the tender recollection still is left to me, and oh! To be sitting at the table where we gathered long ago ! Ah, the good old Sunday dinners Cooked for hungry little sinners By mother in the dear, dead long ago ! — S. E. Riser. SIGNS OF CHRISTMAS. When ma begins to tiptoe 'round 'N' we begiu to hear A certain hushy, whisp'rin' sound About this time of year, We know that she 'n' Sandy Clans Are fixin' things to do, 'N' so we never peek, because They never want us to. When Sister Mary goes about A-hintin' that she wishes She had a teapot with a spout To match her set of dishes, We know it's time for us to write Our letters 'u' to set 'em Beside the hearth where, in the night, Ole Sandy Claus'll get 'em. When all the seats in Sunday-school Are filled 'ith girls 'n' boys 'N' no one ever breaks a rule 'R makes a bit of noise, We know it can't be very long Till Sandy will appear 'N' pass his presents to the throng That comes but once a year. When Aunt Meliudy comes 'n' brings The children 'n' the bird, 'N' she 'n' ma make popcorn strings, We never say a word, But anybody ought to see That she has come to stay Till time to have the Chris'nius tree, Which can't be far away. When pa comes sneakin' 'crost the lot A-lookin' guilty, so 't You'd think he'd stole the things he's got Iuside his overcoat, We know it's time for us to run 'N' carry in the wood 'N' see that all our chores are done 'N' otherwise be good. — Willis ft. Hawkins. WOODS IN WINTER. When falls the snow on gray and silent days, How much they lose who do not seek the wood, Where, through the hush that wraps the woodland w;i ys, The storm had reached that wintry solitude ! Then come with me by some forgofton path, Where late the autumn sunlight wandered through. And all the biting frost of winter hath But lately quenched the gentian's heavenly blue. The oaks alone their richer leafage hold That clinging raiment falls with spring at last ; And still we catch with every rustling fold The faded purple of the glowing past. Above the snow such dainty thiugs appear. You wonder that the north wind left them there; The latest treasures of the dying year, They hold their own wheu all the woods are bare. NO SHOW. Joe Beal 'ud set upon a keg Down to the groc'ry store, an' throw One leg right over t'other leg, An' swear he'd never had no show ; " Oh, no," said Joe, " Hain't bed no show." Then shift his quid to t'other jaw, An' chaw, an' chaw, an' chaw, an' chaw. He said he'd got no start in life. Didn't git no money from his dad ; The washin' took in by his wife Earned all the funds he ever had ; '' Oh, no," said Joe, " Hain't hed no show." An' then he'd look up at the clock, An' talk, an' talk, an' talk, an' talk. "I've waited twenty year — le's see — Yes, twenty-four, an' never struck, Altho' I've sot roun' patiently, The fust tarnashion streak er luck. " Oh, no," said Joe, " Hain't hed no show." Then stuck like mucilage to the spot, An' sot, an' sot, an' sot, an' sot. " I've come down regerler ever' day For twenty year to Piper's store, I've sot here in a patieut way, Say, hain't I, Piper?" Piper swore, " I tell yer, Joe, Yer hain't no show, Yer too dern patient "— ther hull raft Jest laffed, an' laffed, an' laffed, an' laffed. — S. W. Fas SJJ£ HUNDRED AND FIFTY WHEN THE QUAILS CALLED IN THE WHEAT. There are never days as joyous as the childhood days at home. And no spots so full of glory as the places where we'd roain ; Say withiu some wayside orchard, where their lace the spiders spun, And the shade w;is an oasis in the desert of the sun ; And the green fields spread about us, and the blue fields spread above, And the whisper of the leaflets was as low as mur- mured love ; While a rent was torn through silence when, from out their green retreat, Fairing doves began their cooing, and the quails called in the wheat. Why, to tarry by some streamlet was a glory for the sight, As we watched the shoaling suckers flash like bars of splintered light ; There was peace within the singing of the farm hands in the vale ; There w-as cadence in the beating Of the red-head's tiny flail ; Out among the clover blossoms or the grape-vine's fragrant glooms Bee-hums sounded like a hymn that liugered tangled in the blooms ; And we had our childish fancies, saw our castles rise complete, When the doves began their cooing and the quails called in the wheat. Would that we could call back one short day of all those days, For a stroll about the meadows and the old familiar ways ; And while drinking in the beauty where the wild rose cheers the dawns With the fragrance spilled from censers swinging on celestial lawns, See an old form at the homestead, as her singing meets our ear In a voice whose music somehow is the dearest one may hear ! And we half wish life had ended with the childhood visions sweet, When the doves began their cooing and the quails called in the wheat, — Will T. Hale. PEGGY S SUNDAY HAT. A hurst of airy wings outspread, Rosettes (she calls them cboux), A bit of lace, a fluff of tulle, An artful bud or two To match the pinky bloom that sweeps Across her cheek, and that, The essence of simplicity, By Peggy's Sunday hat. When bravely down the aisle it goes In time for morning prayer, What envy pouts upon the lips Of every rival fair ! And who can wonder that the chants Are sung a 1 rifle flat, With all the choir looking straight At Peggy's Sunday hat? I, sitting in the pew behind, Through sermon, psalm and hymn, Am baffled by the curve and droop Of that provoking brim, I long to brush my finger-tips, In one audacious pat, Across the rippled hair half-hid By Peggy's Sunday hat. But patience ! When the bells ring out To set the crowd astir, And in the porch a flock of lads Waits for a smile from her, For me she has a glance so shy My heart grows warm thereat, And homeward walks my London tile With Peggy's Sunday hat. — M. E. IF MY GRANDMOTHERS WAFFLE IRON. The old waffle iron hangs under the stairs, A simple arrangement of diamonds and squares, And 'tis no small matter, the amount of hatter That iron has graduated onto a platter. But 'tis something awful, as you sit with your jaw full, To think what is lawful to put iu a waffle. Take skim milk so sour that the pigs scarce will eat it, Take an egg that's so lazy you just have to beat it, Take flour that's so heavy, with soda you raise it, Add a spoonful of salt or else you won't praise it, Now mix it all up with a stir and a clatter, Then fill the greased iron ; be careful, don't spatter 1 There, there, I had almost forgotten the butter ! Here it is, duly melted, I hear its fierce splutter, In that hot bed of coals, not forgetting to turn it, You must cleverly bake, taking care not to burn it. Now, friends, is there not indeed something awful In making and baking an old-fashioned waffle? But the old waffle iron hangs under the stairs, A simple arrangement of diamonds and squares. And 'mid all the events which its history shares, It never has once been sent out for repairs. — Lucy Wade Herrick. MAMMY'S LULLABY. Go ter sleep now, dat's er honey ; Mammy'll tell er tale so funny 'Bout er purty yaller hen Hatchin' baby chicks an' den Would't tend'em lak she oughter ; Trapsin' 'round in grass and water, Place er keepin' in de dry. An' de chickens dey would foller Bes' dey could, an' peep an' holler : " Mammy, mammy, we's mos' froze, We can hardly HP our toes ; Set down, mammy, hover, hover, Let us creep in 'neaf de cover. 'Pears like we is 'bleeged ter die." But the mammy, never heedin', Went off in de rye patch feedin' ; Den' er pullet standin' nigh — Jes' 'bout big ernuf to fry — Said, "Come yere, chickies, all tergether, I ain't got no sight o' feather, But I'll warm you bes' Ikin." Den she hover 'em so funny, An' de misses — bless you, honey ! — Seed de sight wid her own eyes, An' she said ter ole Aunt Lize : " Kill and cook dat lazy mother, Give her chickens ter de other Cunnin' leetle pullet hen." Keep yore eyes shut tight, my honey, Mammy'll tell you tales so funny. You's a chick you'self, sweet thing, Mammy's shoulder is er wing, Under her black feathers creep, While she hovers, don't you peep — Dar ! Dat chile is fas' ersleep ! SELECTED POEMS. 67 A THANKSGIVING PHILOSOPHER. What's de use ob all de kickin' au' de croak 'Bout de turkey dat am wanted by de moke? 'Bout de price a-raisin' high, Twell hit almos' touch de sky, Twell de turk's beyond de reach ob cull'd folk? Can't yo' heah dat turkey gobbler gobblin' ? Hark! He am des a meahly risin' to remark Dat de turkey in de fall Am widin de reach ob all If yo' only does yo' reachin' in de dark ! THE WHITE ROBIN. On a tender tuft of the jeweled grass That bordered the garden bed A robin sat, with a snow-white wing And a black and velvety head. " Sweet, sweet, sweet," He sang to his merry mate ; " We will make a beautiful nest to-day In the lilac over the gate." A cloud came sailing athwart the blue, With a crystalline fringe of rain, And the nest was tossed to the beaten sod, By the wind in its high disdain. But " Sweet, sweet, sweet," He chirped in the gloaming late, " We will build anew by the morning light In the lilac over the gate." Three delicate eggs of opal hue Were hid in a purple spray ; We found them crushed on the graveled walk At the foot of the tree one day. But "Sweet, sweet, sweet," And " Wait, wait, wait," We heard the brave little voice again In the lilac over the gate. There was joy aloft in the world of leaves, For a ball of the softest down reeped over the rim of the rocking nest At the twigs and the masses brown. And "Sweet, sweet, sweet," And " Love will couquer fate," The robin sang on the topmost branch Of the lilac over the gate. — Minna Irving. THE SONGS MIR ANDY SINGS. Mirandy's voice is gettin' cracked, a tittle quaver floats From out her pretty mouth when she attempts the higher notes ; An', all in all, though still I love her just as much, I know She cannot warble like she did some thirty years ag». But lots o' times when I'm at work around the bara I hear, In some old song I'd half forgot, her voice a-ringin' clear, A honeysuckle of a tune that round my old heart clings — An' fresh with youthful blossoms are the songs Mirandy sings. It's " Hard Times Come Again No More," " John An- derson, My Jo," Or where that feller talks to Tom 'bout "Twenty Years Ago," "Ben Bolt," " Lorena," "Home, Sweet Home," or maybe that ol' tune That makes you walk with Bobby Burns the banks of " Bonnie Doon." I wouldn't trade a one o' them ol' melodies we knew Fer all these new ones writ about a Hannah girl er Lou, Since we nad sweet ol' tunes them days, and not these rag-time things — An' somehow, love jes gushes out the songs Mirandy sings. The one that of some Maggie tells, " When You and I were Young," It 'pears t' me's the sweetest thing a mortal ever sung ; An' better yet than that, a glimpse of heaven I be- hold, When to my ears comes stealin' " Silver Threads Among the Gold." Though modern songs an' operays the younger folkf may please, I'd rather hear a cracked voice in the old-time melo- dies Than Patti's throat or Melba's warble hifalutin* things — I The songs of thirty years ago, the songs Mirandy sings. | — Roy Farrell Greene, f +-»-* IN CIDER TIME. Every hilltop flung a pennon Flecked with red or amber stain ; ! Fiery maples marched like men on Some embattled Dunsinane. Sumacs flared, a crimson study, On the day I rode with Bess, With our load so ripe and ruddy, I Toward the bubbling cider press. When the ardent sunlight caught her Braided hair and burned it gold, i Fair she looked as Atlas' daughter Of the famed isle of old. Laughter lurked her Cupid lip in, Though she seemed a maiden meek, And as tempting as a pippin Was the flush upon her cheek. Sweet was the ambrosial vintage . Yielded by the orchard side, With the autumn's mellow tintage In the sparkle of its tide. Yet, with love as lip director, On the day I rode with Bess Did I quaff a sweeter nectar Than the cider from the press. —Clinton ScollarA, \ 68 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE OLD FARMHOUSE. If you've been a happy rover Through the fields of fragrant clover, Where life is all a simple round of bliss, When at eve the sun is sinking, And the stars are faintly winking You can call to mind a picture such as this : Hark ! The cows are homeward roaming Through the woodland pasture's gloaming, I can hear them gently lowing through the dells ; And from out the bosky dingle i dines the softly tangled jingle And the oft-repeated echo of the bells. Strange how memory will fling her Arms about the scenes we bring her And the fleeting years that make them stronger grow ; Though I wander far and sadly From that dear old home, how gladly I recall the cherished scenes of long ago : Hark ! The cows are homeward roaming Through the woodlaud pasture's gloaming J can hoar them gently lowing through the dells : And from out the bosky dingle Comes the softly tangled jingle And the oft^repeated echo of the bells. IN JUNE. " 1 show you a mystery.'' 1 Oh, friend, your face I cannot see, Your voice I cannot hear, But for us both breaks at our feet The floodtide of the year ; The summertide all beautiful With fragrance and with song Sung by the happy-hearted birds To (liter the months along. And so the mystery 1 show Is this, all simple sweet ; Because Uod's summertide so breaks At yours and at my feet, We're not so very far apart As it at tirst would seem ; We're near each other in the Lord ; The miles are all a dream. — John While Chadwick. THE THRESHING FLOOR. On, threshing floor, loved haunt of old, From paths pursued in vain Returned, I listen where the flails Long since beat out the grain. Herestood the gray-roofed barn, with doors Wide open, west and east ; Here, with the last high-loaded wain We held the autumn feast ; And here we danced the harvest dance — Strong youths and maidens gay ; The robins, guests in orchard boughs, Sang us their parting lay. When now the locust's choir was mute In meadows lately mown, And silence fallen among the boughs Whence every bird bad flown, The elders, many an evening hour, In riddle shook the grain ; The i haffbefore the west wind flew O'er fallows blown amain. The dark pine forests barred the moon, As o'er the hill she peeped, Upon whose yellow, sloping side Our full-eared sheaf we reaped. Again the crimson strews the mould, And purple steeps the air ; Afar, and all ungathered, hangs The ripe, autumnal pear ; But never fall the beechen flails Upon the sheafed corn — Oh, gladness of that early dream, Revisit fields forlorn ! — ./. •/. Kennedy. THE CHORISTERS. There's a little band of singers Every evening comes and lingers 'Neath the windows of my cottage in the trees ; And with dark they raise their voices, While the gathering night rejoices, And the leaves join in the chorus with the breeze. Then the twinkling stars come out To enjoy the merry rout, And the squirrels range themselves upon a log ; And the fireflies furnish light, That they read their notes aright — The katydid, the cricket and the frog. All the night I hear them singing, Through my head their tunes are ringing — St rains of music straight from Mother Nature's heart ; Now the katydid and cricket, From the deep of yonder thicket ; Then the croaking frog off yonder drones his part. By and by the moon appears, As the midnight hour nears, And smiles dispel the lowering mist and fog ; Then the mirth is at its height, And they glorify the night— The katydid, the cricket and the frog. THE RED RIBBON. I SING not of battles nor conquerors laden With trophies their valor has won in the strife ; My song is the love of a shy little maiden Who smiled upon me in "the morning of life. I whispered my passion. Though clumsily spoken, With tear-shining lashes she heeded my prayer ; With the ring of betrothal I begged, for a token, The little red ribbon she wore in her hair. Though now it is faded, I picture it braided, The way that it shimmered that night on the stair ; And often I kiss it, And think how I'd miss it — The little red ribbon she wore in her hair. The years have flown by and her locks have grown whiter ; I smile when she speaks of the gray in the gold ; 1 whisper to her that her glances are brighter. Her dimples more witching than ever of old. Our love-life has witnessed more laughing than weeping ; AVe chase with fond kisses the footprints of care ; But my own little wife never dreams I am keeping The little red ribbon she wore in her hair. Though faded and crinkled And rumpled and wrinkled, The bonnie bright looping that glistened so fair, Far down in my pocket It lies, in a locket — The little red ribbon she wore in her hair. SELECTED POEMS. 69 THE DANCING OF SISTER CALINE Br'eb William play the fiddle— Sister Ca'line hop- l>in' light, Endc room a-gwiue 'roua' me, ea I swiug her lef and right All up eu (low ii de hall : " swing co'ners '." is de call— " Bless Cod, dat Sister Ca'line is outdancin' er 'em all I" l>e Bo' \vu/. iles a-creakin'en de frosty winders shake, Ed de oP folks sorter fidget at de music what we make ; Eu betwix' 'em dar's a scuffle, Fer ter dance de double shuttle, Sister Ca'line gwine 'roun' 'em wld de flouuces eu de ruflie. "Sister Ca'line — Sister Ca'liue, ain't you daucin' mighty much ? I mighty 'fraid de preacher gwine ter t'uu you out de chu'ch '." But I tu'u en sec de preacher— De solium gospill teacher — A-swingin' sister Ca'line ever' time dat he could reach her ! "Sister Ca'line— I is tired, en de fiddle tired, too! Cau't you stop uutell de preacher take en marry me eu you ?" But de preacher kick de stubble F'uni his shoes, en swing 'em double : " I ain't gwine marry auy folks — dis ain't no time fer trouble !" But w'eu we gwine hom'ards — 'bout de breakin' er de day — I see de preacher huggin' Sister Ca'line all de way ! En hit sho' did take my href — Des lay me on de she'f, When he 'low:" "She hop so lively, I'll des marry her niyse'f !" —F. L. Stanton. THAT KISS OF MARTHVS. When I went a-courtin' Marthy I was poor as poor could be, But that didn't set her ag'iu me, For she had faith in me ; She knew I had grit an' courage, An' wasn't the kind to shirk, An' she was ready an' williu', To do her share o' work. I remember our weddin' mornin', An' how she said to me : " You're poor au' I'm poor, Robert, That's easy enough to see ; That is, as some folks reckou ; But our hearts are rich in love, An' we two'll pull together, An' trust in the Lord above." Then she reached up an' kissed me, And said, as she did this : " There's always more where that come from, An' there's help sometimes in a kiss." I tell you what it is, sir, I felt as strong ag'in After that kiss she give me, An' I jest laid out to win. An' I did it. We've money a plenty, An' the comforts it can »ive ; We've a home, an' we've got each other, And a few more years to live. Whenever my hands got weary, I'd think of the woman at home, An', somehow, 'twould make work easy An' light till night time'd come. I tell you that kiss of Marthy's Was better than bags of gold. There's riches some folks can't reckou, An' things that don't grow old. I shouldn't ha' been, without it, The man that I've got to be ; An' Marthy shall have the credit For the help she's been to me. —Ehen E. Rexford. THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE. On the elm branch gayly swinging Where the tender young leaves curl, Sits a Golden Robin singing : " Pretty girl, Pretty, pretty, pretty girl." All day on the branch above me While the purple leaves unfurl, He is asking : " Dost thou love me, Pretty girl, Pretty, pretty, pretty girl?" Then he hears his brown mate's answer From the hedge that skirts the lane : " Catch me, catch me, if you can, sir, I can fly, though I am plain." But he cares not as he swings there 'Mid the springtime's rush and whirl ; Still he blithely clings and sings there: " Pretty girl, Pretty, pretty, pretty girl." — Nathan Haskell Dole. A CHRISTMAS LONG AGO. When Christmas greens are clustered round the holly berries red, And twined about the pictures ;uid the arches over- head, When choir boys all surpliced are chanting Christmas hymns, Their faces round and rosy as a band of Seraphims; 'Tis then through Memory's cloisters would my feet a-willing stray, To find the glow and glimmer of au unforgotten day. The glory of the Story of the dear old mistletoe— A kiss of bliss beneath it on a Christmas long ago. Her lips had all the color of the holly berries bright, Her eyes were blue as heaven and brow as pure, as white As the suowy berries clustered on the mistletoe, and rare As gold spun by a spider was the glory of her hair. Perhaps it's but a fancy, and an idle one, forsooth, But yet it's crossed to manhood from the boundaries of youth, That a smiling fate, beguiling, planned that dear old mistletoe And the kiss of bliss beneath it on a Christmas long ago. With dreams almost forgotten how our memory con- nives, Those little moments garnered in the harvest of our lives, And hearts are sure to feel the glow of gliuting sun- shine's gold When looking o'er their backward track as Lot's wife did of old. And so it is each Christmastide, when bells are ring- ing free, I seek the sacred cloisters where the mouks of memory Are counting beads of berries ou the dear old mistle- toe And chanting of a stolen kiss one Christmas long ago. — Roy Fan-fit Gi 70 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY A JONAH IN THE CHURCH. Br'ek Williams sich a sinner He tu'n de preacher pale ; He never b'leve dat story 'Bout Jonah en de whale. He tu'n aside fum people Dat wear Salwation robe ; He got he doubts 'bout Joshua, En draw de line at Job. He say dis worF de bes' one He ever hope to win ; He never been ter meetin' Sence freedom time come in. But once he had a wision : He got ter heaven's gate Des 'bout de time er sundown, En fifteen minutes late. Den Mister Gabriel tell him : " Br'er Williams, go yo' way ; Des take de elewater Ter whar de devil stay !" En, bless yo' soul ! nex' Sunday What did de people see? Br'er Williams — settin' in de pew Ez solemn ez could be ! But now de trouble comin' ! A yearthquake shuck de wall — De shingles went ter shakin', En down de steeple fall ! De preacher, he was trimblin', En scart clean out his shoes ; Der pulpit went ter playin' At leapfrog wid de pews ! Ontell at las' de preacher Got strength enough ter say : " De Lawd above have mercy ! — Dar's a Jonah heah terday !" En den dey grabbed Br'er Williams, Ontell he fit en fout — Went rockin' wid him ter de do' En pitch Br'er Williams out ! En den de las' wuz seen er him, He gwine 'long de way Ter hunt de elewater Ter whar de devil stay ! A LIFE LESSON. There ! little girl ; don't cry ! They have broken your doll, I know ; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago ; But childish troubles will soon pass by. There ! little girl ; don't cry ! There ! little girl ; don't cry ! They have broken your slate, I know ; And the glad, wild ways Of your schoolgirl days Are things of long ago ; But life and love will soon come by. There ! little girl ; don't cry ! There I little girl ; don't cry ! They have broken your heart, I know ; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago ; But heaven holds all for which you sigh, There ; little girl ; don't cry ! — James Whitcomb Riley. TWILIGHT BRIDGE. I kkow a little fairy bridge that spans a tiny stream, And there the sky is ever clear, for life is like a dream As the silv'ry stream goes rippling, running onward to the sea, While the little birds are singing in an ecstasy of glee. The path one side the tiny stream is bright and busy Day, And Night, a forest dark and drear, lies just across the way ; But the fairy bridge called Twilight, clasping hands between the two, Is the brightest, dearest spot on earth a mortal's heart e'er knew. For when the day has passed away I meet my sweet- heart there, While in the rippling stream beneath I throw away my care, And just the falling shadows and the sunset glow above Watch o'er the little Twilight bridge and witness to our love. — Edith Livingston Ciary. COUNTING APPLE SEEDS. Beside the hearth one autumn night, Made rosy by the great log's light, That, flaming up the chimney dark, Hit every cranny, every nook, Upon the rug a little maid Sat curled, in pose demure and staid. In pensive mood, with dreamy eyes She sits, while up the chimney flies A thought with every fiery spark, Glinting and flashing through the dark, 'Till with a sigh profound and deep She moves, as one moves in her sleep. A rosy apple in her hand A weight of thought seems to demand. She taps it with a finger light, Then carefully she takes a bite, Another bite, "now one, now two — The core is thus exposed to view. Another sigh ! what can it be, My little maid, that aileth thee? Ah, what is this ? some incantation ? Muttered with such reiteration? Hark ! as each seed her bright eyes see, These are the words that come to me : " One I love, two I love, Three I love I say ! Four I love with all my heart, Five — I cast away !" Here a tear rolls brightly down, What the secret she has won ? Who can say ? But just behind Sounds a voice so soft and kind : " Look again ! Thou must indeed Find for me another seed !" Rosier her bright cheeks glow In the firelight's ruddy glow ; Sure enough ! a culprit seed Finds she in the core indeed — " From thy lips I fain would hear What the sixth one means, my dear." "Six he loves," she murmured low. And the firelight's flickering glow, Two happy faces now disclose With cheeks aglowing like the rose. But here we'll let the curtain fall For the end is best of all. SELECTED POEMS. 71 EASTERTIDE. Oh, rare as the splendor of lilies, Aud sweet as the violet's breath, Comes the jubilant morning of Easter, A triumph of life over death. For fresh from the earth's quickened bosom Pull baskets of flowers we bring, Ami scatter their satin-soft petals To carpet a path for our king. We have groped through the twilight of sorrow, Have tasted the Marah of tears ; But lo ! in the gray of the dawning Breaks the hope of our long silent years ; Aud the loved and the lost, we thought perished, Who vanished afar in the night, Will return in the beauty of the springtime To beam on our rapturous sight. Sweet Eastertide pledges their coming, Serene beyond trouble and toil, As the lily upsprings in its freshness From the warm throbbing heart of the soil. And after all partings, reunion ; And after all wanderings, home; Oh, here is the balm for our heartache, As up to our Faster we come ! In the countless green blades of the meadow, The sheeu of the daffodil's gold, In the tremulous blue on the mountains, The opaline mist on the wold, In the tinkle of brooks through the pasture, The river's strong sweep to the sea, Are signs of the day that is hasting In gladness to you aud to me. So dawn in thy splendor of lilies, Thy fluttering violet breath, Oh, jubilant morning of Easter, Thou triumph of life over death ! For fresh from the earth's quickeued bosom Full baskets of flowers we bring, And scatter their satin-soft petals To carpet a path for our King. — Margaret E. Sangster. HAYSEED IS RISIN'. We kin all of us remember how along about Septem- ber The papers used to tell about the caucus or the fair, End them fellers from the city used ter git almighty witty On the feller with the duster what had hayseed in his hair. They had fun in legislators with the man what raised pertaters, If by auy hook or crook or chance elected and sent there ; End the repertorial friskers used ter comment on the whiskers End the carpetsack of Bilson, what had hayseed in his hair. Yes, b'gosh ! he rid his pass out, end he used ter blow the gas out, End he used ter drink hard cider when he went out on a tear ; End he used ter pinch a dollar till the buzzard used ter holler, End the man cut up ree-e-diklous what had hayseed in his hair. But, by gum! ef you've been readin', you observe a strauge proceedin' — It's the feller with chin whiskers that is slowly git- tin' there, End it won't he too surpriain' ef by slowly or- ganizin' Old parties may wake up ter rind the hayseeds in their hair. When the fashions change you fellers will all carry green umbrellers, End trousers wide across the seat to make the dude- lets stare ; In them times ef you pass muster you must wear a linen duster, End ef you want to put on style put hayseed iu your hair. AN OLD TIME GARDEN. Years aud years ago, they say, It was all abloom iu May, And the roses and the lilacs shed their fragrance over all ; Now it stands, neglected, lone, Weeds aud briars have o'er it grown, And a lonely cricket chirrups from beneath the ruined wall. But amid decay and gloom, Graceful, fair, the larkspurs bloom ; Ev'ry spring they smile a welcome from a certaiu sunuy spot. Seeds were planted there, 'tis said, By a maiden, long since dead, Whether she was grave or witty, plaiu or pretty, 'tia forgot. E'en her name we do not know, But the larkspurs, long ago, Spelled it, aud also her lover's, for 'twas thus the seeds were sown ; And for many years they grew, Writ in uature's tend'rest blue, Now, alas ! they're gone forever ; what they were, can ne'er be known. Oft some uame I seek to trace, Oft imagine I her face : And her lover, was he handsome? Did they love aud then forget? Or were they iu gladness wed? This we know, that both are dead ! And the larkspurs they are blooming in the old time garden yet. With each coming of the spring, Messages of love they bring ; Of the long dead past they whisper, gravely nodding heads of blue, And when you and I are gone, They, perchance, will still bloom on, Telling other generations that old story— ever new. — Minnie Reid Fr LITTLE BOB AND SANTA CLAUS. When our little Bob was naughty, Stamped his feet an' flung his hat, Mamma didn't scold or whip him — Knew a better way than that ! " Santa Claus," she jes' said, gently, '* Never visits boys that's rude ; If he wants to see him Christmas, Little Bobby best be good." Little Bobby isn't four yet, Wouldn't hardly think he'd know, But I saw his blue eyes fill up Full o' tears and overflow ; Then he toddled up to mamma — Bless the child ! he understood — For I heard him whisper, softly, " Oo tell Santy I'll be dood !" 72 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY GOLDENROD. Sprino is the morning of the year, And summer is the noon- tide bright ; The autumn is the evening clear That comes before the win- ter's night. And in the evening, every- where Along the roadside, up and down, I see the golden torches flare Like lighted street-lamps in the town. I think the butterfly and bee. From distant meadows com- ing back, Are quite contented when they see These lamps along the home- ward track. But those who stay too late get lost ; For when the darkness falls about. Down every lighted street the Frost Will go and put the torches out ! — Frank Dempster Sherman. TOMMY. A CHRISTMAS SURPRISE. ' There ain't goin' to be any Christmas At our house," said Little May, ' For pop has lost lots of money, And we've moved so far away That Santa Clans cannot find us ; And here there's no ice nor snow, And over the grass and gravel His reindeer could not go. ' But I'll hang up my longest stocking Right here in this corner," said she, ' And if Santa Clans comes down the chimney, My ! how surprised he will be !'" That evening a dear little playmate Stole in through the kitchen way, And put in the stocking some goodies And toys for the sleeping May, Who awoke in the early morning, And sprang from her bed with a leap, For into the hanging stocking She wanted to take a peep ; And then there were tears and laughter, And shoutings — as you've surmised — For Santa Claus found his way southward, And May was the one surprised ! — Josephine: Pollard. If you meet a little barefoot lad, Whistling a tune that is merry and glad. With an old straw hat pushed' back on his head, With his lips all stained with the strawberries red That grow on a five-acre lot, with eyes That are blue as the bluest April skies, With a mite of a nose that is upward turned, And cheeks by the sun's tierce kisses burned, That's Tommy. If you want to know where the Mayflowers hide 'Neath the dry, dead leaves in the glad springtide, Where the violets dance 'neath the pine trees brown, Or .lack Frost shakes the first chestnuts down, Where the trout bite best, or the wild grapes grow In purple clusters hanging low, When the coast is longest, the ice most clear, When the happy holiday time draws near — Ask Tommy. With hands thrust deep in his pockets small He trudges away when the cow-bells call. Father's " right-hand man " he is called at home, Though he'll not be eight till the snowflakes come ; And mother smiles over the work that would be Both hard and wearisome, were not he Ready and willing on errands to run From the peep of the dawn to the set of the sun — Dear Tommy ! When the wood-birds are crooning a low good-night, And the hay-cocks have put on their nightcaps white, When the purple shadows enfold the hills, And down in the meadows the whip-poor-wills Lift up their voices, a tired boy Creeps into the arms that know no joy Like holding him, and fond lips press The tangled curls, as they say, " God bless Our Tommy !" —Mabe/le P. VUlpp. SELECTED POEMS. r r.< WHO SANTA CLAUS WAS. Jes' a little hit o' feller — I remember still — list to almost cry fer Christmas, like a youngster will. Forth o' July nothin' to it ! New Year's ain't a smell ! Easter Sunday— Circus Day— jes' all dead in the shell ! Lordy, though! at night, you know, to set around and hear The old folks work the story off about the sledge and deer, And "Santy " shootin' 'round the roof, all wrapped in furr and fuzz — Long afore I knowed who "Santy Claus" wuz. I'm to wait and set up late a week er two ahead ; Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed ; Kittle stewin on the tire, and mother settin' near, Darrjin' socks and rockin' in the skreeky rockin' cheer ; Pap'd gap, and wondered where it was the money went, And quar'l with his frosted heels and spill his lini- ment ; And we a-dreamin' sleigh bells when the clock 'ud whirr and buzz — Long afore I knowed who "Santy Claus" wuz. Size the fireplace and figgerhow " Old Santy " could Manage to come down the chinibly, like they said he would ; Wish that I could hide and see him — wonder what he'd say Ef he ketched a feller layin' fer him that way. But I bet on him and liked him same as if he had Turned to pat me on the back and say : " Look a here, my lad ! Here's my pack— jes' he'p yourse'f like all good boys does " — Long afore I knowed who " Santy Claus " wuz. Wight that yarn wuz true about him as it 'peared to be— Truth made out o' lies like that tin's good enough for me. Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wild Over hangin' up my stockin's like the little child Olimbin' in my lap to-night and beggin' me to tell 'Bout them reindeers and " Old Santy " that she loves so well ; I'm half sorry for this little girl sweetheart ot his — Long afore she knows who " Santy Claus " is. — ./nines Whiteomb Riley. BOOH .'■■ On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid aap. And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap, In gome such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face, And cautiously and quietly I move about the place ; Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view, And you should bear him laugh and crow when I say ""Booh !" Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is seared, And, really, when I first began, hi stared and stared and stared : And then his under lip came out, and further out it came, Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was " a cruel shame—" But now, what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do. But laugh and kick his little heels when I say " Booh !" He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then In shrill, despotic treble bids me " Do it all aden !" And I, of course, I do it, for, as his progenitor, It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for ! And it is, oh, such fun ! And I am sure that we shall rue The time when we are both too old to play the game of " Booh !" — Eugene Field. BLACKBERRY BLOSSOMS. From a thicket in the corner of a zig-zag fence, Where the succulent pokeberry stalks uprear, With sassafras and sumach in a wild-growth dense, The blackberry blossoms through the brown rails Seer, ewdrops shining on their long white sprays, Where the yellow bee buzzes and the redbird flies, They marvel at the world and its new-found ways, With innocent wonder in their wild, sweet eyes. Magnolias are white, And roses are bright, And many there be that love them ; But with dew-besprinkled faces And wildwood graces. Oh, the blackberry blossoms are above them. When the pine boughs are swinging in the soft May breeze, And bumble-bees are boasting of their spring-tide gain, And the mockbird is singing out his happiest glees To the cotton-tailed rabbit in the bend of the lane ; They lean their faces on the moss-grown rails And listen to the melody the mockbird weaves ; While the lizards go a-darting with their trembling tails Like slim long shuttles through the last year's leaves. Chrysanthemums are fair, And orchids are rare, And many there be that love them ! But with dew-besprinkled faces And wildwood graces, Oh, the blackberry blossoms are above them ! — Samuel Minium Peck. THE MOUNTAIN PATH. Along the mountain way the shadows press, As blots upon the open book of God ; And, tinsel of the lingering summer's dress — The butterflies gleam 'mongst the goldenrod. A nearby oak, uprooted by the storms, Yet leans upon an elm, and leaves and seeds ; As some ruined life, upheld by kindly arms, Is spared to bloom awhile in noble deeds. Like lightning's gashes, or their clotted drip, Wild cucumbers gleam in the faltering light ; Above, the brave mast of some sunken ship, A dead tree trunk attracts the pensive sight. Beyond the glimmering streamlet, gray cliffs raise Heads that are ancient — turban' d in their blue — As cities that were legends in the days When Nineveh and Babylon were new. Then comes a noise from where the dark pines spin Their emerald screen against the cloudless skies — The wind that seems an echo of the din Made by the wheels of passing centuries ; And save for this the silence is severe As the weird realm where Death, when idle stalks, Till the awed spirit half expects to hear The step of God among the celestial walks ! — Will T.Hale. 74 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY TALKIN' TO DE BABY Yo'SK been sleepin' mos' an hour, Kinky hair, So (loan' look so cross an' sour, Like ;i bear. I was watehin' o'er yo'r head While yo' snored to wake de dead I'se been sittin' by yo'r bed, In dis chair. Yo' is jes' erbout to whimper, Yes, yo' is ! Cos yo' has yo'r daddy's temper, Jes' like his. But if yo' will wait awhile, Yo' will see ma baby smile. For it's time to feed dis chile, 'Deed it is ! Who is tryin' for to scold yer, Is yo's mam ' Yo'se as hungry as a soldger, Ain't yo', lam'? Why, Lor' bless yo'r little soul, Yo' is only four months ole, Wid a skin as bla'ck as coal, Son of Ham. I will dress yo' Op real smart, Little Bill, Au' I'll wheel yo'r baby cart Down de hill, All in silk an' satin clothes, From yo'r head down to yo'r toes, We'll go ridin' while yo' doze, 'Deed we will ! —George C. Marshall. MY LITTLE MARCH LAMB Blow, blow, March winds, blow ! Sing a song to my darling ; Drive away care, Blow, breezes fair, To bring good gifts to my darling. Shine, shine, March sun, shine ! Open the flowers for my darling ; Hyacinths bright, Narcissus white, To make a crown for my darling. Play, play, lambkins, play ! Whistle, March birds, for my darling, Let the bees hum, And buttercups come, To brighten the meads for my darling. •Gay, gay, be as ye may, Ye will not compare with my darling ! My baby fair, With golden hair, My little March lamb, my darling. MOLLY. If Molly's eyes would shine fer me, I'd give the sun fair waruin' He needn't rise to light my skies, Because the beam er Molly's eyes Would make my niornin'. If Molly's lips was red fer me In weather sad or sunny, I'd say to every buzziu' bee " You needn't rob the rose fer me — Her lips is honey !" If Molly's heart would beat for me So low I jes' could hear it, I'd give the world — leastways, my part— Fer jer' the beat er Molly's heart, An' my heart near it ! — F. L. Stanton. BAREFOOTHOOO. How the mornings used to rise Just like music in the skies ! How the first breath of the day Snielled like Paradise in May. And you couldn't stay in bed For the bird songs overhead ! Ah, how sweet lite was and good In the days of Barefoothood ! Not a trouble nor a care In the whole world anywhere! Just as light and gay and tree As a bird that tops a tree, Just as pure from willful wrong, Just as full of grateful song. Not a warbler in the wood Praises God like Barefoothood. Simple joys, and yet how sweet ! Just the pools that laved your feet, Just the mud between your toes, Just the wild fruit where it grows, Just the home-made line and hook, Just the cool plunge in the brook — Such as these were drink and food In the days of Barefoothood. Oh, the soft, cool morning dew Ere the days of sock or shoe ! Oh, the showering, as you pass, Of the sparkliug spears of grass ! Miles and miles of cobweb lace, Morning freshness on your face — Who'd forget them, if he could, Dear old days of Barefoothood ! — James Buckham. NO TELEPHONE IN HEAVEN. "Now lean wait on baby," the smiliug merchaut said, As he stooped and softly toyed with the golden, curly head. " I want oo to tall up mamma," came the answer, full and free, " Wif yo' telephone, an' ask her when she's tummia' back to me. "Tell her I so lonesome 'at I don't know what to do, An' papa cries so much I dess he must be lonesome, too ; Tell her to turn to baby, 'tause at night I dit so 'fraid, Wif nobody heretotiss me, when de light bedins to fade. " All froo de day I wants her, for my dolly's dot s* to red Fum de awful punchin' Buddy gave it wif his little sword ; An' aiu't nobody to fix it since mamma went away. An' poor 'ittle lonesome dolly's dittiu' thinner ever' day." " My child," the merchant murmured, as he stroked the anxious brow, " There's no telephone connection where your mother lives at now." " Ain't no telephone in heaven ?" and tears sprang to her eyes. " I fought dat God had ever'fiug wif Him up in de skies." SELECTED POEMS. 75 HOW AN ANGEL LOOKS. Robin, holding his mother's hand, Says " good-night" to the big folks all, Throws some kisses from rosy lips, Laughs with glee through the lighted hall. Then in his own crib, warm and deep, Rob is tucked for a long night's sleep. Gentle mother with fond caress, Slips her hand through his soft brown hair, Thinks of his fortune all unknown, Speaks aloud in an earnest prayer : " Holy angels, keep watch and ward ! God's good angels, my baby guard ?" " Mamma, what is an angel like?" Asked the boy in a wondering tone ; " How will they look if they come here, Watching me while I'm all alone?" Half with shrinking and fear spoke he Answered the mother tenderly : - " Prettiest faces ever were known, Kindliest voices and sweetest eyes." Robin, waiting for nothing more, Cried and looked with a pleased surprise, Love and trust in his eyes of blue : " I know, mamma ! They're just like you." CRADLE SONG. Baby, sleep ! the summer breezes Rock the young bird in the tree ; Mother's breast shall be thy pillow, Mother's arms have cradled thee ; Down the rosy vales of slumber, Soft and low the dream bells ring ; Follow where their voices call thee, While my cradle song I sing. Baby, sleep ! the rose has folded Half her sweetness from the night ; Sleep, and when the rose is fairest, Thou shalt wake to new delight. Sweeter, clearer, softer, nearer. I can near the dream bells ring ; Follow where their voices call thee, While my cradle song I sing. Baby, sleep ! for brighter visions Than thy mother's eye can see, Angel hands are swiftly bringing From the silent land to thee. Down the rosy vales of slumber, Fairy chimes the dream bells ring Baby, sleep ; and, sleeping, listen, While my cradle song I sing. WHEN WIFES A-GO'N' AWAY. Somehow yarns around the grocery Ain't so funny as before, An' I'm all the time forgettin' This or that 'ere little chore. When I git out in the kitchen, Want to hang around and stay ; Guess I'm foolish caus' this ev'nin' Why— my wife's a-go'n' away. She's a-fixin' things up for me With a thoughtful, lovin' care, Tellin' me that somethin's here, An' somethin' else is over there ; Lookin' sober, speakin' low-voiced, Though she hasn't much to say ; Ketch her eyes on me all dim-like — Guess she hates to go away. Wish 'twas over — wish 'twas way off- Wish we didn't have to part ; That's jist what I keep a-thinkiu', An' a-feelin' in my heart. P'raps our speerits see much furder Than the partin' of to-day, An' jest hint what they can't tell us, When a loved one's go'n' away. Calls to mind another journey, By an' by we all must go. Wonder who's a-gettin' ready For the train that moves so slow ? Brings the tears to think about it, So I git nigh her an' pray It may be my time for startin' Just when she's a-go'n' away — Lu B. Cake. PATTY-CAKE. Patty-cake, patty-cake ; . baker's man ! Love is a jewel, and life is a span : Summer is here and the morning is gay, Let us be babies together to-day. Sorrow's a myth, and our troubles but seem ! The past is an echo, the future a dream ; Plenty of mornings to worry and plan ! Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker's man ! Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker's man ! Roll it and prick it as fast as you can ; Roses and lilies for baby and me ; Roll it and prick it and mark it with T. Roses and lilies and daisies that come Down from the garden that dimples are from- Let us be babies as long as we can ! Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker's man ! — Albert Bigelow Paine. A SLEIGH RIDE DOWN TO ZEKE'S. Jingle, jingle, ol' Chris Cringle, He's a-cumin' 'round ter-night ; He will mingle pert 's a shingle, Fill our hearts with glad delight ! Jingle, jingle, ears a-tingle ; Whoop, hurray ! an' off' we go ; All a-laughin', sum a-chaffln', Ez we glide o'er crusty snow. Hustle, rustle, lots o' bustle, Wrapt in cumferters an' snug ; Farm lights flicker, hear the snicker When sum lad his lass doth hug ! Ridin's ended, fun is blended Ever'whar es sure's yer born ! Now th' lasses yank merlasses While we pops th' frisky corn. Times is jolly when th' holly Is a-hangin' high an' low ; Frum the ceilin' cums a-stealin' Down the Chrismus mistletoe ! Lovers strewin', romance brewin', Makes yer wanter shake a jig — Thar, I kissed her, nearly missed her, As she stood 'neath th' sprig ! I was flushin', she was blushin', Es the others yelled in glee ; An' I sorter liked it, orter, Fer it tasted good ter me. Played thet fuuny musk an' money Ter th! fiddle's si,.>awky squeaks ; All is over ; I'm in clover — Marthy promised me at Zeke's I 76 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY WHAH IS DE LIU ONE GONE ? Oh, whah, ol' Miss, is de HI' one gone? Fer de sunshine is flickerin' dim ; De stahs winks weak fum de dusk tel de dawn, An' de birds seem a-inopin' fer him. Will I heah nevah mo' Lll' foots on de flo', An' de joy uv his 111* teensy lafl? Wus dey nevah a one Fer ter cheer, as alone He went down de glimmerin' paff ? Mighty 111* , ol' Miss, fer to cause sech a shade, An' make all de worl' dess a was' ; Mighty UP fer to make all de flowers look daid, livid nevah no smiles on dey face ! But de angels abuv' Luv' his ways as we luv', An' de joy uv his lil' teensy laff; An' I knows dey'serlong Dess a-singin' dey song As he pass'd down de glimmerin' paflf. — Will T. Hale. UNDERSTOOD. Within the dewy morning's hush There sung a mellow-throated thrush. And drop by drop the honeyed tone Fell on white stars of bloom alone. I know not did the flowers below Hear all his secret ; yet aglow With dawn the daisy turned her eye To greet the daytime in the sky. Then came two lovers hand in hand On journey toward love's promised land ; And bird and blossom, light and tone, Were understood by them alone. —Eugene Field. THE WIND ACROSS THE WHEAT. You ask me for the sweetest sounds mine ears have ever heard, A sweeter than the ripples' plash, or trilling of a bird- Thau tapping of the rain-drops upon the roof at night, Than the sighing of the pine-trees on yonder moun- tain height ; And I tell you, these are tender, yet never quite so sweet, As the murmur and the cadence of the wind across the wheat. Have you watched the golden billows in a sunlit sea of grain, Ere yet the reaper bound the sheaves, to fill the creaking wain? Have you thought how snow and tempest and the bitter wintry cold, Were but the guardian angels, the next year's bread to hold. A precious thing, unharmed by the turmoil of the sky, Just waiting, growing silently, until the storms went by? Oh ! have you lifted up your heart to Him who loves us all, .And listens, through the angel-songs, if but a spar- row fall, And then, thus thinking of His hand, what sym- phony so sweet As the music in the long refrain, the wind across the wheat ? It hath its dulcet echoes from many a lullaby, Where the cradle babe is hushed beneath its mother's loving eye ; It hath its heaven-promise as sure as heaven's throne, That He who sent the manna will ever feed His own ; And, though an atom only, 'mid the countless hosts who share The Maker's never-ceasing watch, the Father's death- less care, The atom is as dear to Him as my dear child to me ; He cannot lose me from my place, through all eter- nity ; You wonder, when it sings me this, there's nothing half so sweet, Beneath the circling planets, as the wind across the wheat. — Margaret E. Sangster. THE TIN PEDDLER. Jason White has come to town Drivin' his tin-peddler's cart, Pans a-baugin' up an' down Like they'd tear theirselves apart ; Kittles rattlin' underneath, Coal hods scrapin' out a song, Make3 a feller grit his teeth Wheu old Jason comes along. Jason drives a sorrel mare, Bones an' skin at all her j'ints, " Blooded stock," says Jase ; " I swear, Jest see how she shows her p'ints ! Walkin' 's her best lay," says he, Eyes a-twinklin' full of fun, " Named her Keely Motor. See? Sich hard work Jo make her run." Jason 's jest the slickest scamp, Full of jokes as he can hold, Says he, " beats Aladdin's lamp, Givin' out new stuff" for old ; Buy your rags for more 'n they're worth, Give yer bran' new, shiny tin, I'm the softest snap on earth," Says old Jason with a grin. Jason gits the women's ear Telling news and talkin' dress, Can't be peddlin' forty year An' not know 'em more or less ; Children like him. Sakes alive ! Why, my Jim, the other night, Says : " Wheu I git big I'll drive Peddler's cart like Jason White !" — Joe Lincoln. AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD. Where the rough road turns and the valley sweet Smiles bright with its balm and bloom, We'll forget the thorns that have pierced the feet And the nights with their grief and gloom. And the sky will smile and the stars will beam, And we'll lay us down in the light to dream. We shall lay us down in the bloom and light With a prayer and a tear for rest, As tired children who creep at night To the love of a mother's breast, And for all the grief of the stormy past ' Rest shall be sweeter at last— at last ! Sweeter because of the weary way And the lonesome night and long, While the darkness drifts to the perfect day With the splendor of light and song. The light that shall bless us and kiss us and love us And sprinkle the roses of heaveu above us ! — F. L. Stan fon. SELECTED POEMS. 77 THE FARMER S RESOLVE. I seen an advertisement in a city magazine Of some new patent medicine— they called it Tire- dine — An' said a quart— ten doses— was the surest kind o' cure For them whose inclinations for to work was ruther poor. It seems to me that that's the stun" for me to go an' buy For that "young son o' mine to take an' sort o' make him spry. He needs a thurer branein' up when haytime comes around, Ulthough when fish is runnin' good he's pretty slick an' sound. I dunno why it is that boy kin take a heavy gun An' walk from ten to twenty miles an' think he's havin' fun. But when there's suthin' for to do that's in the plowin' line He doesn't even seem to have the symptoms of a spine. He'll take in all the picnics, au' he'll work like all possessed At pushin' scups for country girls, but never has no chest When 't comes to tossin' up the hay or gatherin' in the wheat — "The very idea of that seems to knock him off his feet. An' so 1 think I'll go to town and sample that there stuff, An' mebbe buy a lot for Tom— one bottle ain't enough. Ten doses may suffice to put an average man in trim ; But, Tom — I think I'll hafter get a dozen quarts for him. THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY. You kin talk about yore anthems, An' yore airias an' sich, An' yore modern choir-singin' That you think so awful rich ; But you orter heerd us youngsters In the times now far away, A-singing o' the oP tunes lu the ol'-fashioned way. There was some of us sung treble, An' a few of us snug bass ; An' the tide o' song flowed smoothly, AVith its 'comp'niment o' grace. There was spirit in the music, An' a kinder solemn sway, In singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way. The gals would lead the singin', An' the boys would all jine in, Till the volume o' their voires Battered down the walls o' sin ; An' I ust to tell the preacher 'Twas as good to sing as pray, When the people sang the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way. I remember oft o' standin' lu my homespun pantaloons — On my "face the bronze and freckles Of the suns p' youthful Junes — Thinkiu' that no airthly singer Ever chanted sich a lay As the ol' tunes we wax singin' In the ol'-fashioned way. How 1 long again to hear 'em PlOWin' forth from soul to soul! With the treble high and meller, An' the bass' mighty roll ; But the times is very difPrent, And the music heerd to-day Ain't the, singin o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way. Little screechin' by a woman, Little rumblin' by a man ; Then the organ's tweedle, twaddle, Jest the empty space to span ; An' ef you should even think it, 'Tisn't proper fur to say That you want to hear the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way. But I think that some bright mornin', When the toils of life are o'er, An' the sun o' heav'n arisin' !' face, sit in their sad- file thrones Aud sing the wild songs of the range in free uncul- t ured tones, Or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers, And pour the usual fairy talcs into their listening ears. Within the "best room " of the ranch the jolly gath- ered throng Buzz like a swarm of human bees and lade the air with song, The maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein In efforts to entrap the boys in admiration's chain. The tiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and scrape of how, Finds mic string keyed a note too high, another keyed too low. Then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret Until their ears are greeted with the warning words : All set !" s'lute yer pardners ! Let 'er go ! Balance all an' do-se-do ! Swing yer gals an' run away ! Right an' left and gents sashay ! Gents to right an' swing or creat ! On to next gal an' repeat ! Balance next an' don't be shy ! Swing yer pard an' swing 'er high ! Bunch the gals an' circle 'round ! Whack yer feet ontil they bound ! Form a basket ! Break away ! Swing an' kiss an' all git gay ! Al'inan left an' balance all ! Lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fell ! Swing yer op'sites ! SwingTag'in ' Kiss the sage hens if you kin ! Back to pardners, do-se-do ! All jine hands an' off you go ! Gents salute yer little sweets ! Hitch and promenade to seats.! And thus the merry dance goes on till morning's struggling light In lengthening streaks of gray breaks down the bar- riers of night, And bronks are mounted in the glow of early morn- ing skies By weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleep- ing eyes. The cowboys to the ranges speed to " work " the low- ing herds ? The girls within their chambers hide to sleep like weary birds, And for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree They had that night at Jackson's ranch down on the Owyhee. +++ AT THE GARDEN GATE. Two slender poplars by the garden gate Uplift tbeir leafy columns tall and straight, To crumbling walls the faithful ivy clings, The sweet-peas are aglow with rosy wings, And I could think that from the open door Would smile the face that I shall see no more. Winter, with all its gloom, is over now, Green leaves have bourgeoned out on ev'ry bough ; But the dear eyes that looked so sadly forth On naked trees and flow'r-forsakeu earth Have closed, and, though the poplars watch and wait, Her form returneth never through the gate. " When will the summer come?" we heard her sigh, While bleak east winds were blowing coldly by. " I long to see the poplars green again !" A simple pray'r, but it was breathed in vain ; For, ere the em'rald buds of spring were set, She passed beyond our longing or regret. SWING DAT FIDDLE BOW. NlGGAS all eoonjinin high, Swing dat fiddle bow, Watch me catch Lucindy's eye j Swing dat fiddle how. ' Efmy trottahs don't git stuck, Dancin' oh dis Mobile buck, Bust dat nigga's haht fo' luck ; Swing dat fiddle bow. She walked home with yallah Jim, Swing dat fiddle how. 'Low she raddah go with him, Swing dat fiddle how. See me shuffle 'cross dis flo', lip and down all around de do', Bet she won't do it no mo', Swing dat tiddle bow. Know she's looking, by my bones, Swing dat tiddle bow. Sashay roun' Mis' Susie Jones, Swing dat tiddle bow. Susie smile aud cock huh eye, Rah my haid most to de sky, Know Lucindy's 'bout to die ; Swing dat tiddle bow. O, my feet dey feel so light, Swing dat fiddle how, See me wingiir, ain't I right? Swing dat tiddle how. O, I know wbut I'se uhbout, See Lucindy's eyes stick out, Feel so glad I wants to shout; Swing dat tiddle how. Pali she's comin' 'cross dis way, Swing dat tiddle bow. Wondab whut she gwine to say ; Swing dat fiddle how. " 'Zeph, ain't I yo' honey, chile?" Whoop! my hat jump fo'ty mile, See dis nigga, how he smile, Swing dat addle how. "Lady, am yo' talk to me?" Swing dat fiddle how. '"Zeph, ain't I yo' honey bee?" Swing dat fiddle bow. Pen I grab my honey sweet, Laws uh massy ! hoi' my feet ! Pis heah nigga cain't be beat ; Swing dat fiddle how. Know'd I'd win my lady back, Swing dat fiddle bow. Yallah Jim he git de sack, Swing dat fiddle how. Heah dis geiuman laugh an' siug, Gwine to buy uh weddin' ring, All on 'count dat tiddle string ; Swing dat tiddle bow. — Frank Markword. 80 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY A LITTLE CLOVER BLOSSOM. It sleeps within a casket rare ; 'Tis twined about with ribbon fair, And just one strand of shining hair- That little clover blossom. One solace sweet remains a-gleam From youthful pleasure's withered beam ; It wakes again love's early dream — That little clover blossom. A little clover blossom ! 'Tis naught at all to you, But more than gold Or gems untold I prize its faded hue. It breathes of morn and mountain brooks, Of birds and bees and flowing nooks ; 'Tis worth a world of musty books— That little clover blossom. I prize it most of all I see, Because it brings in girlish glee That bonnie lass who gave it me — That little clover blossom. A little clover blossom ! It wields a wondrous power ; No words can tell Its sacred spell — That little faded flower. — Samuel Minium Peck. THE OLD RAIL FENCE. In the merry days of boyhood when we never knew a care Greater than the mumps or measles or a mother's cut of hair, When a sore toe was a treasure and a stone bruise on the heel Filled the other boys with envy which they tried not to conceal. There were many treasured objects on the farm we held most dear, Orchards, fields, the creek we swam in, and the old spring, cold and clear ; Over there the woods of hick'ry and of oak, so deep and dense, Looming up behind the outlines of the old rail fence. On its rails the quail would whistle in the early sum- mer morn, Calling to their hiding fellows in the field of waving ! corn ; And the meadow larks and robins on the stakes would sit and sing Till the forest shades behind them with their melody would ring. There the catbird and the jaybird sat and called each other names, And the squirrels and the chipmunks played the chase-and-catch-me games, And the garter snake was often in unpleasant evi- dence In the grasses in the corners of the old rail fence. As we grew to early manhood, when we thought the country girls In the diadem of beauty were the very fairest pearls, Oft from spellin' school or meetin' or the jolly shuck- in' bee, Down the old lane we would wander with a merry little "she." On the plea of being tired (just the country lover lie), On a grassy seat we'd linger in the moonlight, she and I, And we'd paint a future picture touched with colors most intense As we sat there in the corner of the old rail fence. There one night in happy dreaming we were sitting hand in hand, Up so near the gates of heaven we could almost hear the band, When she heard a declaration whispered in her lis'n- ing ear— One she often since has told me she was mighty glad to hear. On my head there's now a desert fringed with foliage of gray, And there's many a thread of silver in her dear old head to-day, Yet the flame of love is burning in our bosoms as in- tense As it burned in the corner of the old rail fence. AN OLD MANS LOVE. When she comes back she'll never know That I have really missed her so. I s'pose she'd laugh if she but knew One-half the ooyish things I do. An old man deep in love's as big A goose as is a love-lorn sprig. And I just smile at times to see What simple thoughts come over me. I used to fear long years of life Would dim the love of man and wife. But now I find that every mile The flame grows brighter all the while. And ever since she's been away I've counted every hour and day, And wished the time would hurry when I'd look into her eyes again. At evening when I sit and rock And hear the ticking of the clock — 'Twas given us the day we wed, He heard it, too, the boy that's dead- Then, with the stillness all around, I think of days when first I wound The dear old clock, and thoughts arise That bring a mist before my eyes. But they ar,e sort of pleasant tears, The ones y«u call through years and year* Of pleasure sprinkled through with pain, Like April sunshine mixed with rain. Some skies were dark and some were fair, And joy came tangled up with care, But after all the thongs and stings The way was blessed with gracious things. You couldn't make her think that I Would on our old piano try To pick out some sweet courting tune We used to play in-love's glad June. 'Twould worry her if she should know While she's away I'm troubled so, For when she's round the house, you see, I'm dignified as I can be. And then to-day — I had to laugh To think I'd seek her photograph. It seemed so queer ; I don't know when I've looked at it before, and then I thought about the Sunday she First gave that treasure rare to me, And how I kissed it then, and how I kiss it just as fondly now. I wonder if two hearts in tune Aren't always in their honeymoon. And then I'd like to know if she's A thinkin' any thoughts like these. My love I'll hardly dare confess, But I just wonder if she'll guess Its depth within the hearty smack Her cheek will feel when she comes back. SELECTED POEMS. HI A FLOWER SONG. Stay a little, golden curls — twinkling eyes of blue ; Stay and see the violets, for they are kin to you ; Linger where the frolic winds around the gardens race — Cheeks like lovely mirrors, where the red rose seeks its face. " Sweet — sweet !" All the birds are singing ; " Sweet — sweet !" The blossom bells are ringing. Kisses from the red roses, Kisses from the white, Kissing you good-morning And kissing you good-night. Stay a little, golden curls — brightening eyes of blue ; The violets are listening for the lovely steps of you ; Tho white rose bids you welcome, the red rose calls you sweet, And the daisies spread a carpet for the falling of your feet. " Sweet — sweet !" All the birds are singing ; " Sweet — sweet !" The blossom bells are ringing. Kisses from the red rose, Kisses from the white, Kissing you good-morning, And kissing you good-night. — Frank L. Stanton. HERESY IN POKUMVILLE. I had for neighbors Silas Beau, Erastus Gove an' William Smith, John Andrew Pratt, Horatio Dean, But no one to talk Bible with. For Silas Bean would talk of hops, Erastus Gove was str jng on cows, An' William Smith on onion crops, An' Pratt an' Dean on shotes an' sows, But Bean, Gove, Pratt, Dean, or Smith — Not one could I talk Bible with. For w'en I tried to talk free-will With Dean or with John Andrew Pratt, They'd talk about the kind of swill Was best to make a lean hog fat. An' w'en I labored to arouse Some intress in predestination, An' talk foreknowledge, they'd talk cows, An' hop an' onion cultivation. A sordid, worl'ly set, you see, An' not companyins fit for me. An' how all things wus foreordained, An' how the human will was free, They didn't seem to want explained, And never listened much to me. An' w'en my argiment bored keen, Way into the real Scriptur's pith, John Andrew Pratt would wink at Dean, An' Deau would wink at William Smith, An' 'Rastus Gove au' Silas Bean Would jest keep silent an' look green. But 'twas a glorious day an' good, A sweet an' blessed day for me, When moved into our neighborhood Melchizdek Abraham McGee. With Scriptur's zeal his soul was het ; An' 'twas an edifyiu' sight To see us set an' set an' set, An' jest talk Scriptur' day an' night — Begin with Moses, an' keep on Way down to Peter, Jude, an' John. We grew together, he an' I, An' might hev clung together yit, But on a verse in Malachi We made an everlastin' split. I pleaded — tol' him 'twas absurd, The way of his interpretation ; He said the way I wrenched God's word Called for his sternest condemnation ; An' said I'd started on the path That leads to everlasting wrath. I tried to push his error by, An' pluck it from him limb by limb, An' crush his wicked heresy, An' make an orthodox of him. He said my soul " wuz reperbate, A Pagin with no gleam of light, Thet walked in unregenerate An' dark an' sakerligious night." This got me riled ; I waded in, An' soundly thrashed that man of sin. And hard I smote him, hip an' thigh, He squirmed about and raised a rumpus ; But I — I knocked his heresy To all directions of the compass. As Michael fit the Dragon, I Laid on, an' didn't withhold my hand A knuckle argiment, whereby I made the Pagin understand. I beat him fair an' square. Next day In contrite shame he moved away. Now I've for neighbors Silas Bean, Erastus Gove, an' William Smith, John Andrew Pratt, Horatio Dean, But no one to talk Bible with. And with a thirst beyond control, A hunger growin' more an' more I long for some congenial soul To lay my Scriptur' views afore. But Bean, Gove, Pratt, or Dean, or Smith — Not one can I talk Bible with. -Sam Walter Foss, "Whiffs from Wild Meadows. LEAFLESS TREES. The trees that lift their leafless limbs in March Are like the specters that our dreams invade : Let one May morning kiss the sky's blue arch, And lo ! the ghosts are laid. . —Clinton Scollard. BYLO-LAND. What do they do iu Bylo-Iand, Silvery, shadowy Bylo-land? They swing no bat, they fly no kite ; The tattered dolls are forgotten quite ; But out through the gates of the City of Night The little ones glide in garments white To beautiful Bylo-land. What do they hear in Bylo-land, Glimmering, mystical Bylo-land ? Ah, little ears hear wonderful things : Snatches of song that mother sings When the light sinks low, and the rocker swings ; And lullaby sounds from hidden springs In the hills of Bylo-land. How win them back from Bylo-land, Magical, emerald Bylo-land ? When the last faint star in heaven dies, And the dusk grows wan where the mountains rise, When the great sun climbs the yellow skies, Then mother's kisses on drowsy eyes Woo back from Bylo-land. — J. B. Kenyan, ea SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY BILL'S TENOR AND M) BASS. Bill was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall— 1 had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all ; Clothes would never seem to set so nice on me as him — Folks used to laugh and say I was too powerful slim. But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall ! And we were the sparklin'est beaus in all the place, When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass ! Cyrus Baker's oldest girl was member of the choir- Eyes as black as Kelsey's cat, and cheeks as red as fire ! She had the best sopranner voice I think I ever heard ! — Sung " Corouation," " Burlington," and " Chiny " like a bird ; Never done better than with Bill a-stannin' nigh 'er, A-holdin' of her hymn book so she wouldn't lose the place, When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. Then there was Prudence Hubbard, so cosy-like and fat- She sung alto and wore a pee-wee hat ; Beaned her around one winter, and, first thing I knew, One evenin' on the portico I up and called her Prue! But, sakes alive ! she didn't mind a little thing like that — On all the works of Providence she set a cheerful face, When Bill was singin' tenor aud I was singin' bass. Bill, nevermore we two shall share the fun we used to then, Nor know the comfort and the peace we had to- gether when We lived in Massachusetts in the good old courtin' days, And lifted up our voices in psalms and hymns of praise — Oh, how I wish that I could live them happy times again ! For life, as we boys knew it, had a sweet, peculiar grace When you was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. The music folks have nowadays ain't what it used to be, Because there ain't no singers now on earth like Bill and me ; Why, Lemuel Bangs, who used to go to Springfield twice a year, Admitted that for singin' Bill and me had not a peer When Bill went soarin' up to A and I dropped down to D! The old bull-fiddle Beza Dimmit played warn't in the race 'Longside of Bill's high tenor and my sonorious bass ! Bill moved to Californy in the spring of '64, , And we folks that used to know him never knew him any more ; Then Cyrus Baker's oldest girl — she kind o' pined a spell, And. hankerin' after sympathy, it naterally befell That she married Deacon Pitkin's boy who kep' the general store ; And so the years — the changeful years — have rat- tled on apace .Since Bill sung tenor and I sung bass ! As I was settin' by the stove this evenin' after tea, I noticed wife kep' hitchin' close and closer up to me, And, as she patched the gingham frock our gran'- child wore to-day, I heerd her gin a sigh that seemed to come from fur away — Couldn't help inquirin' what the trouble might be ; " Was thinkin' of the time," says Prue, a-breshin' at her face, " AVhen Bill sung tenor and you sung bass !" — Jmgene Field. MY LITTLE GIRL AND I. My little girl and I — She pointing me to fairer ways unconsciously ; If starlight fails, I have the glory of her eyes. If flowers droop, there glow the little smiles I prize ; And never sweeter music come* to human ear Than that which thrills me as her baby voice I hear. ' So we plod onward, happy, to the By and By, My little girl and I. My little girl and I — Pure childhood filled with faith, and age with dim* ming eyes ! What though the waves on Sometinie's harbor bar, As in my early youth, still sound and shimmer far? I hear her laugh in innocence, and so I say, No matter what I miss, thank God that on the way I feel the clasp of baby's bands ; and, strong, we hie— * My little girl and I. My little girl aud I ! ( God grant that whatsoever comes as days go by, No thorns may pierce her tender feet, no bitter tears Of long duration flood those little eyes of hers ; And when at last I totter and am hid from view, Moveless to kisses, in the darkness and the dew — God ! lead her as I try while we go happily— Mv little girl and I ! — Will T. Hal*. WHEN THE GREEN GITS TREES. BACK IN THE In spring, when the green gits back in the trees, And the sun comes out and stays, And yer boots pull on with a good tight squeeze Ana you think of yer barefoot days ; When you ort to work aud you want to not, And you and yer wife agrees It's time to spade up the garden lot — When the green gits back in the trees — Well ! work is the least o' my idees When the green, you know, gits back in the trees ! ( When the green gits back in the trees, and bees Is a buzzin' aroun' again, In that kind of a lazy " go as you please " Old gait they bum roun' in. When the groun's all bald where the hayrick stood, And the crick's riz, and the breeze Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood, And the green gits back in the trees, I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these, The tune when the green gits back in the trees! When the whole tail-feathers o' winter-time Is all pulled out and gone ! And the sap it thaws aud begins^to climb, And the sweat it starts out on A feller's forrerd, a gittin' down At the old spring on his knees— I kind o' like jes' a-loaferin' rouu' When the green gits back in the trees — Jes' a-potterin' roun' as I — durn — please — When the green, you know,'gits back in the trees, —James Wfiitcomb Riley. { SELECTED POEMS. 83 AT CHRISTMASTIDE. Hark ! I hear the wild winds roar, Hear them batter at the door, Hear them clatter at the pane, Hear their shrill, sad, fierce refrain : "Christinas, Christmas, come again!' And I watch the fire blaze up, Sparkle on the '>M tin cup Hung beside the bucket there ; Gleam and glitter. Mil and Hare, Making brilliance everywhere. Mother knits and knits away, Very little does she say ; Hnt 1 know she thinks of Dick, While her restless needles click To the clock's calm tick-a-tiek — i )f the hoy who ran to sea — Ran away from her and me, Many and many a year ago, In the sunset's crimson glow, Wild as boys will be, yon know. O'er my head the peppers swiug, Green and scarlet, on a string ; And, a little to the side, Hangs the bacon— mother's pride — By her own hands cured and dried. Tick aud tock ! and tick and tock ! Wags the tongue of the old clock, Bringing back forgotten j»ys, All the old familiar noise, Laughs of girls and shouts of boys. Seven had we — some are wed, Some are single, some are dead ; Only of one do we know Simply naught— for long ago Did we lose that boy, you know. Not a good boy, neighbors said — Rash and strong and hot of head ; But we knew, ah, yes ! we knew, Just how brave his heart and true, Fierce as fire and soft as dew ! And because he was not mild — Not a meek, obedient child Like the others— mother spent All her soul for his content- To his weal her spirit leut. But in vain ! for blood will burn, Youthful fancies leap and yearn ; And one day, one golden day, Down the blue mouth of the bay, Sailed our reckless, lad away ! Many a year has passed since then — Many and many a year ; but when Christmas comes with chiming bells, Downy drifts and diamond dells, Pearly fences, fairy fells, Do we sit and think of him, Till our hearts grow full, and brim Almost over. Then we speak Carelessly, with drooping cheek, Of the winter chill and bleak, Of the cattle or the corn, Or the chance of snow ere morn, Or of aught or anything, Tread of hoof or whirl of wing, That may memory respite bring. But I think when most ones tries To forget, then will arise Words and ways of long ago ! Well, he may come back, and know How we loved him, and then go Back to the wide world, and be Just because of you and me, A good man. Hark ! What is that ! Not the wild wind's batter at The old casement, nor a rat Stirring in the wainscot there ! Springs the woman from her chair, Rushes to the kitchen door Fleet as flame across the floor, Flings it wide, holds out once more Arms grown weary for the touch Of the head she loves so much — Of the head which, small and gold, Cuddled there from crisp and cold, In the halcyon days of old ! " Oh, my boy, come back agaiu !" " Yes, for lonely life and vain, Lacking love, and never we Save one mother clasp or see, So I've come — comeback to thee !" Up the chimney dashing goes Splendid, swirling blue and rose ; And within the kitchen old, Where the shadows manifold Shrink from fire-shine's mellow gold, We old people sit and grasp Each a hand in our warm clasp. Though the night be dark and wild, Flies it from us joy beguiled, Christ has given back our child ! Let the fierce wind bluster, roar, Let it clatter at the door, Let it rattle at the pane — Ever sounds this sweet refrain : " Christmas, Christmas, come agaiu !" —Kate M. Cleary, A LITTLE WHILE. A little while, and then my toil is ended ; And wheu my task seems long, the pathway steep, I think of one who has before ascended And on the quiet summit lies asleep. A little way — and lo, the end is nighing ! Heartaches' shall cease, heart -chords shall bind anew} Two heads shall rest where now but one is lying, Four hands shall clasp where now there are but two. 84 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY ELF SONG. I twist the toes of the birds a-doze, J tickle the dew bells bright • I chuck the chin of the dimpled rose Till she laughs in the stars' dim light. The glow-worm's lamp I hide in the damp, I steal the wild bee's sting ; I pinch the toad till his legs are a-cranip, And clip the beetle's wing, oh, ho ! oh, hey ! My pranks I play With never a note of warning. I set a snare for the moonbeams fair, All wrought of spider-web twine; I tangle the naughty children's hair In a snarl of rare design. I flit through the house without any noise, There's never an elf so sly ; I break the toys of bad little boys And the cross little girls who cry. Oh, hey ! oh, ho ! I work them woe Till crows the cock in the morning. — Samuel Minturn Peck. COURTING IN KENTUCKY. When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay, 1 was glad, fer I like tor see a gal makin' her honest way. I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high. Tew high ter busy farmer folks with chores ter do ter fly; Hut I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell She tome in her reg'lar boardiu' raound ter visit with us a spell. My .Take an' her had been cronies ever since they could walk, An' it tuk me aback to hear her kerrectin' him in his talk. .lake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work ; But I sez ter myself, " Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin with a Turk !" Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mourn- ful way, He p'sumedhe was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay. I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns, An' she said he should alius say " them air," stid o' " them is" the ones. Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddv mornin' an' even'in' long, Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' ialkiu' wrong. One day I was pickin' currants daown by the old quince tree, When I heered Jake's voice a-sayin', " Be yer willin' ter -marry me?" An' Mary Au'u kerrectin', "Air ye, willin', yeou sh'd say ; " Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum decided way, " No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me. Hereafter I says ' (laps,' ' them is,' ' I calk'late,' an' 'I be.' Kf folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say : But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay. I asked you free an' final, ' Be ye goin' ter marry me?'" An' Mary Ann says, tremblin' yet anxious-like, "I toe." — Florence K Pratt. THE WAITS. At the break of Christmas Day, Through the frosty starlight ringing, Faint and sweet and far away, Comes the sound of children singing, Chanting, singing, " Cease to mourn, For Christ is born, Peace and joy to all men bringing ! " Careless that the chill winds blow, Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer, Noiseless footfalls on the snow Bring the happy voices nearer ; Hear the singing, " Winter's drear ; But Christ is here, Mirth and gladness with him bringing !" " Merry Christmas ! " hear them say, As the East is growing lighter ; " May the joy of Christmas Day Make your whole year gladder, brighter ! '* Join their singing, ' " To each home Our Christ has come, All Love's treasures with him bringing !" — Margaret Deland. THE DA/SYS SPELL. " He loves me, loves me not," she said, Bending low her dainty head O'er the daisy's mystic spell. " He loves me, loves me not, he loves," She murmurs, 'mid the golden groves Of the cornfields on the fell. 'Tis not of the lonely mill By the streamlet, clear and still, That the miller's daughter thinks, Walking in the mellow haze Of the sunset's level rays, Weaving fancy's golden links. " He loves me, loves me not," once more, " He loves." The daisy's simple lore Agrees with what she knows full well. Methinks that, if the miller's-man Hath eyes a maiden's face to scan, He need not seek the daisy's spell. — Helen Marion Burnside. EF I WAS RICH. Ykr ought ter see the walentines 'At hangs in Jones's winder ! Ef I was rich I'd buy me one 'N' sen' it to Luciiider. I'd git the one 'ith Cupids on, 'Ith 'ittle wings a-flappin' 'N' kinder eyes 'at Gaamma says Yer never ketch a-uappin' ! The one 'ith fringe eround the edge, 'N' half a dozen colors — I bet she wouldn't get es good F'om all the other fullers ! '8' nen she wouldn't go no more 'Ith 't big boy 'at licks me, 'N' says ef I don't let her be, He'll find a way to fix me. 'W me 'n' her— like Daisy Bell — Mi ride a twin bisickle — But walentines is twenty cents, 'N' I ain't got a nickel ! — Wallace Dunbar Vincent. SELECTED POEMS. ONE SUNDAY MORNING. t nkvkk heard the robins sing half so merrily As they were singing Sunday morn, when Robert stopped for me ; And as we walked together along the pleasant lane We heard the quails all piping their prophecies of rain, We stopped to talk about it, and wonder if they knew, And I think that we concluded the quails were prophets true. Theu I said we must not linger, for the moments would not wait, And of all things 1 dreaded to get to church too late. Then we went down the hill-road, and talked of that and this, And that audacious creature! He asked me for a kiss. I dou't know what I answered. 1 think 'twas no, I said, But he didn't take my meaning — he took the kiss instead ! Then we stopped to talk about it, though to argue was in vain, For that wieked, laughing fellow stole another kiss, and then, "Oh, for shame!" 1 cried, indignant. But be only laughed at this, " If 'twill satisfy you, Mary, I will give you back the kiss." Audof course I couldn't blame him if he saw fit to restore Stolen property, and promised to repeat the theft no more. " There's another way to settle, if that doesn't satjsfy," Robert said, and all the robins soared up singing in the sky. And of course I had to listen to this little plan of his— Though it seemed a deal of trouble to be taking for a kiss. What the plan was I'll not tell you. You may guess it in the spring, But before we had it settled all the bells began to ring. Ah, we lost full half the sermon, but perhaps 'twas just as well, For of what the preacher told us not a sentence could I tell. I was thinking, thinking, thiuking of the words that Robert said ; Though I knew when they were siugiug, Robert's voice I heard instead. Sure a happier, sweeter Sabbath never came from God above, For it was to us a sermon, and the sermon's text was — Love. — Eben E. Eexford. WUSHT I WUZ A BOY. Wush't I wuz a boy So's I could jump an' ruu An' yell real loud, an' whistle, An' tite, an' have the mostest fun, Like boys duz. Wush't I wuz a boy ! Wush't I wuz a boy ! So'g maw won't alius say : " Don't straddle the fence, now, Liza Ann, Nice gurls don' do that way." But boys duz — Wush't I wuz a boy : Wush't I wuz a boy, 'N' when they call me names, Tom-boy, " tag-tail " an' " wuistlin' Ana," 'N' I could fite same's Billy duz — Wush't I wuz a boy ! Wush't I wuz a boy, 'N' me an' John could play At "skiu the cat" an' " leap frog," too, My dress is in the way- Boys' pants aint. Wush't I wuz a boy ! Wush't I wuz a boy ! All gurl's good fur — yist To dust an' sweep, au' scold, An' so' on buttons what yo' mist So'in' on last week ; Wush't I wuz a boy ! — Mary Flammer. NOVEMBER NIGHTS. November nights ! November nights 1 With all their rich aud rare delights 1 The great oak fires whose crackling flames Gleam a lovelier light than Fame's ! What cheerful sounds, what pleasant sights Walled iu by cool November nights 1 November nights ! The fiddler's feet Keep time to music wild and sweet I The floor resounds — the rafter rings Where Love each rosy partner swings ! " On with the dance," where Love invites The nymphs, ou sweet November nights ! November nights — the stories told — The Lambs all gathered iu the fold ; The flickering lights and shadows shed On little ones tucked up in bed. Oh, slumbers sweet ! where Love delights To dream on glad November nights ! — Frank L. Stanton, UNKNOWN. Up in the linden a bird is flying — Busily flying midst leaves of green, Twining and twisting and braiding and tying The cunningest nest that ever was seen. She dreams of a brood in the summer weather, That shall sweeten the air with their silvery song, As she carries the straws and ties them together, Merrily, happily, all day long. For how can she know that the wind is brewiug A fierce simoon, that at one fell breath Shall scatter her nest and her little ones, strewing Ruin about her, and loss, and death? She knoweth it not, so all day long She buildeth her nest aud singeth her song. Under the linden a maid is sitting, Busily sewing her seam of white ; Like little doves in the sunshine flitting, So flit her thoughts of fond delight. She dreams of a home on the sun-kissed heather, Of her lordly lover who wears her ring ; Of the happy days they shall spend together In the kingdom-home where he is king. How can she know of the storm before her, Coming swift ou the wings of Fate? How it will burst in its wild rage o'er her, Leaving her lonely — and desolate. She cannot know, so, in fond delight, She busily seweth her seam of white. — Ella Wheeler Wilcox. SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY CHICKADEE-DEE.'' There's a thrill in the alder that fringes the stream, Where the ice has passed out 'neath the sunny day's beam, And buds of the catkins are swelling with glee To the lingering voice singing chickadee-dee. Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee-dee ! Though summer may smile on the banks we hold dear ; To bring us their grasses and blossoms to cheer, And the hazel shall greet us by woodland and lea, We will list for the voice singing Chickadee-dee. Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee-dee ! The scenes of our boyhood with notes we have heard Seem passing before us like flight of a bird ; And hearts that were saddened to-day shall be free, While clear comes the voice singing Chickadee-dee. Chickadee, chickadee, chicadee-dee-dee ! MIS' SMITH. All day she hurried to get through, The same as lots of wimmin do ; Sometimes at night her husban' ssid, " Ma, ain't you goin' to come to bed?" And then she'd kinder give a hitch, And pause half-way between a stitch, And sorter sigh, and say that she Was ready as she'd ever be. She reckoned. And so the years went one by one, An' somehow she was never done ; An' when the angel said, as how " Mis' Smith, it's time you rested now," She sorter raised her eyes to look A second, as a stitch she took ; " All right, I'm coming now," says she, " I'm ready as I'll ever be, I reckon." — Albert Bigelow Paine. WHEN DADDY LIGHTS THE TREE. We have our share of ups and downs, Our cares like other folk ; The pocketbook is sometimes full, We're sometimes nigh dead broke ; But once a year, at. Christmas time, Our hearth is bright to see ; The baby's hand just touches heaven When Daddy lights the tree. For weeks and weeks the little ones Have lotted on this hour ; And mother she has planned for it Since summer's sun and shower, With here a nickel, there a dime, Put by where none should see, A loving hoard against the night When Daddy lights the tree. The tiny tapers glow like stars ; They 'mind us of the flame That rifted once the steel-blue sky The morn the Christ-child came. The blessed angels sang to earth Above that fairy country. We think they sing above our hearth When Daddy lights the tree. The weest child in mother's arms Laughs out and claps her hands ; The rest of us on tiptoe wait ; The grown-up brother stands Where he can reach the topmost branch, Our Santa Clans to be, In that sweet hour of breathless joy When Daddy lights the tree. Our Grandpa says 'twas just as fine In days when he was young ; For every Christmas ages through The happy bells have rung. And Grandpa's head is growing gray, But yet a boy is he, As merry as the rest of us When Daddy lights the tree. 'Tis Love that makes the world go round ; 'Tis Love that lightens toil ; 'Tis Love that lays up treasure which Nor moth nor rust can spoil ; And love is in our humble home, In largesse full and free ; We all are very close to heaven When Daddy lights the tree. — Margaret E. Sangster. THE THANKSGIVING SECRET. " Once counted I my little store. Why was to others given more? Why were their lips with honey fed, While I had labor's hard-earned bread? A weary, hopeless task seemed living ; I could not bring to God thanksgiving. " There came a poor man to my door ; I shared with him my scanty store, When lo ! my sense of want had flown, And rarest riches were my own ! I seemed with heaven's own manna fed. What blessed joy there is in living I I brought to God my glad thanksgiving." THE CHRISTMAS DANCE. He sits before the glowing grate, The Christmas bells are chiming, From hill to hill across the snow In silver cadence rhyming. His mind reverts to olden times : He hears a droning fiddle, And sees again the kitchen floor When Sally came down the middle. From smoky rafter overhead Sweet herbs in bunches dangled, With holly-bough and mistletoe, And strings of pepper tangled. Her little feet went pit-a-pat, See-saw the droning fiddle ; — She danced upon a row of hearts When Sally came down the middle. With shuffling steps and bashful gait The partners took their places ; A smell of musk and lavender From girlish bows and laces. The flashing of a dainty heel, The droning of a fiddle — 'Twas thus began the Christmas dance When Sally came down the middle. His head is gray with sixty years, He cannot count his money ; But Christmas Eve ! — her memory turns The gall of life to honey ! The sweetest music of his dreams Is still the droning fiddle That stirred his pulses long ago When Sally came down the middle ! — Minna Irving SELECTED POEMS. *? THE OLD-FASHIONED COFFEE-MILL. When you're jest 'bout half awake, An' the roller poundin' steak Makes a noise 'at almost drownds All them other kitchen sounds, One of 'em, 'at's my fav'rite, Beats psalm tunes a plaguey sight. 'Tain't no old melodeon, " Days of Absence," " Bonny Dooa," Nor them other tunes we sung Long ago when we wuz young ; But it's that more sweeter sound, When the coffee's parched and browned, Mother's grinding it to kill From the old-time coffee mill. When you're jest 'bout half asleep, While the early robins peep, An' your soul a-sailin' goes In a sort o' dreamy doze, Floatin' rouud, au' round, an* round On that palpitatin' sound, Dreams of butterflies in flocks, Sippin' pinks an' hollyhocks, Takes you back to that sweet time When your life was like a rhyme, An' you didn't have to do Only what you wanted to ; Then your thoughts '11 flutter still Round the old-time coffee mill. Seems like that low rumbliu' noise, 'Way down stairs, 'at waked us boys, Set us all to thinkin' things, Like old songs, 'at rings, an' rings Thro' your head, an' won't be still ; " A boy's will is the wind's will," An' his thoughts is long, long thoughts, An' we talked of lots an' lots Of grand things we s'posed we'd do, An' kept wishin' they'd come true. Oh, them joys we used to feel ; Now Time's mashed 'em with his heel, Like the broken grains 'at fill That old-fashioned coffee mill. Them wuz jolly times we had, An' it makes me feel right bad When I look around an' see None o' them old boys but uie ; An' I'm gettin' on, I s'pose, Jest like all the others'does, Fer there's none o' us, you see. Measured up to our idea. Fer Time's hopper holds us all, An' he grinds things mighty small, So's 'at he who gits thro' it Has to her a sight o' grit, Like the flints he usea to spill In that old-time coffee mill. THE OLE PINE BOX. We didn't care in the long ago For easy chairs 'at were made for show — With velvet cushions in red and black, An' springs 'at tilted a feller back Afore he knowed it — like them in town — Till his heels flew up and his head went down ! But the seat we loved in the times o' yore Wuz the ole pine box by the grocery store I Thar it sot in the rain an' shine, Four feet long by the measurin' line; Under the chiny-lx ny tree — Jes' as cosy as she could be ! Fust headquarters for iu formation — Best ole box in the whole creation ; Hacked an' whittled an' wrote with rhyme, An 1 so blamed sociable all the time. Thar we plotted an' thar we planned, Read the news in the paper, and Talked o' pollyticks fur an' wide, Got mixed up as we argyfied ! An' the ole town tiddler sawed away At "Ole Dan Tucker" an' " Nelly Gray !" Oh, they's boxes still— but they ain't no mare Like the ole pine box at the grocery store. It ain't thar now, as it wuz that day — Burnt, I reckon, or throwed away ; An' some o' the folks 'at the old box knowed Is fur along on the dusty road ; An' some's crost over the river wide An' found a home on the other side. Have they all forgot ? Don't they sigh no more Fer the ole pine box by the grocery store ? INDIAN SUMMER. Across the billowy meadow grasses The summer passes with languid tread, And where she journeys the path i3 burning And leaves are turning to brown and red. She goes in silence across the valley Where low winds rally around her track, And touch her garments and murmur " Maiden, With roses laden, come back — come back !'* She does not heed them — she does not listen ; Her soft eyes glisten with welling tears ; Her heart grows heavy for not replying To verdure dying, to prayers she hears. Until, in pity, she turns and lingers To kiss the fingers fast growing cold, And all the earth, for a moment's pleasure, Yields up her treasure of yellow gold. THE LITTLE FOLKS. The little folks ;tt our house— they talk like any- thing 'Bout Santa ('laus a-comiu' and all he's goin' to bring ; An' master never has to scold, or say, " Don't make a noise !" They're just the sweetest little girls— the best o' little boys ! 'Cause why? They know that Santa (laus knows everything they do, An' while he's loadiu' up his sleigh, he's watchin' of 'em, too ! An' them as minds their mothers — they gets the most of toys. They're just the sweetest little girls— the best o' little boys ! They've all been writing letters to Santa Claus each day, Au' tellin' him just what they want, an' showiu' him the way To where our house is, so he'll know just where to leave the toys Fer just the sweetest little girls — the best o' little boys ! They're longiu', longin', lougiii', fer the days and uights to go, An' all of them are happy, an' they make their mother so ! She never has to scold 'em. or speak about th* noise— Oh, they're the sweetest little girls— the best o' little boys ! — Frank L. Stanton. 88 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY AT THE TWILIGHT GATE. Old, old, old ! . . . I reckon I've lived niy day, An' folks that's old as I am had better be out of the way : Had better be Iviu' asleep under the grasses deep, Where the crickets cry for lonesouieness, an' the long, cold shadows creep. Old, old, old ! ... It was only a year ago— A month— a day— as I may say, I stood where the violets blow, An' the wind came over the meadows whisperin' — whisperin' sweet, An' the birds sang in the blossoms that rained their red at my feet. My eyes were blue as the sky then— blue as the sky an' bright, An' if ever a tear came tremblin', it was lost in the April li^ht ; The red o' the rose was on my cheek — so wrinkled now an' old, An' he said my curls were shiny with all o' the sun- flower's gold. I was there at the garden gate, an' he was standin' by; An' the doves were flyin' over, an' we heard the kil- dee's cry , An' the silver bells o' the thrushes were tinklin' in copses dim, An' the sweetest o' the violets I kissed an' gave to him. An' some one was callin', calliu' to come to the household cares, An' I mind that when he left me my cheeks were wet with tears — Not the tears that I weep to-day, for they are bitter an' burn ! But the tears of a first, sweet love — that had no les- sons to learn. Old, old, old ! . . . An' yet, it was yesterday My little ones were around me, an' knelt at my knees to pray The child prayers, mornin' an' evenin*, with the love- light on each brow — Askin' God to bless the mother that God's forgotten now ! An' then, while I was dreamin' sweet dreams 'neath a mornin' sky, They came to me an' kissed me a last an' sad good bye ; An' some sent comfort to me from far an' far away, An' some I'll see no more — no more, until God's judg- ment day. If my children were around me — could I see in the firelight's shine That's flickerin' out like my life, the face— the face of a child of mine, An' hear him call me, " Mother !" d'ye think that I'd mind to-day The looks that tell me I've lived too long— the lips that wish me away? I held 'em in my arms — I nursed 'em at my breast, An' I said : " In God's good time they'll come to lead me into rest ; An' the twilight will be sweet, an' they'll shelter nay age from harms, An' death'll come, like a dream, an' I'll fall asleep in their arms." But here I wait alone — alone while the shadows creep, An' hear the crickets cryin' in the graveyard grasses deep ; They seem to be callin', callin' — an' the shadows seem to say : " You are only a shadow in the light, an' the light mast have its way ! " The world has left me alone. How strange that the good Lord sends To youth a rosy pathway, an' plenty of love an' friends ; An' twines the arms of your children round you in life's sweet May ; An' then, when the night falls dreary, takes the love an' the light away ! Love that wooed an' won me — all o' the love He gave, Comes to me now in the darkness like echoes over my grave ; An' strange, an' strange that He leaves me here where now no love is seen, When 'twixt my own an' heaven there's only a grave of green ! At every clink o' the latch at morn, or evenin's late, I raise my eyes an' ask 'em if Death is at the gate ; But Life comes in with cheeks of bloom, an' rose an' violet ; An' I clasp my wrinkled hands an' moan : " Not yet — not yet — not yet ! " SELECTED POEMS. 89 An' then Life brings a violet an' lays it in my hand, An' once more at the gate of Life beside my own I stand ; An' the silver bells o' the thrushes tinkle in copses dim ; But the sweetest o' the violets were those I kissed for him ! Old, bid, old ! An' I know that I've spent my day ! The world that 1 am liviu' in is far an' far away ; Far an' far away, where the old-time meadows be ; An' none to take my hand now, an' walk that way with me ! Better far to be lying under the grasses deep ; Where the crickets cry for lonesomeness an' the long, last shadows creep ; There will be violets sweet to grow over my grave so dim ; But the sweetest of the violets were those I kissed for Lim"! — Frank L. Stanton. PAT MAGEE. Walkix' wid Pat Magee I>own by the Tullagh bog, " Mind when' ye'iv settin' yere shteps," says he, " Lest yez put yer fool on a frog. Frogs is the divil," he says, " I'm thinkiu'," lit- says, says he, " Av I carried yez over to yondher wall The sorrow a frog we'd see." .sittin' with Pat Magee Atop av a loose built wall, " It's unaisy I am in me mind," says he, " Dreadin' the stones may fall. Stones is the divil to slip. I'm thinkiu'," he says, says he, " Av I gave yer waist a bit of a clip The sorrow a fear there' d be !" Talkin' wid Pat Magee, Wid the arm av him round me waist An' the red sun sinkiu', " Agrah," says he, " Will yez let me spake to the praste? Delays is the divil's delight, An' I'm thinkin'," he says, says he, "Av the two av us settled the matter to-night, 'Tis married next week we'd be." SHAKE YO' TOE, MAN HONEY. Go shake your toe, mah honey, Pse watchin' by de do', I neber seed a finer foot In all my life befo 1 ; It's straightah dan de broomstick, An' oh, dat yallah heel Is floatin' roun'yo' ankle, Like cohu silk in de fiel' ! Hippem ! hippem ! hi ! Shake yo' toe an' fly ; Jig yo' eas' and jig yo' wes', An' jig to one yo' lub de bes' ! Oh, shake yo' toe. mah honey, An' kick's high's yo' kin, Dem lil' laigs is growin' stiff Per sumfin' limberin' ; An' scrape de fiddle, Epherman, So's we kin see, De pickaninny's whirlumgigs Dat's jes' a-comin' three 1 Hippem ! hippem ! hi ! My, but she kin fly ! Jig it ! jig it ! see her go I Sca'cely techin' on de flo' I Oh, shake yo' toe, mah honey, An' cut de piging wing, An' bulge yo' eyes, yo' niggahs ! Don' dat beat ebery ting? I 'elar to gracious ! honey, Yo's boun' to crambulate, To da bery do' oh fortin' An' make yo' mammy great ! Hippem ! hippem 1 hi ! Glory by-an'-bye. Hallelujah ! see dem flings, Honey's laigs is growin' wings ! — Birch, Arnold. THE MASTER OF THE SHEEP FOLD. De massa ob de sheep fol' Dat guard de sheep fol' bin, Look out in de gloomerin' meadows Whar de long night rain begin — So he calls to de nirelin' shepa'd : " Is my sheep, is dey all come in ? " Oh, den says de hirelin' shepa'd, " Dey's some, dey's black and thin, And some dey's po' ol' wedda's, But de res' dey's all brung in, But de res' dey's all brung in." Den de massa ob de sheep fol' Dat guard de sheep fol' bin, Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows, Whar de long night rain begin — So he le' down de ba's ob de sheep fol' Callin' sof, " Come in, come in," Callin' sof, " Come in, come in." Den up Pro' de gloomerin' meadows, T'ro' de col' night rain and win', And up t'ro' de gloomerin' raiu-paf Whar de sleet fa' pie'ein' thin, De po' los' sheep ob de sheep fol' Dey all comes gadderin' in. De po' los' sheep ob de sheep fol' Dey all comes gadderin' in. — Sarah P. McLean Greene. THANKSGIVING IN DIXIE. Now de fros' am in de meader, An' we's a-habin' chilly weader, An' de owel air a-hootin' to de moon, An' de cotton 'pears ter thicken, Atter every curful pickin', An' de bossman call de niggers gooden soon. Fur de lighted knot air burnin', An' de cider mill air turnin', An' de taters air all ready futter roas', An' de 'possum he's er feelin' Of de 'simmon's juicy peelin', Whuttle make him fat and fitten futter toas'. An' de sunshine's pale an' sailer, An' de leaves air turnin' yaller, An' de turkey gobbler gobbleth in de Ian' ; An' de poun' cake air er bakin' An' de fat'uin' pigs er epiakiu', Fur Thanksgin' Day air mighty close at nan'. Hit's de day 'at saint an' sinner Has good eatens fur his dinner, An' thank de Lawd 'at's kep' him safe an' soun'j An' I hopes de sin confessin's, An' de heabenly Father's blessin's Will be plentiful enough to go er roun'. —Ellen Friztll Wycoff. 90 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE DARKIES RAINY DAY. W'en I git up in de nio'uin' an' de clouds is big an' . black, Dey's a kin' o' wa'nin' shiver goes a scootiu' down my back ; Pen I says to ray ol' ooraan ez I watches down de lane, "Don't you so't reckon, Lizy, dat we gwine to have some rain ?" "Go on, man," my Liza answah, "you cain't fool me, not a bit ; I don't see no rain a-comin' ; ef you's wishiu' fo' it, quit, Case de mo' you think erbout it, an' de mo' you pray an' wish, W'y de rain stay 'way de lougah, spechul ef you wants to fish." But I see huh pat de skillet, an' I see huh cas' huh eye Wid a kin' o' anxious motion to'ds de da'kuess in de sky ; An' I knows what sho'5, a-thinkiu', 'dough she tries so ha'd to hide, ' She's a-sayin', " Wouldn't catfish now, tas'e mon'- trous bully fried ?" Den de clouds, git black an' blackah, an' de thundah 'mence to roll, An' de rain hit 'mence a-fallin', oh, I's happy, bless my soul ! Ez I look at dat ol' skillit, an' I 'magiue I kin see Jes' a slew o' new-ketched catfish sizzin' daih fu huh an' me. 'Tain't no use to go a-plowin', fu de groun'll be too wet, So I puts out fo' de big house at a moughty pace, you bet, An' ol' niastah say, " Well Lishy, ef you think hit's gwine to rain, Go on tishin', hit's de weathah, an' 1 'low we cain't complain." Wid my pole erpon my shouldah an' my wo'ui can in my ban', I kin feel de fish a-waitin' w'en I strikes de rivah's san' ; Nevah ruin', you ho'ny scoun'els, needn't swim er- roun' an' grin, I'll be griunin' in a minute we'n I 'mence to haul yo' in. W'en de fish begin to nibble, an' de co'k begin to jump, I'se erfeared dey'll quit bit in' case dey hyeah my hea't go " thump " Twell de co'k go way down undah, an' I raise a awful shout, Ez a big ol' yallah belly comes a-gallivantin' out. Spo't, dis fishiu ! now yo' talkiu', w'y dey ain't no kin' to beat ; I do' Keer ef I is soakin', laigs, an' back, an' naik, an' feet, It's dt spo't I's lookin' aftah. Hit's de pleasure an' de fun', Dougli I knows dat Liz's waiting wid de skillet w'en I's done. — Paul Laurence Dvnbar. THANKSGIVING TIME. Thanksgivin' time's a-comin'— I kin hear the gobble- gobble Of the turkeys in the barnyard <>f the farm where I was born. I kin see the Shaugbai rooster walkin' suit of wibble- wabl)le, Makiu' b'lieve he's feelin' sick an' off his feed of yaller corn. An' they're fixin' in the kitcheu for good ole fashioned dinner, Ohoppin' mince meat by the bushel thet is good fer hungry eyes, Seedin' raisins fer plum puddin' fit to save the vilest sinner If he ever had a mother an' she irfade Thanksgivin' pies. Ah, the mother, she's ;i smilin', standin' in the door- way, lookin' Down toward the railroad station when .she hears the engine tout, Fer her boy is a-comin', an' the pies most burn a-cookin', While her dear ole heart's a-tbumpin' fer this worth- less ole galoot. Doesn't 'pear to matter nohow thet I'm bald an' gittin' gouty. Doesn't seem to make no diPrence thet T smoke an' cuss a bit, She's the same ole lovin' mother, never cross an' never grouty, An they'll be no more Thauksgiviu's, boys, when mother hez to quit. AFTER FROST. When the leaves are off the bushes and the quail* begin to pipe, An' the hickory nuts are fallin' an' the paw-paw's good an' ripe, An' the twigs you step so careful on are sure to snap an' crack, An' you whistle to the setter an' the squirrel jaws " you back — O, them's the kind o' days fer me to meet the risiu' sun, With huntin' boots an' trousers an' a double-barreled gun ; When the woods are full o' happy sounds of every sort an' type, An' the leaves are off the bushes an' the quails begin to pipe. There's a kind o' freelike feelin' broken loose inside o' you, An' you want to holler awful but you know you dassen't to ; Fer the frosty woods is alius full o' skeery-hearted. things, From the fussy little partridge, with its whizzin', whirrin' wings. To the leapin' long-eared cottontail, 'at goes a-ship- pin' hence, An' the frisky little chipmunk on the top rail of the feme. Where be giggles till he doubles up as if he had the Klip.-, When the leaves are off the bushes an' the quails begin.to pipe. There's a sort o' dreamy sadness, too, a feller often feels, With his game bag full o' pheasants an' the setter at his heels, As he plods aci'ost the medders at the settiu' o' the sun, An' he thinks o' them dead pheasants at the bangin' of his gun, An' he has some queerish notions 'bout the souls o' birds an' men, An' the happy huntin' grounds 'at's in the everlastin' " when," l'er he's marked the day behind him with an awful ugly stripe, When the leaves are off the bushes an' the quails begin to pip'. — Edwin S. Hopkins. SELECTED POEMS. 91 A LITTLE GIRLS PETTICOAT. tiLADYS has got a gay little new petticoat, Oh, yes, she has ! I am telling you true ; Gladys has got a sweet pretty new petticoat, Just matching her two bonny bright eyes of blue. Gladys has had, oh, full many a petticoat, Befuffled, betucked and befeatherstitched, too, But what's a white commonplace, everyday petticoat Besides this miraculous marvel of blue ? (iladys sits cuddling her dainty dear petticoat, Dandling it now and now hiding from view ; Singing a lullaby, laughing for love of it, As though 'twere a live thing, this beauty of blue ! Gladys looks up from her precious new petticoat — Up* at the sky of the self-same clear hue ; Then sue is sure some one's cut a piece out of it, To make little Gladys a petticoat blue. (iladys asks papa who gave her new petticoat — Was it Aunt Minnie, Aunt Dora or Lu ? Nobody knows, and the little girl guesses then That God must have sent her that petticoat blue. —.1/. N. B. GODS LITTLE GIRL. She left her home in the starry ways, And reached our arms in the April days. We thought to keep her and hold her here, And our little girl we called the dear. One pleasant eve when the sun had dipped Out of sight and the stars had slipped Silently back to their wonted ways, She turned her face with a wistful gaze Up to the blue of the arching skies ; We knew by the look in her pretty eyes And the smile that brightened her small face so, It was time for God's little child to go. A kiss we dropped on her curly head, " Sweet little heart, good-bye," we said, Then unafraid, tho' the way was dim, God's little girl wenfrback to Him. — Bertha Gerneaux Davis. SOLD TO STRANGERS. The worn-out blinds hang loosely, The paint is nearly gone, The creaking gate swings idly, The old place looks forlorn ; The myrtle mound is grass-grown That blossomed years ago, And one by one have vanished The flowers I used to know. The ancient tree whose cherries Rejoiced my childish heart, Stands leafless, grim and groaning; The arbor's dropped apart — Thai iirbor iu the garden Where honeysuckle twiued; The once broad path that leads there Is now but ill defined. The dear, quaint, old mansion, It held our kith and kin For eighty years and over, Till they were gathered in. And now it goes to strangers ; Its glories all are fled Since those who built the hearth-fire Are numbered with the dead ; While we who loved it fondly Must give a parting sigh. A farewell look, and sadly, Forever pass it by. And still the fragrant lilies May bloom beside the door, But strangers' footsteps echo Across the oaken floor. A DARKY'S CHRISTMAS LAY. Chop oflfde back log an' split up de fat pine, Chris'musmos' heah, good Lawd ; Hang my sock in de woods on er grape vine, Chris' mus mos' heah, Mars Paul. Hope dat de Sabour will fill it full o' brightness, Chris'mus mos' heah, good Lawd ; Ter wash my soul till it shines wid de whiteness, Oh, Chris'mus is er coniin' fur us all. Den wash mer soul, Marster, wid de hal- lelujah rag, Singer comin', Mars Moses, wid er mighty fine song, An' I'll ride bar-back on de hallelujah nag, Sing er comin', Mars Abraham, es sho' es yer b'on. I'se gwine do right ef it takes all de ha'r off, Chris'mus mos' heah, good Lawd ; Look er yonder, Toney, dar's a gobbler in dehogtroff, Chris'mus mos' heah, Mars Saul ; Doan' 'long ter me, but he's mighty sweet meat, sah, Chris'mus mos' heah, good Lawd ; An' it sorter strikes me dat's it's somebody's treat, sah, Oh, Chris'mus is er comin' fur us all. Den grab de gobbler, Toney, and chop oft* his head, Sing er jurangyho jes' er talkin' like er doan' kere ; Now take him in de house dar, and hide him in de bed, Sing er jurangyho jes' er talkin' right along. BABY. When baby wakes of mornings, Then it's wake, ye people all ! For another day Of song and play Has come at our darling's call ! And, till she gets her dinner. She makes the welkin ring, And she won't keep still till she's had her till- The cunnin' little thing ! When baby goes a-walking, Oh, how her paddies fly ! For that's the way the babies say To other folk " by-by." The trees bend down to kiss her, And the birds in rapture sing, As there she stands and waves ner hands — The cunnin' little thing ! When baby goes a-rocking In her bed at close of day, At hide-and-seek On her dainty cheek The dreams and the dimples play ; Then it's sleep in the tender kisses The guardian angels bring From the Far Above to my sweetest love — You cunnin' little thing ! —Eugene Field. 92 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY CALLING THE COWS. I don t know why, I don't know how, But surely, 'twas no harm at all, To stop a minute at the plow And listen to her milking call " Co— Boss— Co !" It sounded so Across the yellow-tasseled coru ; Surely the man was never boru Who would not leave his team and come To help her drive the cattle home. The old folk live. 1 across the hill, But surely, 'twa DO harm at all To kiss her," while the fields were still A-list'uing to her milking call : " Co — Boss— < lo !" It Bounded so ; It made the tardy robin start, The squirrel bent the leaves apart To see us two a-walkiug down Toward the sleepy little town. I don't know how, I dou't know why, But surely, 'twas no harm at all ; The stars were in the summer sky Before the cattle reached their stall. " (.'o — Boss — Co !" It rings on so. The moon from off his great white shield Has tossed it back into the field ; And still the whisp'ring echoes come And follow me a-walking home. — Herman Rave. OUR DEB AT IN CLUB. One er them city boarder chaps, las' Summer, says to me, " It must be frightful lonesome here in Winter time," says he. He sot up on my counter there, 'longside that box of cheese, And had on boys' short pants with things like wristers at the knees. " When all us folks has gone," he says, " this place is dead, I bet ! " And then he laffed a stuck-up laff and lit a cigarette ; But, say ! I took him down a peg. Says I, " My gay young cub, I jedge that you hain't never heerd of our debatin' club." He owned right up he never had. " Wal, then," I told him, flat, " No towu is dead, my son," says I, " that's got a club like that. There's sewin' bees, and sosherbles, and ' times ' and town hall shows All winter through ; but that there club 's enough, great goodness knows ! The hull town b'longs," I told him ; " and there's meetin's every week ; And we've got speakers here," I says, "that jest knows hoic ter speak. There's orertory there," I says, " would make yer leave yer grub ; — We've got the brains and talent, too, at our debatin' club. " Fer instance, there's Beriah Byles, you git Beriah hot On 'Shakespeare versus Bacon,' er on 'Silver, pro er not;' And he kin sling the langwidge faster'u any chap that lives ; Why, every noun he flies has got a tail of adjectives ! Ami then there's Sumner Bean ; fact is, yer might say, he's our pride ; Whichever way Beriah thinks, Bean, he'll take t* other side ; And, 'twixt 'em both, the wheel er thought jest sizzles round the hub — We've had ter haul them two apart at our debatin' club. "And then, ag'in, there's Caleb Pratt, he's quite a wonder, too ; He could write poems, I guess, b'gosh ! from now till all was blue. He gives his views in verse as slick as any yer kiu find, 'Bout ' leviu bolts' and ' ragin' wind '— he allers calls it ' wynd.' There's Pease, the school-committee man, he's smart as all out-door ; He's allers quotin' Pluto every time he has the floor ; Er else Diogenezer— him that put up in a tub ; — They give us all the classic frills at our debatin' club. "And, so, with meetin's every week, and men like that," says I, " That club alone's enough ter make our Winters purty spry." * * * * * * Wal ! that young feller give right in— I bet yer he felt small ! — And owned there wa'n't no city club that teched that one at all. He said he'd give a dollar-bill if he could only come Aud hear them gifted talkers knock the logic deef and dumb. He was a nice, well-meanin' chap, the sort I hate ter snub ; It's reel too bad he can't belong ter our debatin' club. — Joe Lincoln, in Puck. AN OLD BATTLEFIELD. The softest whisperings of the scented South, And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth. And where the thunders of the fight were born The wind's sweet tenor in the tinkling coru. With songs of larks, low lingering in the loam, And blue skies bending over love and home. But still the thought : Somewhere— upon the hills, Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills, Sad, wistful eyes aud broken hearts that beat For the loved sound of unreturuing feet ; And when the oaks their leafy banners wave, Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave ! JUNE IS GOOD ENOUGH. March ain't never nothing uew ! April's altogether too Brash for me — and May, I jes' 'Bominate its promises — Little hints of sunshine and Green around the timber land — A few blossoms, and a few Chip-birds, and a sprout or two — Drop asleep, and it turns in 'Fore daylight and snows again ! But when June comes — clear my throat With wild honey ! Rinse my hair In the dew ! and hold my coat ! Whoop out loud ! aud throw my hat ! June wants me, and I'm to spare ! Spread out those shadows everywhere, I'll get down aud wallow there, And obliged to you at that. — James WTiitcomb Riley. SELECTED POEMS. 98 MUD CAKES. 1 don't see why the big folks all Need to go to cooking school, For it's easy enough to make a cake, If you make it by this rule: First, you must have an apron That you're not afraid to hurt, For in this recipe we use, For flow, sifted dirt. Then dig, with an iron spoon, A hole in the cool, dark ground, And put in dirt and water, Stirling it 'round and 'round. And then a handful of pebbles You'd best put into the dough. What are these for? In this recipe Pebbles arc raisins, you know. And when you get it all thick enough You make it into a cake, Then put it on a nice clean board And set it in the sun to bake. Dear me ! I'd almost forgot to say You must sprinkle with sugar (or sand), And when they're done, no better cakes Will be found in Babyland. That's all ! You see, to learn to cook You don't need to make a fuss. Though mamma says when she comes to the door, " Why, Bessie, child ! What a muss !" —Ethel E. Sleeper. CINDERELLA ON SKATES. In a worn satin hood and a shabby old cloak, And a dress that had long been outgrown, Apart from the girls, in their feathers and furs, She quietly skated alone. They laughed at the quaint little figure she made, And passed her with glances of scorn, Till she darted away like a swallow that cleaves The infinite blue of the mom. As swift as an arrow she gracefully sped O'er the smooth, shining floor of the lake, Leaving crosses and stars, and the lines of Iter name, On the glittering ice in her wake. -The scant woolen skirt in its shortness revealed The trimmest of fairy-like feet, And the fur-bordered hood was a frame for a face That was pink as a rose and as sweet. The lads as they looked left the circle of girls, To follow the faded blue hood, And the tallest came forward to walk with her home Through the shadows and snow of the wood. He wedded the lass, and in sables and silks She rides in her carriage to-day, But she tenderly treasures a blue quilted hood With a moth-eaten border of gray. — Minna Irving. BY THE HEDGE. Ovkh the same old road, sweetheart, that we strolled in the long ago, I am wandering once again, alone, where the sweet wild roses glow ; And I pause by the hedge to whisper, dear, to the blos- soms so pink and fair, A poor little faded sorrow, love, there's nobody else to share. Summer with all its joy, sweetheart, is out on the old highway, But the breezes sigh as they pass me by and unto the forest stray ; Wistfully sigh the breezes, love, as they pass me standing there By the old hedgerow where the roses glow, and nobody seems to care. Standing alone by the hedge, my love, I am lost in a pensive dream. I am floating away through the summer day where the old-time roses gleam ; The roses that shared our secret, love, the roses that smiled as fair As the promise true we were glad to view, with no- body else to. care. Over the dear old road, sweetheart, in the shadowy cool of day Come the echoes low of the long ago, the tenderest things to say : And I smile again as the twilight glows, and banish my long despair With a thought of you that is sweet and true, and wonder if you will care. Something of other days, sweetheart, the breezes are singing low, Something that thrills the roses, love, and lends them a brighter glow ; Something that soothes, the restless pain I have pa- tiently learned to bear Through the endless days on the old highways, where nobody seems to care. — George E. Bowen. A MOTHER S SLUMBER SONG. Sleep, my little one, sleep — Narrow thy bed and deep ; Neither hunger, nor thirst, nor pain Can touch or hurt thee ever again ; I, thy mother, will bend and sing As I watch thee calmly slumbering ; Sleep, my little one, sleep. Sleep, my little one, sleep — Narrow thy bed and deep ; Soon in thy angel's tender arms, Closely sheltered from earth's alarms, Thou wilt awaken, baby mine, Where all is mercy and love divine. Sleep, my little one, sleep. Sleep, my little one, sleep — Narrow thy bed and deep ; I have wept till my heart is dry, But now I smile as I see thee lie With small hands crossed in death's mute prayer, Never to reach in the wild despair Of hunger's anguish. All is o'er ! I wept, but now I can weep no more. Sleep, my little one, sleep. Sleep, my little one, sleep — Narrow thy bed and deep; A little while I, too, shall rest Close by the side of my baby blest. Safe is my babe — earth's anguish done — Safe, at the 'eet of the Holy One Sleep, my little one, sleep. — Anna B. Bensel. ALWAYS JOYOUS. SHALL the harvest lament for the seed-time, The bud be less blithe than the leaf? Is there joy when the plow breaks the furrow, And none when the hand binds the sheaf? — Margaret E. Songster. 9t SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY A TALE OF SWEETHEARTS. So you've gotten an offer o' marriage? There's a brave and comely lad Wi' a home o' his own a'ready, and he's sighin' away like mad, And frettin' his honest heart out just for a word o' thine, , , And he canna tell if you love him, for your cheeks give ne'er a sign. He told me the tale hissen, lass— he left me awhile ago; You're makin' his heart a plaything, and winna say yes or no. Look in your mother's eyes, lass ; nay, dunna droop your head — There's nowt as you need to blush for— a woman was born to wed. He's rough in his ways— a miner. He's grimed wi' the grime of coal — Better ha' grime on his hands, lass, than grime on his heart and soul. Maybe your heart's another's— that finnicking Lun- nun chap, As came to town last winter— as'll leave again this, mayhap. Have I guessed your secret, Jenny ? Is that why you won't have Joe? You've gotten a finer sweetheart, and the collier chap must go ? Shall I help you to make your mind up, and to choose between the two men ? I'll tell you a tale o' sweethearts, and the lass o' the tale's mysen. I was summat about your age, lass, and a good- lookin' lass, folks "said, When a chap as come to our village, a Lunnuner, turned my head. He came wi' the player people — he came and stayed awhile — And, somehow, he won my heart, lass, wi' his fine play-actin' style. But I was a promised wife then. My sweetheart was like thy Joe, A Lancaster lad, a miner, who worked in the mines below. He saw what was up, did Dan'l, and he came to my feyther's place Wi* a look of shame and o' sorrow deep lined on his honest face. And he took my hand and he pressed it, and he said in a choky voice : " My lass, they say in the village that you've a gotten doubts o' your choice ; That a felly ha' coom betwixt us, that your love for mysen is dead, So it's reet that I stan' aside, lass — you can marry this man instead." I was free fro' that day we parted — for the word that I wudna speak ; But he stopped to gi' me his blessin'— he stopped and he kissed my cheek ; And he said to me softly : " Jenny, we canna be mon and wife, But if ivver you need a friend, lass, why, I am your friend for life." I went wi' my player lover — we were married in Lun- nun town — For a month I was up i' the heavens, and then I came crashin' down. My man got in debt and trouble, and the devil came peerin' out, And I was a drunkard's victim — sworn at and knocked about. In a year he had gone and left me — wi' a bairn at my achin' breast — Left me without a shillin', to struggle and do my best ; Left me in cruel Lunuun, wi' never a friend auigh, Wi' a fever wearin' my brain out, and a bairn as 1 prayed might die. I wandered away wi' my baby— it cried wi' tho hunger pain, And again came the fiend to whisper " Death " to my maddened brain. " Kill it," the devil whispered, and again came the feeble cry ; He'd help me': the devil conquered, and I left the good child to die. I fled wi' the feet of terror, and ever behind me came A phantom that tracked my footsteps, and shouted and called my name — That called to the heavens " Murder !" and I thought iu my mad despair That a hundred eyes were watchiu' — I could see them everywhere! * - * * * * * I read in an English paper the news of my husband's fate; He'd been killed in a drunken quarrel — I was wid- owed and free to mate. I'd many a decent offer, but I answered 'em all wi' "No;" I'd a duty to do in England, and I made up my mind to go. Year after year grew stronger that terrible hauntin' thought That mony a guilty felon to the clutch o' the law has brought, And, maddened at last— despairing— tortured by con- science still, I cried. " I must go to England, and the law shall ha' its will." Eight years from that day of horror — eight years t» the very night— I came to my native village, came in the waning light ; There was never a soul that knew me as I passed through the quiet street, And I thought o' the days long vanished, and tho frieuds I used to meet. SELECTED POEMS. 95 A child looked up .u that moment, and seeing my wan, white lace, She uttered a cry, and her lather in a second was out 0' the place ; He had seen me, too, at his window. I tottered and turned to fly, But he caught me and strained me to him wi' a pas- sionate, joyful cry. "Ma lass!" he cried, " tha' are coom, then — coom whoani to us here at last — I ha' waited for thee, my Jenny, this mony a long year past ; I knew as thy tuon had left thee — I knew as thy mon were dead — And I thowt you'd ha' coom before, lass." I shivered and hung my head. " Will yo' be ma wife?" he whispered. " I ha' waited, ma lass, for thee ; I've a bairn as wants a mither — the lassie as yo' can see. Will yo' make me a happy mou, Jenny?" Then I tore myself away. "It eanna be, Dan,"" I answered, "for I go to my doom to-day ! " I've come to my native village— here where the deed was done — To cry out that dark night's secret i' the light of the noonday sun, A murderess comes to justice to forfeit her wretched life!" He heard me without a shudder, and he answered, " Be ma wife ! " Be ma wife and forget t' past, lass, and howld up your bonny head, For the bairn as yo' see in t' cottage is t' one as tha thowt wur dead : I sa' th' toime tha coom here— I sa' as tha wurna reet, An' t' babe as tha laid i' the snow, lass, I browt to my whoam that neet." The bairn that he found was you, dear — the man I had cast away Had been to you as a feyther — you call him your " dad " to-day. And now you're a woman grown, dear, mine's a story you ought to know — It may help you to make your mind up, 'twixt the Lunnun chap and Joe. What's that? A knock at the door, lass ; why, your cheeks are like the rose ! You know that knock for a penny— you've heard it afore ; it's Joe's. What do you whisper, Jenny? "You have always loved him ! " Then I'll bide i' the ither room, lass — you can tell him his fate yoursen. — George R. Sims. THE FARMER'S THANKSGIVING. Thk earth is brown and the skies are gray, And the windy woods are bare, And the first white flakes of the coming snow Are afloat in the frosty air. But the sparks fly up from the hickory log, And the homestead's broad stone hearth, And the windows shake and the rafters ring To the lads and lasses' mirth. The farmer's face is furrowed and worn, And his locks are thin and white, But his hand is firm and his voice is clear, And his eye is blue and bright As he turns to look at his sweet old wife, Who sits in the gown of gray, With cobweb kerchief and creamy frills She wore on her wedding-day. He bows his head to the laden board, And the guests they arc silent all — " Thanksgiving, Lord, for the rain and sun, And the fruit on the orchard wall. For the silver wheat and the golden corn, And the star of a toilsome life, The greatest blessing that Thou canst give — A true and a loving wife ! " This white-haired lover, he bends to kiss Her hand in its frill of lace And the faded rose on her wrinkled cheek, With a proud and courtly grace. And the snowflakes click on the window pane, And the rafters ring above, And angels carol the farmer's thanks As they mount to the Gates of Love. — Minna Irving. WAKING GRANDMA. Mamma said, " Little one, go aud see If grandmother's ready to come to tea ;" I knew I musu't disturb her, so I stepped as gently along tiptoe, And stood a moment to take a peep — And there was grandmother fast asleep. I knew it was time for her to wake ; I thought I'd give her a little shake, Or tap at her door, or softly call ; But I hadn't the heart for that at all — She looked so sweet and so quiet there, Lying back in her high arm-chair, With her dear white hair and a little smile That means she's loving you all the while. I didn't make a speck of noise ; I knew she was dreaming of little boys And girls who lived with her long ago And then went to Heaven— she had told me so, I went up close and I didn't speak One word, but I gave her on the cheek The softest bit of a little kiss, Just in a whisper, and then said this : * " Grandma, dear, it's time for tea." She opened her eyes and looked at me And said, " Why, pet, I have just now dreamed Of a little angel who came and seemed To kiss me lovingly on my face " — She pointed right at the very place. I never told her 'twas only me— I took her hand and went to tea. THE WORLD AND I. Whether my heart be glad or no, The summers come, the summers go, The lanes grow dark with dying leaves, Icicles hang beneath the eaves, The asters wither to the snow ; Thus doth the summer end and go, Whether my life be glad or no. Whether my life be sad or no, The winters come, the winters go, The sunshine plays with baby leaves, Swallows build about the eaves, The lovely wild-flowers bend and blow ; Thus doth the winter end and go, Whether my life be sad or no. Yet Mother Nature gives to me A fond and patient sympathy ; In my own heart I find the charm To make her tender, near and warm ; Through summer sunshine, winter snow, She clasps me, Bad or glad or no. —Nellie M. Hutchinson. 96 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY SINCE NELLIE WENT AWAY. The homestead aiu't ez bright an' cheerful ez it used to be, The leaves ain't growiu' half so green upon the maple tree — The brook don't seem ter ripple like it used ter, down the hill— The bobolinks appear ter hev a some'at sadder thrill ; The wavin' corn hez lost its gold, the sunshine ain't so bright, The day is growiu' shorter, jest ter make a longer night ; There is somethin' gnawiu' at my heart I guess hez come to stay ; The world ain't been the same to me since Nellie went away. The old piano over there I gave her when a bride- It aiu't been played upon but once since she took sick aud died ; Au' theu a neighbor's girl come in an' struck up "Old Black Joe " An' " When the Swallows Homeward Fly," an' somehow, don't you know, It almost made me crazy wild with anguish and de- . spair — I saw her sittin' at the keys, but kuew she wasn't there, An' that is why I never want to hear the old thing play— The music don't sound natural since Nellie went away. The parson tells me every man hez got ter hev his woe— His argument is good, perhaps, for he had orter know — But then it's hard for every one ter allers see the right In turnin' pleasure into pain an' sunshine into Q'ght ; I guess it's all included in the Maker's hidden plan — It takes a heap o' grief an' woe ter temper up a man. I sympathize with any fellow when I hear him say The world don't seem the sa>me to him since some one went away. The Scripture says that in His own sweet way, if we but wait, The Tjord'll take our burdens an' set crooked matters straight ; An' there's a hope that all the grief an aching heart can hold -Will be offset by happiness a hundred million fold When we hev reached the end o' life's eventful voy'ge at last, An' all our pain an' misery is buried in the past ; An' so I'm lookin' for'ard to the dawnin' of a day When, mebbe, it won't seem so long since Nellie went away. —Harry S. Chester. LEAVING THE OLD FARM. What did you say, Melinda? Speak a little louder, dear ; I find as I grow feeble, that I fail sometimes to hear. Why, what is this you tell me? It is not my hearing, then, But this old farm, I loved so well, is sold to Silas Wren. Oh, child, this news will break my heart ! I would that I had died Before you parted with the home I came to as a bride ! Each rod o' ground your grandpa loved, aud I have always thought, His children prized the place so much, that it could not be bought. God's ways are best! He called him home before this dreary day ; I thought to die in the same room, where his soul passed away. We lived and toiled together for nigh on fifty year In this old house, and I supposed that Heath would find me here. I was a likely-looking girl when we came here to dwell ; My Joe was tall, and handsome, too ; we loved each other well ; The farm was not all paid for, but we worked hard many years Till that was done, and then we both thanked God with grateful tears. Our boys and girls— ten cunning babes as ever you did see — Were born right here. Four of them died in their sweet infancy ; The rest, it seems to me a dream, that they are gray- haired men, For I can see their baby ways as plain as I did then. But now the place is sold, you say, aud strangers must come in. While in my old and feeble age new scenes for me begin ! Child, while within your city home the poor old woman stays Be patient if she fails to like your tine, new-fashioued ways. I know I may be childish now, but I have feelings still — I love this good old roomy house, and yonder sloping I love the orchard with its fruit, and every poplar tree, And leaving them in my old age is worse than death to me. But since it is the will o' God, I'll strive to bear it yet, A Christian's duty is to meet each cross and not to fret. The news came kind o' sudden-like, but, dearie, I will try To take my Saviour to your home, and keep Him till I die. It won't be long that I shall stay. My eyes are grow- ing dim ; But Jesus will be near me there, and I shall be near him ; And when I die, you won't forget to bring my body home, , And place it by your grandpa's side, until the Lord | shall come. —Sophie L. Schenck. NOT WILLIN'. Says bould Barney Milligan, To Biddy McSnilligan, " Ouch, faith ! it's meself wiidoe loikin' a kiss." Cries Biddy McSnilligan, " Ye'd betther be still ag'iu, Oi'll not be endoorin' sich tratement as this." " Arrah ! dearest Biddy, Be aisy, be stiddy, Indade, it's no use to be actin' loike this ; Ouch ! scratch a man's nose off, And tear all his clo'es off, It's a de'il uv a row to be gittiu' a kiss." "Go 'way, Mr. Barney, No more uv your blarney, Or instid uv a kiss ye'll be gittin' a kick. Ould red-headed Barney, Yer wastiu' yer blarney, For— here comes the missis ! Ah ! Barnev, be quick I SELECTED POEMS. 97 WHY THE COWS CAME LATE. Crimson sunset burning. O'er the tree-fringed Sills ; Golden are the meadows, Ruby flashed the rills. Quiet in the farm-house, Home the farmer hies ; But his wife is watching, Shading anxious eyes. Why she lingers with her pail beside the barn-yard gate, Wondering why her Jennie and the cows come home so late. Jennie, brown-eyed maiden, Wandering down the lane ; That was ere the daylight Had begun to wane. Deeper grow the shadows ; Circling swallows cheep ; Katydids are calling ; Mists o'er meadows creep. Still the mother shades her eyes beside the barn-yard gate. And wonders where her Jennie and the cows can be so late. Loving sounds are falling, Homeward now, at last. Speckle, Bess and Brindle, Through the gate have passed ; Jennie, sweetly blushing, Jamie, grave and shy, Take the pails from mother, Who stands silent, by. Not one word is spoken as that mother shuts the gate, But now she knows why Jennie and the cows came home so late ! WITHOUT A WIFE. UNDER THE MISTLETOE. It's vera weel, throughout the day, When ta'en up wi' wark or play, To think a man can live alway Wi'oot a wifey. It's vera weel when cla'es are new, To think they'll always last so, And look as well as they do noo, Wi'oot a wifey. But when the holes begin to show, The stitches rip, the buttons go, What in the wail's a man to do Wi'oot a wifey ? It's vera weel when skies are clear, When frien's are true and lassies dear, To think ye'll gang through life, nae fear, Wi'oot a wifey. But clouds will come the skies athwart, Lassies will marry, frien's maun part ; What then can cheer your saddened heart ? A dear, wee wifey. It's vera weel when young and hale, But when you're auld, and crazed and frail, And your blithe spirits 'giu to fail, You'll want a wifey. But mayhap then the lassie dear, Will treat your offers wi' a sneer ; Because you're cranky, gray atid sere, Ye 11 get nae wifey. Then haste ye, haste, ye silly loon ; Rise up and' seek about the toon, And get heaven's greatest earthly boon, A wee bit wifey. Boys were as blithe, and girls were as gay, Fifty years since, as they are to-day. I was as chipper as most of the set That posed and bowed in the minuet- Fifty years ago. Grandfather's house, on a Christmas night Fifty years since, was ablaze with light. Joshua caught, and kissed me there, Asked me a question, fairly and square, Under the mistletoe. Girls were as fair and fickle were they, Fifty years since, as they are to-day. Fickle was I as most of "the set, Who haven't answered the question yet— Fifty years ago. And gray and old as I had to grow, I can feel that kiss of the long ago, For Joshua just now kissed his wife For the fiftieth Christmas of his life Under the mistletoe. WHEN MALINDY SINGS. G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy- Put dat music book away ; What's de use to keep on tryin' ? Ef you practice twell you're gray You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin' Like de ones dat rants an' rings F'om de kitchen to de big woods When Malindy sings. Ain't you nevah heerd Malindy? Blessed soul take up de cross ! Look heah, ain't you jokin', honey? Well, you don't know what you los'. Y'ought to hear dat gal a-wa'blin' ; Robins, la'ks an' all dem things Heish dey moufs an' hides dey faces When Malindy sings. Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin', Lay his fiddle on de she'f ; Mockiu' bird quit tryin' to whistle, 'Cause he jes' so 'shamed hisse'f. Folks a-playin' on de banjo Draps dey fingahs on de strings — Bless yo' soul — fu'git to move 'em When Malindy sings. She jes' spreads huh luouf an' hollaha " Come to Jesus," twell you heah Sinnahs' tremblin' steps an' voices, Timid like a-drawin' neah ; Den she tu'ns to " Rock of Ages," Simply to de cross she clings, An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappiu' When Malindy sings. Who dat says dat humble praises Wif de Mahster nevah counts? Heish yo' mouf, I heah dat music Ez hit rises up an' mounts — Floatin' by de hills an' valleys, Way above dis buryiu' sod, Ez hit makes its way in glory To de very gates of ( tod ! Towsah, stop dat ba'kin' ! heah me? Mandy, make dat chile keep still ; Don't you heah de echoes callin' F'om de valley to de hill? Let me listen, I can heah it Th'oo de bresh of angels' wings, Sof an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,' Ez Malindy sings. — Pan' Lawrence Dunbar. 9& SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY AUTUMN LEAVES. OWE sweet day in the long, long ago, When autumn's chill had erst begun, A quaint little artist that you and I know (It was your old friend Jack, Mother Nature's own son) Sat himself down a task to complete His mother had set for the day ; For Jack, she declared, should have nothing to eat (And Jack dare not disobey) Until he had painted the leaves of the trees — The leaves of the maples that danced in the breeze, And died away in the wintry freeze. Jack, alas ! for the saucy young elf, Had used his mother's store of paint. " The tubes are all empty," he said to himself, " As empty as I am, but not half so faint. Now, my good mother she bids me work ; She's busy herself all the day, And thinks I'm naught but a poor, lazy shirk Just idling the summer away ; Hut I'll let her know that there's something in me Besides being careless and idle and free, For I'll paint every leaf I can see." To his task with wondrous haste he flew, And took the palette, meek as a lamb, But found that the tubes full of purple and blue He had used in painting a wandering calm. An eager search brought forth to the light Some yellow and brown and reds. And Jack, like a Trojan, worked into the night, When honest folks slept in their beds, Until he had painted the leaves of the trees — The leaves of the maples that danced in the breeze, And died away in the wintry freeze. — Emeiiiu Slratton Rees. PARSON JOB BUCK S SARMON. Ole Mistah Dives he had no 'ligion, Wouldn't give Laz'us a piece ob de pigeon, All yo' rich darkies take wahnin' ! Dives died 'n' went wbar dey ain't no warter, 'N' couldn' get a drap fer eben a quarter. Sez Mistah Laz'us, " I don't think you orter." Dar's gwan ter be a .Tedgmen' Mawnin' ! Ole Balaam's mule he ack a little stubhen. So he up 'n' gives him a dickens ob a drubbin', All yo' darky dribahs take wahnin' ! De mule turn roun' 'n' he sez to Balaam, " W'en a pusson cain't go what fer yo' whale him ? Wat yo' know but sumpen is ail him — Dar's gwan ter be a Jedgmen' Mawnin' !" 'Nias he wuz a liah perfessor, Tole 'em mighty big to de city 'sessor, All yo' cullud hbbahs take wahnin' ! Las' one he tole wuz 'boutgoan' er-fishin', W'en a ten-poun' bass made his line go swishin', It done choke him dead 'n' he went to p'dition — Dar's gwan ter be a Jedgment Mawnin' ! 'Lijah was sassed by de li'l Hebrewers, Dey tell 'im to put bis ha'r up wif skewers, All yo' sassy chillens take wahnin' ! " How yo' loss yo' ha'r ?" dey sed w'en dey met 'im : So he call up de b'ars fum de woods and he set 'em Aftah dem brats, 'n' dey right up 'n' e't 'em — Dar's gwan ter be a Jedgmen' Mawnin' ! tierliah step eroun' an' do a heap o' braggin', Try to put Dave in de baby wagon, Oh, you stuck-up darkies take wahnin' ! Sez Dave, sez he, " I's gwan ter stop yer gabble," N' bang 'im de eye wid a li'l stone grabble, : N' 'Liah no mo' wid de sarcus couldn't trabble— Dar's gwaD ter be a Jedgmen' Mawnin' !" Abs'lom mighty mean boy to his fodder, Gin his mammy a heap a lot o' bodder, All yo' li'l coons take wahnin' ! Stealin' de cherries his hair got tangled Up in de lim's, 'n' dar he dangled, Awful nice boy after he was strangled — Dar's gwan ter be a Jedgmen' Mawnin' ! Bredders 'n' sissers o' dis congogation, Let dis sarmon struck yo' observation, Fer yo' need a mighty sight o' wahnin 1 ! Bewar' o' Satun, who wants to be masser ; Some's gwan fas' 'n' some's gwan fasser — 'N' don't yo' forgit, ez we pass de sasser, Dat dar's gwan ter be a Jedgmen' Mawnin' ! . — A. W. Bellaw. THE OLD PLAYHOUSE. It was only a rock, gray and mossy, With a rivulet trickling by, Where the wild flowers nodded in summer, And the stick-weeds grew yellow and high ; With a little path leading up to it, Worn bare by the little brown feet, And a pile of rocks, called a " chimney," Where a cricket sang cheerful and sweet. There were shells which were brought from the river- These were " dishes," inquirers were told ; And bits of glass in a cupboard, Itself, a sight to behold ! There were beds from the down of the milkweed, And pillows stuffed squarely with moss, And rooms all in green and divided By rows of pebbles across. A little girl sang in the playhouse, And was busy the whole day through ; And save the brook and the cricket, No playmates the little maid knew, Excepting, also, the birdies That fluttered and hopped about, And peered adown through the branches As she flitted now in, then out. To-day, I have searched for the playhouse By the side of the murniiug brook, And although, as of old, I have found it, There's about it a desolate look. The chimney has long ago fallen, And briers o'er the pathway have grown And over the parlor, a spider His gray-woven curtain has thrown. The cricket, alas ! he is silent ; The brook sings a different song ; And all about broods a stillness And sadness the whole day long. The little housekeeper has vanished — I wonder where she has fled AVith her eyes deep, dark, and trustful, And her wise little flaxen head? The head that bends over the brook-side Is darker, by far, of hue, And the eyes which are mirrored, I wonder If they are as trustful and true ! And the hands, once as brown as a berry, Are white, and soft as the down, But are they, I wonder, as stainless As the busy, wee hands of brown ? God knows ! And He knows in His wisdom Where the lost little maid is to-day ; And he knows where the beautiful child-soul And fancies are hidden away. It may be they are safe in His keeping 'Till the dawn of that Sometime, and then The little brown hands He will give me To build the old playhouse again. —Minnie Reid French. SELECTED POEMS. 99 ■ They've few admirers now-a-days, an' spring up here an' there Beside the kitchen winder or the long forsaken walks ; But from some cause — though odorless au' homely as they air — No flower gits so near my heart as these same holly- hawks. We used to prize 'em hack at home, their beauty we could trace, An' by the pinks an' tetch-me-nots they found a honored place. They could not but be dear to me beca'se they some- how bring Remembrance from its slumber-place an' once familiar ways, Whar' one I love to recollec' would in the twilight sing- So soft it 'peared the music come from her own girlhood days. Jest hollyhawks ! but seems to me, seeu through my risin' tears ( They're smiles ot the old-fashioned folks still livin' through the years. — Will T. Hale. THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES. Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest, Where the flowered gowns lie folded which once were brave as the best ; And, like the queer old jackets and the waistcoats, gay with stripes, They tell of a worn-out fashion— those old daguerreo- types. Quaint little folding cases, fastened with tiny hook, Seemingly made to tempt one to lift up the latch and look ; Linings of purple and velvet, odd little frames of gold, Circling the faded faces brought from the days of old. Grandpa aud grandma, taken ever so long ago— Grandma's bonnet a marvel, grandpa's collar a show ; Mother a tiny toddler, with rings on her baby hands Painted, lesfhone should notice its glittering, gilded bands. Aunts and uncles and cousins, a starchy and stiff array ; Lovers and brides, then blooming, but now so wrin- kled aud gray ! Out through the misty glasses they gaze at me sitting here Opening the quaint old cases with a smile that is half a tear. I will smile no more, little pictures, for heartless it was, in truth, To drag to the cruel daylight these ghosts of a van- ished youth. Go back to your cedar chamber, your gown and your lavender, And dream 'mid their bygone graces of the wondei- ful days that were. PUNISHED AND PARDONED. Last night my little sou was sent Uukissed to bed, with angry eyes And lips that pouted willful-wise ; This was his mother's punishment — A gentler woman does not live, But yet she tarried to forgive. The childish fault, the passionate deed, They must be checked ; so in the gloom He stumbled to his little room ; He was too proud to weep or plead. I saw his mother's eyes grow dim, In tender yearning following him. But in the silence when he slept Uudried the tears lay ou his cheek, The little face seemed very meek. How piteously, perchance, he wept Before he took to slumberlaud The grief he could uot understand ! Then tenderly his mother smoothed The fair tossed hair back from his brow, Aud kissed the lips so passive now, But woke him not, siuce he was soothed, And there beside his little bed She knelt aud prayed awhile instead. Ah ' so, dear God, when at the last We lie with closed and tear-stained eyes, And lips too dumb for prayers or sighs, Sorry and punished for the past, Surely thou wilt forgive aud bless, Being pitiful for our distress? A HUMBLE SERMON. Day u'ebber wa'n't no one who couldu't tin' out Sumpin' elus to his home to git busy about. It may be de work doesn't pay as it should, But it's better dan loatiu' au' bein' no good. Su I mixes de whitewash or pushes de spade 'Thout talkin' too much 'bout de money dat's p»d. Don' was'e all yoh time countiu' up deYeward, Jes 1 ten' to yoh bus'ness an' trust in de Lord. When Moses, de prophet, led Israel's baud He didn't staht axin' de price o' de land He was leadin' em to. Ef dey followed de light He knowed dat de future wan boun' to come right. De onlies! way to succeed is to staht A-doin' yoh lies' wid yoh ban's an' yoh heart. So don't sit contrairy an' sing off de chord, Jes' ten' to yoh bus'ness an' trust in de Lord. LJS. It*) SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE FIRST SNOW. Th:s robins 'round the granary eaves, Whisper and watch like little thieves, And, as beside the hedge you stir, A partridge start* with sudden whirr; While crows — as dark as dreams that come To worry when one fain would sleep — Above the far-off hill tops sweep, Flecking the heavens' dull gray dome. About the barn the milk cows low, And seem one's whistled air to know ; The horses, whinneying, seem to say, •' Why do you loiter on the way?" The pigs from out the sage-grass bed, Come uois'ly begging at your feet ; And never alms-folk gladder greet The one to whom they look for bread. The outwork done, you then return To where the blazing fagots burn ; There, waiting for the morning meal, A kind of calm content you feel, The sparks fly upward at their will ; The tire sends out a pleasant glow ; And all reminds you, though there's snow, There's much in life to cheer us still ! — Will T. Hah. THE CRICKETS SONG. " Creak ! creak ! creak ! " The year is growing old ! The warning voice of the cricket sounds Like a prophecy often told. It pipes from the bristling stubble fields Where the waving grain late stood, From the leaf-strewn banks of the silent stream, From the depths of the tangled wood, From the wreck of the blighted garden-beds, From the roadside wild and bare, From some crevice warm 'neath the old hearthstone, From lone nooks everywhere ! " Creak ! creak ! creak !" The year is growing old ! The sumach's banners are all aflame, The maple's crimson and gold, While tints more fair than Tyrian dyes O'er the landscape wide are spread ; Brown and scarlet, russet and bronze, Of every hue and shade ; And the sun, as if to excel them all As he sink6 to his royal rest, With gorgeous drapery decks profuse The chambers of the west. "Creak! creak! creak!" The year is growing old! The mountain's brow is wrinkled and bare, The night-winds sigh in the wold, The daisy has lost her dainty frill, The aster is pale and wan, The blue-fringed gentian haunts lowly glens, The eyebright the wandering stream, The golden-rod's gold is turned to rust, The alders with corals are dressed, The thistle-down floats in the chill autumn air Like a spirit in vain seeking rest. " Creak ! creak ! creak !" The year is growing old ! The dry leaves rustle at every gust And soon will lie dank in the mold. The ripe nuts fall from the swaying branch, The Dirds to the southward have flown, The crow from the dead pine's topmost bough Calls aloud in his monotone, The spider is busy weaving a veil Of patterns of choicest lace Finer than antique art e'er knew, To cover the dead year's face 1 — Mrs. A. Qiddinys Park. THE BROOK'S STORY. The bees were on the blossomed spray, The mated doves were cooing, When to the knotted trysting-tree Jack Hartford came a-woomg. 'Twas there I waited every day Through all the summer weather, While at my feet the amber brook And sunbeams danced together. And every day he came to me, A true and faithful lover ; Though oft he lingered on the way Wild roses to discover. Oh, happy days, when we were young ! On yonder hill he's sleeping, And by the brook to-day, alas ! A lonely tryst I'm keeping. For still I love the stream that flows Between the wilding roses, Its every bubble in a flower Of memory uncloses. — Minna Irving. ANA, MAN A, MONA, MIKE." In an empty room we three Play the games we always like, And count to see who it shall be : "Ana, mana, mona, mike." Koand and round the rhyme we go Ere the final word shall strike, Counting fast or counting slow : " Barcelona, bona, strike." What it all means no one knows, Mixed up like a peddler's pack, As from door to door he goes : " Hare, ware, frow, frack." Now we guess and now we doubt, Words enough or words we lac£, Till the rhyming brings about Welcomed with a farewell shout : 1 Hallico, ballico, we-wi-wo, whack — out." A DARKTOWN LULLABY. Sleep time, mah honey ! evenin' shadows fallin', Sun sinking down in'a skies ; Sand Man done reckons time now fo' callin' — Close y' li'l coal-black eyes ! Close dem, mah honey ! Sand Man won't lub yo' Ef yo' 'sists to chattah dataway ; Yander he's callin' ! " Derry duin ! derry duni ! derry ditty ditty duni !" Dat's what a Sand Man say ! Sleep time, mah honey ! shadows am creepin', Creepin' up aroun'a cabin do' ; Down in'a meadow dem bullfrogs am weepin', Weepin' kase de sunlight had to go. Sand Man am walkin', sweet dreams he's bringin' — Doan yo' blink dem li'l eyes dat way, Yander he's singin' ! " Derry dum ! derry dum ! derry ditty ditty dum !" Dat's what a Sand Man say ? Sleep time, mah honey ! shadows done foun' yo', Foun' yo' an' yo' po' ol' mammy, too ! Whippo'will am singin', singin' all aroun' yo', Dess a sweet good-night he means fo' yo' ! Sand Man ! How do, suh ! li'l one am ready, Ready fo' to dream'a night erway, Chune up yo' singin' ! " Derry dum ! derry dum ! derry ditty ditty dum !" Dat's what a Sand Man say ! SELECTED POEMS. Ul GRANDFATHERS CIDER You can talk about the thirty, puffy bread as white as snow, The apple tarts ami golden marmalade, The pumpkin pies of monstrous size all shiniu' iu a row An' various other things that " Mother made." But, as in vivid retrospection I live once again the past, There is one thing from me naught can ever take — It's the pleasant recolleetiou (in its spell it hinds me fast ) Of the apple eider (irauddad used to make. I remember — I remember long ago when life was sweet An' we'd gather round the fireplace at night, As we'd pile the logs on higher, keepin' up a roarin' fire, An' we all would scrooch up close — my, 'twas a sight ! Then we'd roast a cup o' chestnuts, while the old folks tola us tales, An' we'd round off with a monstrous chunk o' cake, Then we'd all look sort o' solemn like we orteu't but we did Drink the apple cider t irauddad used to make. — Phil. H. Armstrong. THE DIAMOND WEDDING By the bed the old man, waiting, sat iu vigil sad and tender ; Where his aged wife lay dying, and the twilight shadows brown, Slowly from the wall and window chased the sunset's golden splendor, Going down. "Is it night?" she whispered, waking (for her spirit seemed to hover Lost between the next world's sunrise and the bed- time cares of this), And the old man, weak and tearful, trembling as he bent before her, Answered " Yes." " Are the children in ?" she asked him. Could he tell her? All the treasures Of their household lay in silence many years be- neath the snow ; But her heart was with them living back among her toils and pleasures, Long ago. And again she called at dew-fall in the sunny summer weather : " Where is little Charley, father? Frank and Rob- ert — have they come?" "They are safe," the old man faltered ; " all the chil- dren are together, Safe at home." Then he murmured gentle soothings, but his grief grew strong and stronger, Till it choked and stilled him as he held her wrin- kled hand, For her soul, far out of hearing, could his fondest words no longer Understand. Still the pale lips stammered questions, lullabies and broken verses, Nursery prattle, all the language of a mother's lov- ing heeds, While the midnight round the mourner, left to sor- row's bitter mercies, Wrapped its weeds. There was stillness on the pillow— and the old man listened lonely — Till they led him from the chamber, with the bur- den on his breast, For the wife of sixty years, his manhood's early love and only, Lay at rest. " Fare you well !" he sobbed, " my Sarah ; you will meet the babes before me ; 'Tis a little while, for neither can the parting long abide. For you'll come and call me soon, I know— and Heav- en will restore me. To your side." It was even so. The spring-time, in steps of winter treading, Scarcely shed its orchard blossoms ere the old mau closed his eyes, And they buried him by Sarah, and they had their " diamond wedding" In the skies. WE THREE. We used to romp from morn till night, We waded in the clover, And in the deepest, widest pond We threw poor, patieut Rover. At night we cracked th' hickory nuts- Horseshoe nails for a lever, An' asked ma 'fore we went to bed Could we all sleep togevver. Sometimes we used to sit an' hear Our grandma tell a story Of ghosts 'at walked without a head. An' some wuz old an' hoary ; An' then we drew our rockers close, No ghosts should us three sever ; We wouldn't stir a peg Mess we Could all free sleep togevver. When we grew up there lurked about Some pallid phantom near me, An' stole the others one by one 'Till none wuz left to cheer me. An' all day long, when I'm alone, I hear 'em calling ever — To come an' share their lonely bed An' all free sleep togevver. — Ida Eckert Lawrence. EF DE CROPS CUT SHORT. Dev's a heap er discontentment sloshin' loose erroun* de land, An' I used ter flounder in it lak' a cat-fish iu de sand ; But I studied things, an' argied 'bout despoudincy an' sich, Yieldin' less dan tares in hahvest towa'ds makin of us rich, Tell Ise come ter de conclusion dat it's foolish ter cavort, Er to let de lip go drappiu' Ef de crop's cut short ! I is better off fo' certain dan a big lot I could name, Oat's elected to the back seats w'eu dey's ruunin' after fame ; It is comfortiu' to know Ise nebber beat fo' Presi- dent, An' Ise nebber had no bank to bust an' lose mah eb- ber cent ; An' a pusson dat has 'scaped dis ort to reudah thanks, he ort, An' not let de lip go drappiu', Ef de crop's cut short ! i — Will T. Hale. 102 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE SWITCHMAN'S CHRISTMAS STORY. Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough ; I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough. This berth that the company gave me they gave as the work was light ; I was never fit for the signals after one awful night. I'd been on the line from a younker, and I'd never felt the strain Of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every pass- ing train. One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer, And it's all through that as you find me the station- master here. I was on the switch down yonder — that's where we turn the mails And specials and fast expresses on to the centre rails ; The side's for the other traffic— the freight and the local slows. It was rare hard work at Christmas— when double the traffic grows. I've been on duty down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day, Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray ; But I've worked the switch half-sleeping, and once I slept outright, Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright. Then I thought of the lives in peril and what might have been their fate Had I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late ; And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frame As I fancied the public clamor, the trial and bitter shame. I could see the bloody wreckage — I could see the man- gled slain — And the picture was seared forever, blood-red, on my heated brain. That moment my nerve was shattered, for I couldn't shut out the thought Of the lives I held in my keeping and the ruin that might be wrought. That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our sleep- ing child, My wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, as she smiled, That Johnnie had made his mind up — he'd be a switchman, too. " He says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work on the line with you." I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look ; Lord bless you ! my little Alice could read me like a book. I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that I must leave, For a switchman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve. But she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep, She made me give her a promise, which I swore that I'd always keep — It was always to do my duty. "Do that, and then, come what will, You'll have no worry," said Alice, " if things go well or ill. There's something that always tells us the thing that we ought to do" — My wife was a bit religious and in with the chapel crew ; But I knew she was talking reason, and I said to my- self, says I, " I won't give in like a coward— it's a scare that'll soon go by." Now, the very next day the missus had to go to the market town ; She'd the Christmas things to see to and she wanted to buy a gown. She'd be gone for a spell, for the party didn't come back till eight, And I knew, on a Christmas eve, too, the trains would be extra late. So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she could turn the key — For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me. He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet and nice and good — He was mad to go with daddy, and I'd often promise he should. It was noon when the missus started— her train went by my box ; She could see as she passed my window, her darling's curly locks. I lifted him up to mammy, and he kissed his little hand, Then sat, like a mouse, in the corner, and thought it was fairyland. But somehow I fell a-thinking of a scene that would not fade, Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid ; For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I might come to lie In a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had doomed to die. The fit that had come upon me like a hideous night- mare seemed, Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed. For a time the switch had vanished— I'd worked like a mere machine — My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard nor seen. With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek, Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips re- fused to speak ; There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sight That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white. It was all in one awful moment — I saw that the boy was lost ; He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from a train had tossed ; The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here. And the Limited Mail was coming, and I had the line to clear. I could hear the roar of the engine — I could almost feel its breath, And right on the centre metals stood my boy in the jaws of death ; On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the centre line, And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God ! was mine ! 'Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's ! Heaven ! what could I do? Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew — " What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear On the wind came the words, " Your duty !" borne to my listening ear. Then I set-^y teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick. "My boy !" I cried, but he heard not; and then I went blind and sick ; The hot, black smoke of the engine came with a rush before I turned the mail to the centre, and by it flew with a roar. SELECTED POEMS. im Then I sank ou 1117 knees in honor, and kid my allien face — I had given my child to Heaven ; his life was a hun- dred's grace. Had I held niy hand a moment, I had hurled the dy- ing mail To shatter the creeping local that stood ou the other rail ! Where is my boy, my darling ? O God ! let me hide my eyes ! How can I look— his father— on that which there mangled lies ? That voice !—0 merciful Heaven !— 'tis the child's, and he calls my name ! I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame. I knew uo more that night, sir, for I fell as I heard the boy ; The place reeled 'round and I fainted — swooned with the sudden joy. But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bed, With Alice's arms around me, and a strange, wild dream in my head That she'd come "by the early local, being anxious about the lad, And had seen him thereon the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad — She had seen him just as the enjine of the Limited closed my view, And she leaped ou the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through. She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound — The moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and I was found With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white ; I heard the boy and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night. Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind 1 Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind? If I hadn't a-done my duty — had I ventured to dis- obey — My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day ! — George R. Sims. A HARVEST HYMN. Thank God that on a thousand hills His summer gift the landscape fills, And reapers in the joyous morn Are busy with the ripened corn. Thank God for coverlets of snow, That kept the corn-seed warm below, And for the patient Mother Earth That nursed and fed it from its birth. Thank God for all the generous rains, And the hot sunshine on the plains ; And that the seasons gray and gold Brought increase of a hundred fold. Thank God for plenty everywhere; And, that the poor may have their share, The miracle of loaves again Is wrought for multitudes of men. Thank God for all the corn that .stands In other fields of other lands, And that where'er His children roam, Same grateful hearts sing " Harvest Home. Thank God with life as well as lip, With lowly prayer and fellowship ; With holier hope and nobler aim Sing praises to the Father'* name. Thank God that all the harvest store Is only one love-gift the more, That He who gave His Son will spend His love iu blessing to the end. Thank Him who for our joy and rest, Has made the Father manifest, And for His Kingdom that shall come, With Righteousness for Harvest Home. — Marianne Farningham. CURFEWTIDE. The thrushes sing iu every tree, The shadows long and longer grow. Broad sumbeaius lie athwart the lea, The oxen low ; Round roof and tower the swallows slide, And slowly, slowly sinks the sun At eurfewtide. When day is done. Sweet sleep, the night-time's fairest child, O'er all the world her pinions spread ; Each flower beneath her influence mild Fresh fragrance sheds ; The owls, ou silent wiugs and wide, Steal from the woodlands one by one At eurfewtide, When day is done. No more the rookery clanging rings With voice of many a noisy bird. The startled wood-dove's clattering wings No more are heard ; With sound like whispers faintly sighed Soft breezes through the tree-tops run At eurfewtide. When day is doue. So may it be when life is spent, When ne'er another sun can rise Nor light one other joy present To dying eyes. Then softly may' the spirit glide To realms of rest, disturbed by none, At eurfewtide, When day is done. —S. Cornish Watkins. CATCHING A DIMPLE. The roses kissed her shadow, The zephyrs blither blew, And the little grasses quivered As they touched her dainty shoe ; The branches bent to greet lier, While the rillets ran to meet her, And the summer morn was sweeter As she tripped along the dew. She stopped and plucked a daisy To bind amid her hair, And I seemed to see it laughing With the rapture to be there. No fairer nymph Apollo Ever chased o'er hill and hollow ; And I could not choose but follow, Though she led me to despair. With waniug hope to win her, And many a fear to miss, I traced her little footsteps Along the road to bliss. But love ne'er wins by weeping, So when with pulses leapiug I saw a dimple peeping, I caught it with a kiss. — Samuel Minium Peck. 104 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY HOW CHRISTMAS CAME TO THE POORHOUSE, As Told by the Rose that Grew in the Poorhouse Window. One day there came to the poorhouse a woman whose head was white With the snows of sixty odd winters, and never a sadder sight Have I seen—and I've seen full many !— than the poor, old wrinkled face. All wet with tears as they left her in the pauper's lodging-place. "I don't want to die in the poorhouse," she said, with a heart-breaking moan. And the grief of the poor old creature would have ted a heart of stone. "Why couldn't they let me stay there?— it wouldn't be long, I know ! — And end my days in the old home? Oh, how can they treat me so? " "So it wasn't long afore Robert had everything all his own way. An' ruther than live in a jangle, I didn't have much to say. An' it seemed as if Marthy an' Sarah had somehow got the idee That they knew better than I did, an' they wouldn't lis'en to me. " Benny an' I— poor Benny, who loved me better than they — We knew that we wasn't wanted, we felt we was both in the way ; But we jest hel' fast to each other, an' he' tell me of many a plan That was goiu' to make things dift'rent when he got to be a man. " It seemed as if Robert jest hated the boy for his share in the farm, An' he blamed him for this thing an' that thing, tho' he never was guilty of harm ; An' at last I said, ' Benny, don't stay here ! It'll kill me to have you used so. It'll be awful lonesome without you, but I'll stan' it — jest pack up an' go.' " An' he went. ' Run away,' Robert told 'em. ' Good riddance,' says Marthy, says she. But it seemed as there'd be'n a fun'ral an' the only mourner was me. Oh, Benny, my Benny, my baby ! He loved me, an' what would he say If he knew I was here in the poorhouse, an' they called me a pauper to-day ? " By-an'-bye, when Robert got marri'd, the girls said, that they wouldn't stay To be bossed 'round by his wife; an' left home, an' they live in the city to-day. Marthy marri'd a man that's got money — they say he's as rich as can be ; But she' 11 let me die here in the poorhouse— an' Sarah's as cruel as she. "Robert's wife — she was alius ag'ins-t me, an' Robert would say she was right, An' I couldn't do nothin' to suit 'em — it was find fault from mornin' to night. I tried hard to make 'em no trouble, I wanted to earn my owu way, But I couldn't, an' that is the reason I'm here in the poorhouse to-day." By-an'-bye she told me her story. Her husband had long been dead. " He died when Benny, my youngest, was ten years old," she said. " An' I've been so glad, so thankful, that he didn't live to know What was in the hearts of the children that he loved and trusted so. " ' My children, be kind to your mother,' he told 'em ' the dav he died. ' I know yoii will care for her always,' an' he called 'em to his side- Robert, an' Marthy, an' Sarah, an' ' Promise me, chil- dren,' said he ; An' they promised that they would be kind to an' always take care o' me. " Robert, the oldest, was twenty when his father died in May, An' he took things into his own han's in a masterful kind o' way. An' if I tried to advise him he wouldn't listen to me, 'For women don't understand business, though they think they do,' said he. It was the morning of Christmas, and we heard the glad bells ring In the joy that comes at the birthday of Christ, our Saviour-King. " The day'll bring gladness to most folks," she said, with a sorrowful sigh, " But when one's homeless an' friendless it's the best of all blessin's to die. "I wonder if Robert, an' Marthy, an' Sarah'll think to-day Of the mother they sent to the poorhouse, to get her out o' the way, As they're eatin' their Christmas dinner? God grant they may never know What it is to have their children turnin' ag'inst 'em " I wish I could hear from Benny, jest a word from him to-day, To say that he loves his mother as he did when he went away. Lis'en ! There's somebody knockin' ! I'll go to the door an' see — Mebbe the children are sorry, an' are sendin' after me!" SELECTED POEMS. 105 The door swung back on its hinges to let the visitor past. •'Mother! My poor, old mother, if s Benny come back at last !" She felt his strong arms round her, his kiss on her withered cheek, An replying; Smooth at the window, and about the door The snow in cold and heavy drifts was lying. He didn't need the daylight any more. One shook him roughly, and another said, " As true as preaching, Uncle Joe is dead !" And when they wrapped him in the linen, fairer, And finer too, than he had worn till then, They found a picture — haply of the sharer, Of sunny hope some time ; or where or when They did not care to know, but closed his eyes And placed it in the coffin where he lies ! None wrote his epitaph, nor saw the beauty Of the pure love that reached into the grave, Now how in unobtrusive ways of duty, He kept, despite the dark ; but men less brave Have lett great names, while not a willow bends Above his dust — poor Joe, he had no friends ! THE CRICKET IN THE NIGHT. Lying here within my chamber, Where the crimson roses clamber, Just to cool their heated faces ou the sill ; When the clock had stopped its clatter And the mice have ceased to patter In the walls or in the ceiling, and are still ; From the darkness brooding over Dewy fields of corn and clover. And the garden, where the lilies glimmer white- Like an elfin minstrel straying, On a golden zither playing, I cau hear the lonely cricket in the night. Wintry winds are wildly trailing, And the snow on post and paling Lies, in all its spotless beauty, once again ; And the frost in silver traces Ferns, and flowers, and fairy faces, And the foliage of the forest, on tin pane ; Wide-a-awake with restless yearning, And upon my pillow turning, While within its crystal prison dies the light, Piping plaintively and shrilly O'er the grave of rose and lily, Still I hear the louely cricket in the night Should I brave the cold and silence And the norther in its violence — Should I seek the ghostly garden there below, Ii the blighted bushes hiding, Through the frozen grasses sliding — Would I find the little creature in the snow? Nay ; November skies were clouded When his tiny form was shrouded In a withered leaf, forever out of sight. But, as here I lie and listen, Though the snows about me glisten, Yet I hear the lonely cricket in the night ! — Minna Irving. SKKEGTEB PQEMS. Ill the old eottirwr baud. I m.han 111*- band ofi.lden time, when you audi were hoys ; WUcii music, to be sweet la us, must drown all other noise ; When martial airs entranced our ears, anil every feeRng fired ; Wlu-u uuit'ornis with golden braid were all our hearts (1. -i red. Ob, bow those feUowa maxehed about on every holi- day ! L'be •• Square " was tilled with uiusic sweet, the streets with iiri^ht array. 'Che |ii«m folks Stood ii|>ou their steps, the country folks, discreet, With horses praneing to the tunes, drove up some other street. The boys? Well, you can easy guess — we shall not try to hide it, Whenever that old baud was out, we fellows marched beside it. We kept the step the bandmen dad, and kept it quite as well, And alwavs held our corner up when it was time to yell." Perhaps they made some discords — perhaps the side horns blew About three times as strong and loud as they by right should do ; Perhaps the cymbals didn't clang exactly with the bass ; » Perhaps the " B-flats " missed some notes and tooted out of place. But what eared we when we were boys? — to our un- cultured breast " The Girl I Left Behind Me " was as good as Sousa's best ; Our little backs would straigtben up, our thoughts would soar away — The aeme of our earthly bliss — to play a horn some day. I've heard full many bauds siuce then, and paid to get a seat ; I've heard them play their loudest airs and softly, sadly sweet ; But never has my being thrilled with rapture more complete Than when I heard old Strasburg Baud go marching down the street. — Joh?i L. Strong. In a drift of velvet petals from the roses by. the door. i Then she bent above it, blushing— though no eye was there to see ; But the letter that it spelled her— it was neither N nor B. i " None I know," said charming Bessie, "has a name at all like this, But whene'er he comes a-courting I will greet him with a kiss."' When her eager swains came wooing in the dreamy dusk of day, Lo ! she scorned their sugared speeches, and she sent them both away. 'Slowly, side by side, "they left her, heavy hearted at their fate, Turning once to see her standing in the moonlight by the gate. jSlimly gowned in white, she glimmered from the shadow of the trees, Like a sister to the lilies that were crowding round her knees, And 'twas thus the squire beheld her as he cantered gayly by, And he threw a glance behind him with a dark and ardent eye. "Have you heard the news, this morning?" all the maidens meeting said, " How the squire of Marston Manor with our village belle will wed? Bessie has a smile that dazzles, Bessie has a neck of milk. She will drive a pair of ponies, she will dress in rich- est silk, And among the ancient beeches she will dwell ia splendid state, Where the Marston lions crouching guard the ivied entrance gate." But the bride before her mirror, with its knots of airy blue, Whispered to her happy image : " Ah t the apple told me true !" — Minna Irving. THE APPLE. is the quaint and pleasant kitchen of the farmhouse on the hill, Round whose door the running rosea dewy cups of crimson spill, From whose smoky rafters swinging fragrant herbs perfume the air (Balsam, boneset, thyme and tansy, sage and mint, they all are there), Bessie sat, her dainty finger in a blossom-sprinkled gown, And a silken ribbon twisted in her braids of glossy brown ; Round her scarlet mouth the dimples played a game of hide and seek As she pared a shining apple, fair and rosy as her cheek. " B will stand for Brent," she murmured ; " N will surely mean it's Ne&l," And for a breath she held suspended in the air the ruddy peel Ere she flung it o'er her shoulder, and it eusled upon the ffeer THE SNOW-DROP WAS AHEAD. Thk crocus and the violet Were whispering together Among the grass roots, and they said, " Soon comes the pleasant weather, And warm and bright the sun will grow, And cold winds stop their blowing, And brooks and rills o'er fields and hills Again be gladly flowing." " And I," the crocus boasted, " shall Be first of flow'rs to carry The joyful news up to the birds That in the cedars tarry. Oh, what a grateful song they'll sing Upon the boughs above me ! And everything that loves the spring Will praise and dearly love me." But then she stayed a robe to make That should be very splendid, Of satin sheen and colors blue And yellow deftly blended. Meanwhile the little snow-drop, In a cloak of pearly whiteness With green hearts broidered here and there To give a touch of brightness, Pushed bravely through the ground ; and when The eroeus, too, pushed through it, There was no news for her to tell, For everybody knew it. — Margaret Ey tinge. 1.12 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THANKSGIVING LONG AGO. Thanksgiving Day at Hampton Glades, in times of long ago. When all our family came back the old-time grace to know ; And little folks and older ones sent care away to roam, And let content come in to lodge awhile with all at home ! 'Twas bustle in the kitchen then, preparing for the meal ; 'Twas jolly in the sitting-room, all faces would re- veal : And married "boys" and "girls," who'd long the heads of homes become, Talked over by the blazing logs the old, old days at home. And when the dinner was announced, we'd all go fil- ing in, And soon the gossip would commence and cracking jokes begin ; And boyish hopes and girlish fears, when lived the fay and gnome, Were all recalled and laughed about, Thanksgiving Day at home. Although the old folks' eyes were dim, and white their tresses flow, Their hearts beat fresh like earth's strong pulse be- neath the spreading snow ; And when the blessing was besought, a rev'rence seemed to come — For God, we thought, drew nearer then about the dear old home. Oh, sun that shines on .Southern scenes — oh, stars of Southern skies ! Beam softly on those scattered ones, and where our mother lies ! And somewhere, sometime, Providence ! when we shall cease to roam, Unite us in Thanksgiving sweet within the Father's Home ! — Will T. Hale. THE FAMILY BURYING GROUND. A wall of crumbling stones doth keep Watch o'er long barrows where they sleep, Old chronicled grave-stones of its dead, On which oblivious mosses creep, And lichens gray as lead. Warm days the lost cows as they pass Rest here and browse the juicy grass That springs about its sun-scorched stones ; Afar one hears their bells' deep brass Waft melancholy tones. Here the wild morning-glory goes A-rambling as the myrtle grows, Wild morning-glories, pale as pain, With holy urns that hint at woes, That night hath filled with rain. Here are blackberries largest seen, Bich, winy dark, whereon the lean Black hornet sucks, noons sick with heat, That bend not to the shadowed green The heavy bearded wheat. At dark, for its forgotten dead, A requiem of no known wind said, Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs ; While to thin starlight overhead The shivering screech owl sobs. — Madison Oaivein. THE RAILROAD THROUGH THE FARM. There's thet black abomernation, that big locomo- tive there. Its smoke-tail like a pirut-flag, a-wavin' through the air ; An' I mus' set, twelve times a day, an' never raise my arm, An' see thet gret black monster go a-snortin' through my farm. My father's farm, my grandsir's farm — I come of Pilgrim stock — My great-great-great-great grandsir's farm — 'way back to Plymouth Rock ; 'Way back in the sixteen hundreds it was in our family name, An' no man dared to trespass till that tootin' railroad came. I sez, " You can't go through this farm, you hear it flat an' plain !" An' then they blabbed about the right of " eminent domain." "Who's Eminunt Domain?" sez I. "I want you folks to see Thet on this farm there ain't no man as eminunt as me." An' w'en their gangs begun to dig I went out with a gun, An' they rushed me off to prison till their wretched work wuz done. "If I can't purtect my farm," sez I, " w'y, then, it's my idee You'd better shet off calling' this ' the country of the free.' " There, there, ye hear it toot again an' break the peaceful calm. I tell ye, you black monster, you've no business on my farm ! An' men ride by in stovepipe hats, an' women loll in silk, An' lookin' in my barnyard, say, "See thet ol' cod- ger milk !" Git off my farm, you stuck-up doods, who set in there an' grin, I own this farm, railroad an' all, an' I will fence it in! Ding-ding, toot-toot, you black ol' fiend, you'll find w'en you come back, An' ol' rail fence, without no bars, built straight across the track. An' then you stuck-up doods inside, you Pullman upper crust, Will know this codger'll hold his farm an' let the railroad bust. You'll find this railroad all fenced in— 'twon't do no good to talk — If you want to git to Boston, w'y jest take yer laigs an' walk. — S. W. Foss, "Farm Ballads." WINTER ON THE FARM. I have just about decided It 'ud keep a town boy hoppin' Fer to work all winter chopnin' Fer a old fireplace, like I did ! Lawz ! them old times were oontrairy — Blame backbone o' winter, 'pea red like, Wouldn't break ! — and I was skeered like Clean on in to February ! Nothiu' ever made me madder Than for Pap to stomp in, layin' On a extray forestick, say in': " Grouud-hog's out, and seed his shadder !" — James Whitcomb Riley. SELECTED POEMS. 113 PLANTATION LULLABY. 'Way (loan en de holler screech-owl shout, An' de stars dey wink dey eye ; De man en de moon he soon tu'u out, Wen de daylight win's dun lie. Heish, mer h'l oue, go to sleep — Drap yo' eye an' don' yo' peep- Sleep, pickaninny, sleep ! De sorrerful whoop'will grieben' sad, Lak she bre'k her heart iu two ; She sut'n'y 'bused 'ini moust'us bad, Ef she cotch 'iin fo' he flew. Heish, mer li'l oue, go to sleep — Drap yo' eye an' don' yo' peep — Sleep, piekauinuy, sleep ! Des les'n dat'r lon'sum conjur' crow To de fire-bug doun de lane — Sey " Hooh-ah-hoo, yo' better flyiu' low, Fur termor' hit gwine to rain!" Heish, mer li'l one, go to sleep Drap yo' eye an' don' yo' peep — Sleep, pickaninny, sleep ! — Toreckly er tree toad heahs de fuss, An' he try to chune he chin, 'Twoll owl git to laughiu' fit to bus', Den he 'low he won' jiue in. Heish mer li'l one, go to sleep — Drap yo' eye an' don' yo' peep — Sleep, pickaninny, sleep ! Do mo'k-b'ud er wakiu' Pom he sleep — Whar' he dream wid folded wing— Mek frog quit de moauful soun' "knee-deep, : Wle de marster song-bu'd sing. Heish, mer li'l one, go to sleep — Drap yo' eye au' don' yo' peep — Sleep, pickaninny, sleep ! De big star shoot 'way ercross de sky, Wid er stream o' raiuin' gol' ; Dun gone lak yo' mammy by-em-by, Wen her story, dun bin toP. Heish, mer li'l one, go to sleep — Drap yo' eye au' don' yo' peep- Sleep, pickaninny, sleep ! THE OLD MANS BOY. In Sleepy Hollow graveyard, when the long day was done, I sadly mused above the dust that once was Emer- son ; And where caressing zephyrs the clustered greenery wave I stood in chastened reverie at Hawthorne's quiet grave. On this green hill, 'neath sun and stars, will sleep from age to age The Dreamer in his dreamless sleep, the Mystic and the Sage ; The best, the crown of all her years, our Western world can show, The fullest flowerage of our time is buried here below. They sleep, nor heed the winter storm, nor feel the summer breeze ; They sleep, but the strong words they spake are blown o'er all the seas. I turned away where bending grass o'er humbler burial waves, And then beheld a gray old man who walked among the graves. " Great men are buried here," I said. He wiped a falling tear. "Great men," he sighed, " 1 know, but then, my boy is buried here. God gave them strength and length of days till all their work was done — My boy— my boy we buried here before his work beguu !" The Dreamer and the Mystic— I left them to their fame, And silent left the poor boy's grave, the grave with- out a name. Their home is in the thought of men iu nations wide apart, The boy finds love as warm as theirs in his oid fa- ther's heart. — Sam Walter Foss. HONEY/' Come to your black mammy and let her curl your hair And wash your face — dem Easter lilies dey not half so fair ; Dem cheeks is like de roses, so putty and so pink, And dem lips rike red carnations, so old black mammy think. De shinin' scarf, all wove of gole, your putty ma let fall Round dat naked marble creeter standin' 'gainst de parlor wall, It haven't half de glitter of dem curls ; dey is so bright Mammy can't tell in de sunshine which is hair and which is light. Stop frolickin', my pussycat, come here, my precious honey, Wuflf more'n mammy's diamonds or papa's pile of money ; Dare ! he's been niakin' dirt pies, too, look at dem little hands ! Yet he's de loveliest chile dat lives in all de Lord's wide lands. Come, honey, let me wash you clean, you's had a nice long run, And mammy— when you's dirty — says I spiles her little one. " Yes, mammy, I'se a comin' now, but mammy, you's so funny, Wouldn't de bees eat Willie up if dey knew he was honey ? " I seen a bully bumble bee a feedin' in a lily, S'pose he hears you call me 'honey,' too, den he might feed on Willie ; Would bees go foolin' round de flowers to fill my papa's hive, If dey could find a honey boy dat walks about alive?" Lord love dat chile !— jis listen now — but isn't he too smart, A laffin' at his mammy ? Blessed darlin' of her heart ! Heap sweeter den dem honey drops down in de lily's cup. Come here, the bees sha'n't have you, for ole mam- my'll eat you up. — Rosa V. Jeffrey. SPRINGS COMING. The woodland brooks that murmur as they go In silver ripples through the fringing grass Are harp-strings touched by God ; the winds that blow Are Springs gay children, singing as they pass. And where the sod is trodden by their feet, The Earth, all gladdened by youth's warmer blood, Puts forth her fragile urns of odors sweet — The violet and fragrant crocus bud. — Frank Dempster Sherman. 114 SIS HUNDRED AND FIFTY EB SMALL'S PREACHING. If death is jest the end, and settles us fer keeps, If when a feller dies it's same as when he sleeps, If this world's all there is fer me and every man, Still, seems ter me we ought ter do the best we can ; We ought to try as hard, we ought to climb as high As if we'd be repaid all through the by-and-bye ; We'd ought ter strive fer good, if life be but a whift— I ain't a-saying' 'tis, I'm only sayin' "if." If when we die we go to " Mansions of the Blest " AVhere all is perfect peace and paradise and rest, If this world's jest a vale of sorrer and of strife Ter fit us fer the next, the higher, better life, Why, still it seems ter me, as long's we're here at all, AVe must be here ter work, not loaf, until the call, Though through the grave we gain our seat on Heaven's cliff — I don't say as we do, I'm only sayin' " if." If life is all, why, then, be thankful you're alive, And set your aim on high and do and dare and strive ; If Heaven comes bevond, be manful-like and brave, And make your Heaven shine a bit this side the gTave ; Don't set around and fret about what's goin' to be, But make your life a light fer other men ter see ; No matter, gleamin' robes or grave-clothes cold and stiff— I don't say which it is— I'm only sayin' "if." — Joe Lincoln. A SONG OF THE CHURN. Under the hillside's verdured edge, The mossgrown milk-house stands, Cool and sweet as the crystal pledge In the milk-maid's sinewy hands ; As she dips it up, with bright tin cup, From the spring in the stone-paved floor, And with Hebe's grace, in her laughing face, Refills it o'er and o'er. I drink and drink unsatisfied, My eyes above the brim ; .The'while I watch her graceful poise, And figure neat and trim ; A homespun goddess beating out With rhythmic swing and clash, The butter's song in the wooden churn In bubble, swirl, and splash ! Splash ! splash ! splash ! The creamy cataracts dash ! Spatters of cream have kissed The dimpled arm and wrist, And I in fancy's dream Am envying the cream ! With thrifty housewife's needful care, Within the churn she looks, And I intent on reading there A lore unwrit in books, Bend low to meet, in contact sweet, Her head above the churn ; Her eyes and mine, with meaning shine, And faces flush and burn. I gaze and gaze unsatisfied, My eyes above the brim, The'while her fingers sweet and clean The golden globules skim. We grasp the dasher, band o'er hand And beat, and swing, and clash, A churning song to love's refrain In bubble, swirl and splash. Splash ! splash !' splash ! The creamy cataracts *La*h, Her hand beneath, my own, Has something warmer grown, Her cheek is like the rose — The dasher slower grows — Thump ! thump ! thump ! The butter's golden lump, A yellow island kist, By milky seas of mist, Proclaims the churning done, And hands that clasp as one, Unclasp and fall apart, With over-conscious start ! Oh, golden age ! and golden days ! And golden butter churned ! By the rosy lass whose winsome ways Have taught me all I learned Of love that lies in woman's eyes, I pledge in memory's wine, For still beside the autumn's tide Her hand is clasping mine ! I gaze and gaze unsatisfied, The horizon's growing dim, But still her fingers sweet and clean My golden moments skim. We grasp the dasher as of old In rhythmic swing and clash, And beat the butter's olden song In bubble, swirl, and splash ! Splash ! splash ! splash ! The creamy cataracts dash ! In autumn's radiant day, Just as they did in May, Thump ! thump ! thump ! The butter's golden lump, A yellow island kist, By milky seas of mist, Proclaims the churning done, And hands that clasp as one, Shall never fall apart, While life sustains the heart ! — Birch Arnold. GO LONG, CHILE! Say yo' lak t' marry me, Dat I's got de style, An' am sweet as sweet kin be? Go 'long, go 'long, chile ! Doan' yo' be a-talkin' so, You's a-foolin' me, I know, Dis hyar niggah ain't so slow — Go 'long, go 'long, chile ! Say we'll hab a brownstone front? Dat yer nieks me smile, Meks dis niggah sorter gruut — Go 'long, go 'long, chile ! Brownstone front you's t'inkin' 'bout 'S jus' a cave you's holler'd out Down de quarry, frontiu' sout' ! Go 'long, go 'long, chile ! Say dat yo' has got some money Comin' aftah while? Say yo' wants me for yo' honey ! Go 'long, go 'long, chile ! Dat ole ship's a-gwine t' sink, She'm gwine t' sink an' spill de chink ; Cain't fool dis niggah, needn't t'ink — Go 'long, go 'long, chile ! Den you's in lub wid Lizer Jane — I know'd it all de while. Yo' said she's sweet as sugah-cane— Go 'long, go 'long, chile ! Shetole me so dis aftahnoon ; So yo' jus' mosey mighty soon, An' quit yo're triflin' wid dis coon — N#w go 'long, go 'long, chile ! — James Courtney Challis. SELECTED POEMS. 115 SONG OF THE SCYTHE. Scyt Mowers, weary and worn and blithe, What is the word methinks ye know, Endless over-word that the scythe Sings to the blades of grass below ? cy thes that swing in the grass and clover, Something, still, they say as they pass — What is the word that, over and over, Sings the scythe to the flowers and grass? Hush, ah hush, the scythes are saying, Hush and heed not and fall asleep ; Hush, they say to the grasses swaying, Hush, they sing to the clover deep ! Hush, 'tis the lullaby Time of singing — Hush, and heed not, for all things pass, Hush, ah hush, and the scythes are swinging Over the clover, over the grass ! — Andrew Lang, WHEN BESSIE COMES DOWN TO THE SPRING. The daisies nod merrily one to another, The marigolds cling to the hem of her gown, The chickens desert their excitable mother To clamor for favors when Bessie comes down With her pail to the spring. Oh, red and white roses, Not fairer are they all a-bloom in the grass Than the bloom of her cheek ; see how graceful she poses To watch the cloud-shadows that lazily pass, While birds linger praiseful on fluttering wing When hazel-eyed Bessie comes down to the spring. The rabbit peeps shyly from out his sweet cover Of thick-blossomed lilacs adorning the slope Togaze with the eloquent eyes of a lover Where Bessie comes tripping like radiant Hope From the dream of a poet, her loose-flowing tresses With arrows of sunlight shot mauy times thro' — And Brindle comes lowing to meet her caresses, The grass showing dark where she scatters the dew. And backward and forward complacently swing The winnows wheu Bessie comes down to the spring. Her charms owe no tax to the law of cold fashion, She had all her grace from the glorified One, And her veins are as free of the latter-day passion As meadow-stream kissed by the beams of the sun. From scene-painted grotto no fairies beguile her In opera fashioned to mountebank's art, But she hears the lark's melody ripple ecstatic And full from his throat whereon lieth his heart. Then up through the meadow with giant-like swing Comes Reu'beu to welcome sweet Bess at the spring. BABYS HANDS. Dainty, dimpled, little things, Soft as angels' plumey wings, Naught to do but grow ; Awkardly you move about, Up and down, and in and out, Tell me, do you know Why such antics you go through ? What you're trying now to do? Where you want to go ? Dainty, dimpled, little things, Clutching, as your cradle swings, At thin nothingness ; Who can tell what you will hold, When your grasp is firm and bold ? May be honor — may be gold — May be nothingness ! Dainty, dimpled, littlethings, Whatso'er the future brings, There'll be work for you. Though you still be soft and white, You cannot your duties slight While there's work to do. There'll be burdens to be lifted, From the bad, good must be sifted, From the false, the true ; And though you're so soft and small, Of this work, a part will fall, Little hands, on you. —Mildred Forsylhe. 110 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY LITTLE NELL CHOOSES HER VALENTINE. " What is a Valentine, mamma?" Asks Nell, the little fair-haired lass, Just five years old, with eyes as blue As those bright fairy flowers that gTew Last summer in the meadow grass. " A Valentine," mamma replies, ." Is some one very dear to you, To whom a verse, upon the day Called Valentine's, you sent to say You'll love him well the whole year through." " And must it be a boy, mamma?" " Well," smiling as she smoothed her curie, " Most girls choose boys, I must confess, And nearly all the boys, I guess, Yes, all the boys, I'm sure, choose girls." Then Nellie cries, with sparkling eyes And rosy cheeks, "I've chosen mine. The dearest, bestest boy I know Is darling grandpapa, and so Grandpa shall be my Valentine !" — Margaret Eytinge. NOSES OUT OF JOINT. You needn't cry and look so sad ; I love you, pussy dear, the same — I truly do — as I loved you Before this cunning kitty came ; But things are changed a little now, You know, and 'cause he is so small I've got to 'tend the most to him. Your nose is out of joint, that's all. Don't you remember that cold day They left me hours and hours in bed ? And when the nurse came for me at last, " Your nose is out of joint," she said — " A baby's come to live with us." Well, then, that's what's the matter now ; You might have known how it would be. Oh ! dear, my head ! Please don't me-ow, Or I must send you from the room. Nice little girls don't make a noise When their mamma gives almost all Their kisses to small, red-faced boys. I tell you, puss, you are too big To sit with kit upon my knee, And it's no worse for you to have Your nose put out of joint than me. — Margaret Ey tinge. THE LITTLE HIS/TOR. Somebody turn to us las' night, The dearest little midget ; He's des as wee as he tan be ; He turn all by hisself, an' he Des laughs, an' cries, an' winks at me, An' keeps me in a fidget. He des turn in from babyland, The angels bwung him over ; And papa told me that he found The little fellow on the ground. An' he was sleeping des as sound As I do, in the clover. 'Tourse I ain't sorry that he turn — I'se glad to see him — only 1 wants some love and tisses, too ; For since he turn, they don't — boo-hoo !- Play wis me like they ust to do, An' I is awful lonely. He's des bran new — an' that is why They fuss about him, maybe ; An' papa said I musn't cwy 'Tause he'd det bigger by an' by, But ain't he little now ? Oh, my ! — He's only des a baby. Dood dracious ! — won't he ever stop? I tan't hear uuffin near him. No wonder all the angels thought That they could spare this little tot — He cwiesso much ; that's why they brought Him where they touldn't hear him ! — C. M. Snyder. THE LITTLE PINK SHOE. Only a little pink baby shoe That is stained and wrinkled and torn, With a tiny hole where the little pink toe Peeped out in the days that are gone. The little pink toe was the " big little pig " That to market so often would go, And over and over the legend was told As I kissed the little pink toe. " Piggie some more," the red lips would lisp, And the story and kiss were given Again and again, so happy were we In motherhood's foretaste of heaven. But there came a night, with a desolate blight, AVheu death bore my idol away, And no little toe ever peeps from the shoe To be kissed in the sweet old way. But my tears have deluged the little pink shoe And stained it a deeper stain, And I long for the touch that would chill me in death If it gave me my darling again. So, when I am dead, lay the little pink shoe Near my heart which is silent and cold, And perhaps up above, in the sunlight of love, I shall kiss the pink toe as of old. — Kate Tfiyson Man: OLD JOHN HENRY. Old John's jes' made o' the commonest stuff- Old John Henry — He's tough, I reckon — but none too tough — " Too much, though, 's better than not enough !" Says old John Henry. He does his best ; and when his best's bad He don't fret none, ner he don't get sad — He simply 'lows it's the best he had, Old John Henry. His doctern'sjes' o' the plainest brand — Old John Henry. " A smilin' face and a hearty hand 'S a religen 'at all folks understand," Says old John Henry. He's stove up some with rhumatiz, And they hain't no shine on them shoes o' his, And his hair hain't cut — but his eye-teeth is ! Old John Henry. He feeds hisself when the stock's all fed — Old John Henry — And sleeps " like a babe " when he goes to bed — " And dreams o' heaven and home-made bread !" Says old John Henry. He hain't refined as he'd ort to be To tit the statutes of Poetry, Ner his clothes don't tit him— but he fits me — Old John Henry. — Jamet Whitcomb Riley. SELECTED POEMS. 117 A-BRINGIN HOME THE COWS. It ain't no fun a-hoeing corn — The sun it's b'ilin' hot. And pa he keeps a feller just A-goin' at a trot. You Det I'm glad to see the sun A-shinin' through the boughs, 'Cos then it's time for me to he A-bringin' home the cows. Sometimes I finish out my row, But mostly Uncle Bill He says, " Just drop your hoe, my son ; I guess you've got your fill ; I'll take your row on out from here. You whistle for old Towse, And go and have a little fun A-bringiu' home the cows." Aud when the cows is 'cross the crick I strip and swim across, Aud drive 'em iu the swimmiu' hole, And then I ketch old Boss Right by her tail and hang on tight— t^ee ! how the old girl ploughs Right through the water— lots of fun ! A-bringin' home the cows. Then when I git up to the barn Pa he picks up a stick, And says, " Young man, I've told you 'nougu To keep out of the crick !" Aud (hen I say, " Why, pa, they went Across the crick to browse, And I jest had to swim across A-bringin' home the cows." It ain't no fun in winter-time — You git ketched in the dark And hear the big owls hootin', and Them big red foxes bark ; The snow's a-fallin', and the wind's A-howlin' through the boughs ; It's lots of fun in summer, though — A-bringiu' home the cows 1 THE COUNTRY SCHOOL. At this old desk some ragged urchin sat, To learn his letters and such words as " cat ;" His sun-browned feet were bare upon the floor, Which knew no polish save such smoothing o'er As twenty pair of restless feet may give, While wisdom wriggles through each tousled sieve. Perchance, the master was some cultured man, Whose mind, though mighty, had not solved God'; plan To raise him from his humble tiresome trust, To one all conflict, glory, heat aud dust— Some future Garfield to attract the ey« By great achievements, and at last to die Mourned by his country ; or some struggling soul, Who through this gate must pass to reach the goal ; Who lived unconscious of the pent-up song His lips would utter to be treasured loug. Through open windows hear the drowsy hum Of insects, now that balmy June has come. Soft winds are 6tirring, and the fearless fly Has just begun his pestering ways to try. The lessons lag, and restless hands and feet Find idle pastime on the floor and seat. And now the master's face turns toward the wall, His glance is followed by the eyes of all. The clock, persistent, slow, but ever sure, Will soon release the bonds they now endure. And down the dusty lane and over field Will lad and lass go loitering, till the yield Of sunshine lessons and long shadows fall. And milkiug-time and supper homeward call. And now 'tis winter, and the tingling air Upon each window makes frost-tracings rare, The ,vood-box bursts beneath the stored-up heat ; The round stove glows, and forty snow-wet feet Are drying, and the little room is full Of odors of burned leather and steamed wool. Along the wall after each one is wrung, Are rows of leggings, mittens, tippets hung ; The promised pleasure of a " spelling bee " Will make to-day a day of jollity. — William S. Lord, " Blue and Gold.' pour. In a little scarlet kirtle, With a dewy sprig of myrtle, She comes tripping from the dairy When the dawn begins to peep. Where the snowy lambs are skipping, And the swallows gaily dipping, She stauds with dimpled elbows — I can see her in my sleep ! How her rosy fingers twinkle As she milks ! The tinkle, tinkle, Iu the milk-pail is delightful ; I could listen all the day. It sets my heart a-flutter Just to see her pat the butter ; For she rolls it aud she pats it, In a wildly witching way. 'Tis sad to see the lasses Frown upon her as she passes ; But she gives her wayward curia ;* toss, The saucy little sprite ! She knows the laddies love her, For they never fail to hover, like bees around an apple bloom. When Polly comes iu sight. BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. I'M standin' here a-thinkin' of the medder on the farm, An' you a-walkin' 'long o' me, jes' leanin' on my arm, An' how the pearls lay on the grass, in mornin' sun and dew, While buttercups and daisies were a-smilin' up at you. Seems like I almost hear the brook that ran thro' sedges rank, A-whisperiu' what you said that day while standin' on its bank, Jes' when you slipped your hand in mine an' an- swered me so true What the buttercups an' daisies heard, an', darliu', what I knew. Seems now as if that medder was a paradise to me When I look back thro' waitin' years, an' tears of misery, An' see you standin' by my side, the sunlight iu your hair, An' buttercups aud daisies jes' a-blooinin' ev'ry- where. Oh ! buttercups an' daisies, you return with ev'ry spring, But your tears and smiles an' blossoms now can never, never bring One who welcomed you with gladness, an' with al- most childish glee, For you heard me say I loved her, an' she died a- lovin' me. — George H. Tnr»e>. 118 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY MY MA, SHE KNOWS. My pa, he scolds me jes' becuz He says I'm gittin' tough ; He says my face is never clean, My hands are always rough ; I'm notbehavin' like I should An' goin' wrong, I s'pose, But ma, she takes an' pats my hand An' smiles, becuz she knows. My pa hain't got no use fer boys ; T s'pose he wants 'em men ; I wonder if he's clean forgot The boy he must 'a' been ; Fer ma, she says, they're all alike 'Bout face an' hands an' clothes, An' says I'll learn to be a man ; An' ma, I guess she knows. My pa, he says, I ain't no good At doin' anything ; I'd ruther fool away the time An' whistle, dance an' sing ; But ma, she smiles an' says I'm young, An' then she up an' goes An' kisses me, an' shows me how ; Fer ma, you bet, she knows. My pa, he says I'll never be A business man, like him, Because I hain't got any " drive" And i' get-up," " pluck " and " vim ;'* But ma, she says, so solemn like, " A man's a boy that grows ; An' boys must have their playin' spells ;" An 1 ma's a trump, an' knows ! My pa, he shakes his head an' sighs, An' says he doesn't see Where I get all the careless ways That seem jes' born in me ; An' ma, she laughs, an' laughs, an' laughs, Till pa's face crimson grows, An' then she says, " 'Tis very queer," But, somehow, ma, she knows. My ma, she knows 'most everything 'Bout boys, an' what they like ; She's never scoldin' 'bout the muss I make with kites and bike ; She says she wants me to be good An' conquer all my foes, An' you jes' bet I'm goin' to.be, 'Cuz my sweet ma, she knows. —Birch Arnold. CALLING THE CATTLE HOME. " Co, Blossom ! come up from the clover, 'Tis growing late, and I and Rover Have hunted and called you, over and over- Blossom and Cherry, and Bee !" Dew-laden daisies nod and shiver ; 'Tis the damp west wind from the darkling river, That makes them laugh till their white heads quiver, As the clear voice calleth the cattle home. " Come up, Bee, and Bloss, and Cherry !" The glad call rings so far and merry, That the blue hills echo the well-known query — " Where are you, Blossom and Bee?" The wee stars are peeping out one by one, Slyly wink at the darkened sun, Ana blink and twinkle all over with fun At the child who calleth the cattle home. Knee-deep they stand in a clover-starred dingle, Where their musical bells drowsily tingle, Or blend in a low harmonious jingle — Blossom, and Cherry, and Bee ! With head just topping the tassel-tipped corn, Brown curls crowned with a hat forlorn, That shadows a face which vies the morn, The farm boy calleth the cattle home. " Co, Blossom, and Cherry, and Bee ! You've roamed so far, and you've roamed so free That the maid is weary of waiting for thee — Cherry, and Blossom, and Bee !" While he zanders, calling, calling — Through the heavy dews a-falling, The cattle wind homeward, lazily crawling — Blossom, and Cherry, and Bee. Though a humble picture, old and lowly, 'Tis a stainless picture, almost holy ; Meek-eyed cattle winding slowly, As the farm boy calleth them home. " Co, Blossom ! come up from the clover ; 'Tis growing late, and I and Rover Have hunted and called you, over and over — Come up, Cherry ! Come up, Bee !" — May De WUU INDIAN CRADLE SONG. Swing thee low in thy cradle soft, Deep in the dusky wood ; Swing thee low and swing aloft — Sleep, as a pappoose should ; For safe in your little birchen nest Quiet will come and peace and rest, If the little pappoose is good. The coyote howls on the prairie cold, And the owlet hoots in the tree ; And the big moon shines on the little child As it slumbers peacefully ; So swing thee high in thy little nest, And swing thee low and take the rest That the night wind brings to thee. The father lies on the fragrant ground Dreaming of hunt and fight, And the pine leaves rustle with mournful sound All through the solemn night ; But the little pappoose in his birchen nest Is swinging low as he takes his rest, Till the sun brings the morning light. JENNIE CAME TO MEET ME. Over the fields when the work was done, And the long lane lay in shadow, In the low, red light of the setting sun Jennie came through the meadow ; The light wind tossed her curls in gold, And her cheeks burned bright to greet me, And the soft blue eyes a sweet tale told, For Jennie came to meet me. Down by the brook, as we walked along, Where the sweet wild rose was growing, The robin caroled her evening song, And the amber sky was glowing ; I said : " Sweet love, I'll hold thee fast, And fortune shall not cheat me. I've gained my darling's heart at last," For Jennie came to meet me. Upon the hill where the tall oaks grow, And the brown house sleeps in shadow, My darling stands in the sunset's glow, Watching o'er the meadow ; The world may scorn, and fortune frown, I care not how they treat me, My heart grows light as the day goes down, For Jennie comes to meet me. — Mrs. M. W. Hackelton. SELECTED POEMS. 119 UNREST. The farther you journey aud wander From the sweet simple faith of your youth, The more you peer iuto the yonder And search for the root of all truth. No matter what secrets u mover Their veiled mystic brows in your quest, Or close on your astral sight hover, Still, still shall you walk with unrest. If you seek for strange things you shall find theiu, But the finding shall bring you to grief ; The dead lock the portals behind them, And he who breaks through is a thief. The soul with such ill-gotten plunder Willi its premature knowledge oppressed, Shall grope in unsatisfied wonder Always by the shores of unrest. Though bold hands lift up the thin curtain That hides the unknown from our sight ; Though a shadowy faith becomes certain Of the new light that follows death's night; Though miracles past comprehending Shall startle the heart in your breast, Still, still will your thirst be unending And your soul will be sad with unrest. There are truths too sublime aud too holy To grasp with a mortal mind's touch, We are happier far to be lowly, Content means not knowing too mutjh. Peace dwells not with hearts that are yearning To fathom all labyrinths unguessed, And the soul that is bent on vast learning Shall find with its knowledge — unrest. —Ella Wheeler IVilcOZ. -U+- PROPOSAL. The violet loves a suuny bank, The cowslip loves the lea ; The scarlet creeper loves the elm, But I love — thee. The sunshine kisses mount and vale, The stars they kiss the sea, The west winds kiss the clover bloom, But I kiss — thee. The oriole weds his mottled-mate, The lily's bride o' the bee ; Heaven's marriage ring is round the earth — Shall I wed thee? — Bayard Taylor. WHEN JENNY RODE TO MILL WITH ME. When Jenny rode to mill with me, The daisies bared their l>osouis ; The spring winds rumpled every tree And stirred a storm of blossoms. The squirrels scampered from the hedge, The cows were in the clover ; The lilies rimmed the river's edge And dusky doves flew over. The white road seemed to welcome us, By shaken dewdrops dented ; The groves with soug were tremulous, By lonely violets scented. The mad wind seemed to env" all The curls beneath her bonnet, And let the dew-dashed blossoms fall In twinkling showers on it. Ho"W well the w;ui island lay, and none might land ; Though blue the waters of the bay Stretched calm on either hand. And when at last from the distant shore A little boat stole out to reach Our loneliness, and bring once more Fresh human thought and speech, We told our tale and the boatmen cried ; " 'Twas the Pocahontas — all were lost ! For miles along the coast the tide Her shattered timbers tossed." Then I looked the whole horizon round — So beautiful the ocean spread About us, o'er those sailors drowned ! " Father in heaven," I said — A child's grief struggling in my breast — " Do purposeless thy children meet Such bitter death ? How was it best These hearts should cease to beat ? Oh, wherefore ! Are we naught to Thee? Like senseless weeds that rise and fall Upon thine awful sea, are we No more then, after all?" And I shut the beauty from my sight, For I tliought of the dead that lay below ; From the bright air faded the warmth and light, Then came a chill like snow. Then I heard the far-off rote resound Where the breakers slow and slumberous rolled, And a subtle sense of Thought profound Touched me with power untold. And like a voice eternal spake That wondrous rhythm, and " Peace be still !" It murmured : " Bow thy head and take Life's raptures and life's ill, And wait. At last all shall be clear." The long, low, mellow music rose Aud fell, and soothed my dreaming ear With infinite repose. Sighing I climbed the light-house stair, Half forgetting my grief and pain ; Aud while the day died, sweet and fair, I lit the lamps again. — Celia Thaxter. THE OLD CLAY FLOOR. My thoughts wander back to a time long ago wheu I had the light heart of a boy ; When life's disappointments were yet far away and the future a vista of joy. I see the old homestead among the green trees, and 4be orchard and tall, waving corn ; I hear now the children, the chickens, the cows aud the sound of the old dinner horn. I see my dear mother, with apron and cap, as she stands in the old kitchen door, With sleeves rolled up neatly from dear, honest hands, 'most as brown as the dress that she wore. But clearest of all the dear visions of home, the home I shall see nevermore, Is — maybe you'll laugh, but 'tis sacred to me — the clay hardened old kitchen floor. This old-fashioned kitchen was built on the ground, and the floor made of hard yellow clay, Worn smoother and harder by fond, faithful feet that traversed it many a day. A noiseless and beautiful floor 'twas to me ; not a spot nor a speck could be seen ; The fine polished floors of a palace could not be more cleanly or dainty, I ween. I went once again in the long after years, just to look ou this sacred old floor, And I felt the same longing for puddings and pies that I felt in the days gone before ; A hunger of mind and of body and soul softly crept in my turbulent life, Then fully awake to the trials and woes that fill up 1 the measures of strife. A boy's tender love and a man's bitter tears were blended as never before, When on the old dear floor overlaid with love steps, I looked from the desolate door. Then like the Greek exile, who bore where he went sacred soil from the land of his birth, I took just a clod of the clay from the floor as my most sacred treasure on earth. — Margaret Andrews Oldham. SELECTED POEMS. 123 CUDDLEDOWNTOWN. Cuddledowntown is near Cradleville, Where the sand men pitch their tents, In Drowsyland, You understand, In the State of Innocence. 'Tis right by the source of the River of Life, Which the Grandma Storks watch over, While honey-bug bees, 'Neath funny big trees, Croon lullabies in sweet clover. 'Tie a wondrous village, this Cuddledowntown, For its people are all sleepers, And never a one, From dark till dawn, Has ever a use for peepers. They harness gold butterflies to sunbeams — Play horse with them a-screaming, While never a mite, Throughout the night, E'er dreams that he's a-dreaming. In Cuddledowntown there are choo-choo cars In all the beautiful streets, And round bald heads And curly heads, Are the engineers one meets ; From Piggybacktown to Pattycakeville These cars run hissing, screeching, While wonderful toys For girls and boys Can always be had by reaching. Oh, Cuddledowntown is a Village of Dreams, Where little tired legs find rest ; 'Tis in God's hand, 'Tis Holy Land, Not far from Mother's breast. And many a weary grown-up man, With sad soul, heavy, aching, Could he lie down, In this sweet town, light keep his heart from breaking. — Joe Kerr, A LOVER S SONG. Spring, you say, is for the far Footing where the hill paths are ; For the raptured listening To the nestling tawny-wing ; For the sentient ecstasy Permeating sod and tree. Marry, lad, it may be so ! If not, then for what? you cry; Springtime is for Love, I trow ! Just for Love, say I. Summer, you say, is for dreams Where the lake's blue ripple gleams* Is for reveling at will In the scents the roses spill ; Is for sloughing care and stress ; Is for honeyed idleness. Faith, my lad, it may be so ! If not, then for what ? you cry ; Summer is for Love, I trow ! Just for Love, say I. Autumn, say you, is for all Nature holding carnival ; Fruit grown mellow to the cor° On the upland, by the shore ; Brimming bin and bursting sheaf, And rich livery for the leaf. Sooth, my lad, it may be so ! If not, then for what? you cry ; Autumn is for Love, I trow ! Just for Love, say I. Winter, say you, is for books Read in long-warmed ingle-nooks ; For the wonders of the air Where the great auroras flare ; For the merry rites that rule Tili the waning tide of Yule. Marry, lad, it may be so ! If not, then for what? you cry ; Winter is for Love, I trow ! Just for Love, say I. —Clinton ScoUard, A NEST IN THE GRASS. Sun and sky, and a nest in the grass, A nest where honey-clovers crowd ; Where the daisy bends, and the white moths pass ! And the seeking bee hums long and loud — Oh, the small safe home, and the wild glad flight, sweet songs by day, and soft rest by night ! Would I had made my nest so low, So lonely, that none might seek, nor find — Where love, like a flower, in the sun, should grow, And songs, like birds, fly far on the wind — That all might listen, but none could name That hidden singer, for praise or blame ! — Madeline S. Bridges. THE AUTUMN LANE. A song for the autumn lane O'erhung by sumacs and pines,; Where the spider weaves a tremulous skein In a mist of silvery lines ; And the asters gleam By the wayside stream And peep through the yellowing vines ; And the wild mint's prayer Floats quaint on the air In the shade of the muscadines. A song for the autumn lane Where the withered thistles sigh Like weird old folk that dream in vain Of love 'neath a summer sky ; While sweet scents roam Through the thickening gloam — Flower souls that will not die — And the crickets trill A dirge on the hill, And the dark wind sobs, Good-bye ! — Samuel Minium Peek. AN AUTUMN DAY. Leaden skies and a lonesome shadow Where summer has passed with her gorgeous train. Snow on the mountain and frost on the meadow— A white face pressed to the window pane. A cold mist falling, a bleak wind calling, And oh ! but life seems vain. Rain is better than golden weather When hearts are chilled with dumb despair. Dead leaves lie where they walk together ; The hammock is gone and the rustic chair. Let bleak snows cover the whole world over, It will never again seem fair. Time laughs lightly at youth's sad " never." Summer shall coine again smiling once more ; High o'er the cold world the sun shines forever — Hearts that seem dead are alive at the core. Oh ! but the pain of it ! Oh ! but the gain of it — After the shadows pass o'er. — Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 124 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THANKSGIVING IN OLD VIRGINIA. Old black mammy has a possum on to bake With sweet potatoes, sweeter than a maple sugar cake. And her pickaninny's gone by the light of the moon With his yellow bellied puppy to tree a fat coon. The coon lies a-grinning in the hollow of a gum That the yellow hammer uses for his morning drum, While the gray squirrel chuckles in high old glee At the hickory-nuts a-raining from the hickory-nut tree. The gray owl shivers on a dead old limli And blinks in the sunshine, mellow and dim, While molly cotton rabbit gives half a dozen hops And hears her heart beating of a sudden and stops. The air is so fine and soft and clear That the fence seems far and the mountains seem near, 'Till the partridges fly to the fences and 'light, And calls out a song about " old bobwhite !" "Old bobwhite, are your crops all right ? Is there wheat beneath the barn for the first cold night ? The guinea hens and turkeys find its shelter mighty warm. We'll gather in among 'em when there comes a storm." The wild turkey's calling from the far hillside ; The foxhounds' are baying on the long divide ; There's a fat pig squealing, for life is sweet, But not much sweeter than is sausage meat ! — John Pant Bocock. ALEC YEATON S SON. The wind it wailed, the wind it moaned, And the whit* caps flecked the sea ; " An' I would to God," the skipper groaned, " I had not my boy with me !" Snug in the stern sheets, little John Laughed as the scud swept by ; But the skipper's sunburnt cheek grew wan As he watched the wicked sky. " Would he were at his mother's side !" And the skipper's eyes were dim. " Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide, What would become of him ? " For me — my muscles are of steel, For me let nap what may ; I might make shift upon the keel Until the break o' day. " But he, he is so weak and small. So young, scarce learned to stand — Oh pitying Father of us all, I trust him in Thy hand ! " For Thou, who markest from on high A sparrow's fall — each one ! Surely, Oh, Lord, Thou'lt have an eye On Alec Yeaton's son !" Then, helm hard aport, right straight he sailed Toward the headland light ; The wind it moaned, the winds it wailed, And black, black fell the night Then burst a storm to make one quail Though housed from winds and waves — They who could tell about that gale Must rise from watery graves ! Sudden it came, as sudden weut ; Ere half the night was sped, The winds were hushed, the waves were spent, And the stars shone overhead. Now, as the morning mist grew thin, The folk on Gloucester shore Saw a little figure floating in Secure, on a broken oar ! Up rose the cry, "A wreck ! a wreck ! Pull mates, and waste no breath—" They knew it though 'twas but a speck Upon the edge of death ! Long did they marvel in the town At God his strange decree, That let the stalwart skipper drown, And the little child go free ! —Thomas Bailey Aldrich. GROWING OLD. A little niore gray in the lessening hair Each day as the years go by ; A little more stooping of the form, A little more dim the eye, A little more faltering of the step As we tread life's pathway o'er, But a little nearer every day To the ones who have gone before. A little more halting of the gait, And a dullness of the ear ; A growing weariness of the frame With each swift-passing year ; A fading of hopes, and ambitions, too, A faltering in life's quest ; But a little nearer every day To a sweet and peaceful rest. A little more loneliness in life As the dear ones pass away ; A bigger claim on the heavenly land With every passing day. A little farther from toil and care, A little less way to roam ; A drawing near to a peaceful rest And a happy welcome home. A RURAL SPARKING. Things is never goin' right, (Life is so contrary !) Thought I'd go that winter night An' speak the word to Mary. Never seen her look so sweet, (Jest like any fairy !) Kitten purrin' at her feet — Me, six yards from Mary ! Told her that 'twas like to snow- All the weather showed it ; Looked as if we'd have a blow. Simply said : " She knowed it I" Talked o' this, an' talked of that Till my tongue got weary ; Made remarks about the cat, But still kep' fur from Mary I Old clock ticked an' ticked away. (Wished her heart 'twould soften) Couldn't find the word to say, Though I tried it often. Time to go, an' leave them charms — Since I couldn't win 'em ! Yawned, an' sorter stretched my arms, An'— praise God !— she wuz in 'em 1 Don't these women know a sight? Ain't they all contrary ? Didn't say the word that night, An' yet, I'll marry Mary I SELECTED POEMS. 125 HIS LONGING. I'M a-goin' back to the country ; I'm sick of this demedold town ; It's a reggeler flyin' Dutchman, a-whirlin' aroun' an' aroun'. I'd as lief be locked in a prison, an' workin' away in » cell ; I don't say farms is heaven, but a city is imos'ly hell. Death in the food an' water, an' nary a soul to care ; Death on the streets an' crossin's, an' death in the CUSsid air ; Why, blamed if the men an' women draw hardly a quiet breath, Fer broodin' over the city is the black-faced angel o' death. I want to git out in the country, an' set on the old side porch, Long of a Sunday mornin', when folks is goin' to church, An' hear the waggins a-creakin' along the dusty roads, Filled to the backs with children— the ginooine Sun- day loads ; A-sittin' there in the sunshine an' sinokin' away like a Turk ; An' up in the furdest corner a-watchin' the wasps at work, An' squintin' 'cross to the orchard where apples is goin' to waste, A-sizin' up the biggest an' wonderin' how they'd taste ; A-thinkin' about the winter, an' the girls an' the cider press, An' hick'ry nuts an' apples, an' the rest of it — well, I guess ! You kin talk of your life in a palace, in the city or out to sea, But if you would like to get livin', come out on the farm with me ; An' I'll make you waller in clover, till you've clean forgot the choke Of the dust of your tarnal city, an' its hangin' clouds o' smoke ; An' I'll take you out to the pasture, an' show you a chunk of sky That you needn't be feared of lookin' at fer a cinder in your eye. So come with me to the homestead, an' rest your heart an' eyes, An' git your fill o' chicken, an' doughnuts an' apple pies. I'm dyin' to see a river as clear as a pane o' glass — I'm like old Nebbykudnezzer, so turn me out to grass. — Ernest McGaffey. FOLLOWING SUIT. One springtime day a gentle maid Adown the garden pathway strayed That wound the shady orchard through, And, thinking of her eyes of blue And tender glances, sweet and true, 1 followed suit — pray, wouldn't you ? A saucy breeze that chanced to stray Along that fragrant garden way, Hwept back her wavy golden hair, Surprised to see a maid so fair, And sighed for love such charms to view. I followed suit — pray, wouldn't you? A ray from out the sunlit sky Espied the maid as she passed by, And rained his kisses, soft and warm, On hair and neck and snowy arm And cheek of apple blossom's hue : I followed suit — pray, wouldn't you ? THE ROSES BY THE RUN. The roses and the clover Are very sweet and fair, And I love the fragrant odors They breathe upon the air ; But sweeter seemed the blossoms Beside the meadow run, The time that you were twenty, And I was twenty-one. How fondly I remember The time we culled them there, And 'neath the shady maples I wove them in your hair ; How there in bliss we tarried Until the set of sun, The time that you were twenty, And I was twenty-one. It may have been the flowers, Or a look benign and free, That bade me whisper softly How dear you were to me. I never stopped to question, I only know 'twas done, The time thjt you were twenty, ~ And I was twenty-one. We've had our summer, darling, The fields of life are brown, We've traveled up the hillside, We're on our journey down ; Yet oft I wake from dreaming Those days have just begun, That you again are twenty, And I am twenty-one. When life and love are over, And I am laid at rest, I hope someone will gather, And place upon my breast, Such flowers as used to blossom Beside the meadow run, The time that you were twenty, And I was twenty-one. WHERE YE SPANKWEED GROWS. There's a corner in our garden, but my nurse won't tell me where, That little boys must never see, but always must be- ware. And iu that corner, all the year, in rows, and rows, and rows, A dreadful little flower called the Spaukweed grows ! My nursie says that if a boy who doesn't wash his face Or pulls his little sister's hair should ever find that place, The spankweed just would jump at him, and dust his little clo'es. Oh, it's never safe for fellers where the Spankweed grows ! Some day I'll get the sickle from our hired man, and then I'll go and find that spankweed place — it's somewhere in the glen. And when I get a-swingin' it an' puttin' in my blows, I bet there'll be excitement where the Spankweed grows. — Paul West. 126 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY GRANDPAS COURTSHIP. It wa'n't so very long ago, 'bout forty year, I guess, That I first went a-courting Deacon Bodkin's darter, Bess, (Or leastways, Betsy was her name, but that ain't here nor there). She was an orful pretty gal, with yellow-orbun hair, An' cheeks as round an' rosy as any temptin' peach, That makes a fellow smack his lips because it's out of reach. Hit was down in ole Missoury, an' I was keepin' batch, When me an' Betsy Bodkin fust thought about a match ; I had a little cabin, an' a good chunk of a hoss, 3n Buck Crick bottom, 'side the crick, an' Bodkins lived across, A mile or so on t'other side ; an when the crick was low I use to ford it every day, to see my gal, you know. The deacon — wal, I reckon now, that he was putty square, No better, an' no wusser, than other people air ; But then he wa'n't no favorite with me, an' you kin 'Twas 'cause he couldn't see the piut of me a-courtin' Bess ; An' when he found that me an' her was wantin' to git spliced, He rared an' tore, an' ordered me to git right up au' h'iste. The reason why he got so mad at me is easy told ; 'Twas 'cause my trousers pockets wasn't cluttered up with gold. He 'lowed that I had better clare, or he would raise a breeze ; His darter shouldn't hev a man as poo' as black-eyed peas. Besides, thar was another chap, a drover, wanted Bess ; He had right smart o' money, say a thousand, more or less. But he was mortal humly, an' stubborn as a mule, An' Bess declared she wa'n't a-goiu' to hev no such a fool, An' when the deacon rared an' pitched, an' ordered me away, She up an' vowed, emphatic like, that she would never stay To marry any drover that ever wore a hat. And what the deacon's darter said, she meant, and that was flat. The deacon's wife, Aunt Polly, she sort o' favored me, An' alius made me welcome, when he wa'n't there to see ; An' when the deacon rared an' swowed that Bess should marry Si — (The drover's name was Silas)— or he'd know the rea- son why, Aunt Polly 'sided 'long of Bess, an'— wal, I'm free to say, We got our plans all ready, fur we 'lowed to run away. So Bess she slipped away one day, an' met me in the lane ; The roads was awful muddy, fur there' d been a power of rain. But she dumb up behind me— my hoss would carry- two — An' off we went, toward the crick, the nighest dis- tance through, Fur I 'lowed that we could ford it, bein' Jeff, my hoss, was stout, But when we reached the ford, I see my reckoning was out, Fur the rain had riz the crick up, till it got so mortal high, I see we couldn't ford it, an' it wa'n't no use to try, An' jest that very minute, while he was standin' still, We heard the sound of hosses hoofs, a-teariu' down the hill ! An' Bess, she gave a little screech, an' lit right off the hoss, Fur 'twas her pa a-comin', with the drover, Silas Cross ! An' — wal, I had to 'elect my thoughts, an' that most 'mazing quick, So I jest made a grab for Bess, an' jumped right in the crick. The water biled around us, but I struck out fur the shore, An' I swum as I don't reckon I had ever swum be- fore ; But we got a-crost, an' there we stood, a-shakin' with the cold, An' Bess's hair fell down her back, jest like a shower of gold. But we was safe, an' so we went an' found some friends of Bess, An' I went fur the preacher, while they helped her change her dress, There wa'n't no licenses them times, an' 'twasu't long till we Was man an' wife, an' started home, as happy as could be. An' who should be there waitin', at the bars, but Jeff, my hoss ; I knowed 'twas safe to leave him, an' he'd foller me across, An' — wal, there ain't much more to tell, but in about a week, The deacon he came walkin' in a-lookin' powerful meek, An' arter we had all shuck hands he says :— " That Silas Cross Would you believe he was so mean ? He went an' stole my hoss ! He did ! — the finest hoss I had, the onery, thievin' cuss ! But then, if he had married Bess, 'twould been a blamed sight wuss. SELECTED POEMS. 127 " An' Hiram. 6enceyou swum tha Wrick, I've thought I hat I an' you Would make good partners after all, an' Polly thinks so, too ; An' though you stole my darter, Bess, I reckon 'twa'n't no sin ; So come with me, fur Polly wants to see her gal again." Wal. children, (hat's the story I've bin promisin' to you, An' you can ask your grandma if I haven't told it true ! — Helen Whitney Clark. THE OLD MUSIC BOOK. I turn with silent reverence Its unknown pages o'er, The dusty lines inspire a sense Of something heard before, In days long past, in other lands; Of ancient melodies ; Old harpsichords, and gentle hands That touched the ivory keys. The book a hundred fancies wears On every yellow page, Sonatas quaint, forgotten airs, The notes all dim with age, And variations long wove out, And faded songs and old, With trills and turnings all about, And graces manifold. Perchance, in those old bygone days, My lady sat and played In broidered stomacher of maize, And flowered blue brocade. Her lissome Angers dancing ran Through many a florid strain, Until Miss Bell, behind her fan, Begged " that sweet piece again." Perchance, when summer nights were long, And soft winds swept the meadows, Some amorous youth poured out this song To Chloe through the shadows ; Or beaux and belles of higher state, In some well-lit pavilion, Trod graceful through this minuet, Or figured this cotilion. So vagrant fancies through the mind Play fitful now and then, As, with a sigh and smile combined, I close the book again. I dare not touch its music old In this rude modern day ; Hallowed by fingers long since cold, And voices passed away. UNCLE EZRA ON THANKSGIVING. Yep, Thanksgivin' Day is playin' out, er so it seems to me, Per it don't make no comparison to what it use' ter be; Though the turkey an' the mince pies is the same we've alw'ys known, An' I'm here, an' Sary Ellen, but we're eatin' 'em alone. It's the building of the railroads thet has made it that- a-way — Thet hes tuck our children from us an' hes sp'ilt our holiday — Holdin' out their wild shameeries about lan's that can't be beat (But whar cyclones digs the taters an' whaV chinch- huge mows the wheat). Why, it use' to be thet youngsters didn't seem to want to go From the bomestid of the ol' folks any more'n a mile er so ; They 'ud take the things 'twas given 'in an' they'd settle thar and stay, An' they'd fill the homestid table when it come Thanksgivin' Day. Law me ! yes, them times is ended ! Little Sary mar- ried fust, An' Jim Medders 'lowed he'd take 'er out to Idyho or bust, An' he bustid, an' I've been a-sendin' money ever sence, Though it's more fer little Sary thet I care than the expense. An' then t'hrissy went to Texas — Chrissy alw'ys was our pride, But he headed off some cattle an' he hurt his spine an' died. An' now Sammy' s in the city, an' that a'n't so fur away, But he's writ us that a baby's brought 'em their Thanksgivin' Day ! So we narrered down the table, bein' by ourselves, you see, An' the turkey'll las' ferever jes' fer Sary an' fer me ; An' the raisins in the mince pie, bought fer Sammy's special taste, Sence he didn't come to eat 'em sorter seem to be a waste. Yej), the railroads tuck 'em from us, an' we're all alone at last, An' Thanksgivin's like 1 told yeh,jest amem'ryol the past ; But we're countin', me and Sary, on a better place an' then, We will have a big Thanksgivin' and the childr'n home again. —A.B.P. BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT. Buttercup, poppy, forget-me-not— These three bloomed in a garden spot, And once, all merry with song and play, A little one heard three voices say : " Shine or shadow, summer or spring — Oh thou child with the tangled hair And laughing eyes — we three shall bring Each an offering, passing fair ! " The little one did not understand, But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand. Buttercup gambolled all day long, Sharing the little one's mirth and song ; Then, stealing along on misty gleams, Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams, Playing and dreaming — that was all. Till once the sleeper would not awake ; Kissing the little face under the pall, We thought of the words the third flower spake, And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot The solace and peace of forget-me-not. Buttercup shareth the joy of day, Glinting with gold the hours of play ; Bringeth the poppy sweet repose, When the hands would fold and the eyes would close. And after all— the play and the sleep Of a little life— what cometh then ? To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep A wee flower bringeth Crod's peace again. Each one serveth its tender lot — Buttercup, poppy, forget-me-not. —Eugene Field. 128 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE. Tell you what I like best — Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries melts On the vines — some afternoon Like to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothing else. Orchard's where I'd ruther be — Needn't fence it in for me ! Jes' the whole sky overhead, And the whole earth underneath— Sorto' so a man can breathe Like he ort, and kindo' has Elbow room to keerlessly Sprawl out lengthways on the grass, Where the shadders thick and soft As the kivvers on the bed Mother fixes in the loft, Alius when they's company. March an't nothin' new ! April's altogether to Brash for me ! and May, I jes' 'Bominate its promises — Little hints o' sunshine and Green around the timber land — A few blossoms and a few Drap asleep, and it turns in 'Fore daylight and snows ag'n I But when Juue comes. Clear my throat With wild honey ! Rench my hair In the dew ! and hold my coat ! Whoop out loud ! and throw my hat ! June wants me, and I'm to spare ! Spread them shadders anywhere. I'd get down and waller there, And obleeged to you at that ! — James Whitcomb Riley. IN WINTER. As some white captive who is forced to meet A dusky lover, day moves on to greet The night reluctantly ; above the snow An owl glides by as heavy as the glow Of doubt through love-dreams ; in the cedar glade, Made garrulous by the crows, a gory blade Of sunset stabs the gloom ; and Faint and far Come sounds of bells from where the glimmering sheep folds are. An ebon plaque, with one blurred crimson rose — From out the copse a farmhouse window glows ; The moon, above a bare oak, limns below A devil-fish upon the spreading snow With open arms ; where in the summer wheeled Shy doves, the corn-shocks loom a tented field ; The light fades ; silence ; and then, faint and far, The bells again out where the glimmering sheep folds are. — Will T. Hale. WHEN THE COWS COME HOME. " Clink, clink, cling-clink, a-clinkety-clink" — Through the ragged brush of the pasture path, And the " old boss " stops at the brook to drink, And tosses her head with a jest of wrath. With hooves sunk deep in the brook's black loam, And muzzle deep in the lazy stream, She waits for the laggard herd to come, With ears that droop and eyes that dream, Her sleek sides bulge with contentedness And her udders drip with an overflow That blotches with white the watercress That sags with the current to and fro. The eddies whirl where her long tail flings Its tufted end with a listless toss, And the gurgling water swings and sings Like whirling wings in the brookside moss. As the water clears of its muddy rile And the " old boss " drinks with nostrils flared, The dusk, slow stealing, mile on mile, Grows dark where the deep woods stand ensnared On the east horizon's farthest rim, And out of the twilight's hazy height, Where the Dog Star loiters, white and dim, A drifting swallow pipes good-night. Then, drowsily, with a soul-deep breath, The " old boss" raises her head and sighs, And, bright as a sword from its guarding sheath, The sunset gleams in her glowing eyes. It turns the bell at her throat to gold And silvers the red of her silken coat, And the tell-tale leaves of the year grown old Turn pale in the pools where they lie afloat. Out of the silence, shrill and high, A voice of the farmyard quavers through : " Come, boss ! come, boss ! come, boss !" its cry, And the " old boss " softly answers, " Moo V' Only the call of the cow — that's all ; Only a wistful " moo," and yet It seems that I heard my childhood call— And the dusk is here and my eyes are wet. -R. C. R. ♦-•-♦ LOST IN THE CLOVER. A maiden was sighing all the day long, Like the waves on a restless sea, And she sang a sad and sorrowful song — My love, he is false to me. Oh, where is my love, and where is he gone? I have hunted the grass and the clover ; He has fled from his true love and left me alone, Like a fickle, inconstant lover. She sang with an air of melody That was heard in the fields far over, When she heard a sweet voice in the field below, Just coming from out of the clover. 'Tis I, my love ; I will ever be true, And we'll wander the wide world over, And I'll never forget the song that you sung The day we were lost in the clover. — Samuel G. King. BABYS FIRST TOOTH. Mamma, she came down all smiles and delight, And she kissed all us children twice round, And the nurse looked so cheery, and happy, and bright, As if something nice she had found. And as to papa, he, too, looked quite gay, As down to our breakfast we sat ; And when to the train he was going away, He was almost forgetting his hat. And what do you think all this stir was about, This bother and rumpus, forsooth? You'd think something funny had happened, no doubt 'Twas — baby had cut his first tooth. Just a wee little dot peeping out thro' his gums, As he bites at his ivory ring. And we've all got to feel, with our fingers and thumbs, As if 'twere a wonderful thing. Now, I'm only a boy, and I'm puzzled in truth, And a reason I've never heard yet, Why more fuss should be made over baby's one tooth, Than wus made over granny's new set. SELECTED POEMS. 129 JUMPING THE ROPE. I wouldn't like to be a boy— I never will, I hope ! But all the same T pity them, For boys can't jump the rope I Read the Bible, Rock the cradle, Let the old cat die ; We chase the fox for blocks and blocks- Susy aud Mary and I. My uiother thinks I oughtn't to— But I can't be a mope ; And she was once a little girl And loved her jumping rope ! Read the Bible, Rock the cradle, Lt 'he old cat die ; We chase the fox for blocks and blocks — Susy aud Mary and I. Aud grandma jumped a wild grapevine In pioneering days. Along the creek she got it for The best of all her plays. Read the Bible, Rock the cradle, Let the old cat die ; We chase the fox for blocks and blocks — Susy and Mary and I. Grapevine, rope and twisted wire — I 'spect my little girl Will jump a rope of braided gold With handles made of pearl. Read the Bible, Rock the cradle, Let the old cat die ; We chase the fox for blocks and blocks — Susy and Mary and I. CHRISTMAS CAROL. Against the hollow sky the earth, Folded iu starry darkness clear, Chimes like a bell Emanuel's birth, And heaven's great angels stoop to hear. The frosty air is strangely still ; The world is waiting for the light That long ago on Eastern hill Broke on the shepherds' dazzled sight. — Margaret Delano". OUR LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. The firelight flickers on the hearth and 'mong the shadows creeps ; I sit alone before the grate, as even silence sleeps ; The cricket on the hearth is hushed, and in the yellow glare The portraits on the walls look down with melan- choly stare, While shadows play at hide and seek within the brooding gloom, With pattering feet and joyful voice a little form will come, His baby hands still holds his toys, his eyes as bright as e'er, And still there clings his curly hair about his fore- head dear. He seeks his little dusty chair and prattles at my aide— The " wee white rose of all the world " — our little boy that died. Joy blooms in roses on his cheeks, smiles on his red mouth throng, His laughter sweet as twilight sounds, or burthens of a song ! Oh, why may he not stay with me— who comes whea others sleep ? Oh, why at last dissolve again and leave me here to weep ? The world may say forget— but I, as he who sang, may say There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away ! And sometimes as I sit and gaze aloue beside the fire, I half-way wish that God would turn and hearken my desire, And while I'm longing for the hand that once in mine would glide, He'd beckon me to come to him — our little boy that died. — Will T. Hale. WHEN THE TIDE IS COMING IN. Somehow, love, our boat sails lighter, Smoother, faster on the bay — Somehow, love, the sun shines brighter, Softer, warmer, thro' the spray- Somehow, love, the sky is clearer, God and man seem nearer kin — Somehow, even you are dearer, When the tide is coming iu. " 'Tis the spring of life, unending At the source of motion, dear !" " 'Tis the stream of hope descending From the depths of ocean, dear !" " 'Tis the heart of nature beating, Where the throbs of life begin !" " Earth aud heaveu gladly meeting When the tide is coming in !" Somehow, love, your eyes are brighter, Softer, warmer, thro' the spray, And your laughter ripples lighter O'er the whitecaps on the bay ; In our path no tinge of sadness, In our wake no shade of sin, For our hearts are filled with gladness When the tide is coming in I THE OLD COB PIPE. When a feller's feelin' lonesome An' the worl's agoin' wrong, When life's troubles, comiu' thickly, Steal the sweetness from its song ; When the heart aches with its fullness And the mem'ry kind o' chokes Thar's a heap o' solid comfort Iu the old cob pipe he smokes. Oh, the subtle, sweet enchantment O' the happy days goue by, Dreamiu' all the old dreams over, Now a smile and now a sigh ; Laughing with the lips of gladness, Dropping tears that grief invokes, Mem'ry curling after mem'ry From the old cob pipe he smokes. Ah, old pipe, life seems without you But, at best, an empty thing ; Friend in woe, an' joy's compauiou, Balm for every earthly sting ; Catching glimpses through the shadows Of the brighter life above, Living in an earthly Heaven With the old cob pipe we love. — Francis Xdvier Pi 13© 81 J HUNDRED AND FJFTY THE COUNTY CATTLE SHOW. My Ma, she's made a patchwork quilt that's orful gay and bright, And Sis, she's worked a afghan, red and blue, And Dad, he's fatted up a hog so big that he's a sight, And Lute he's raised a punkin big as two ; I've got a Leghorn rooster that fer color and fer size Is the beat of any round here anywhere ; So we eal'late thatour fani'ly oughter fetch at least one prize From Punkhorn County Cattle Show and Fair. There's only one more week to wait afore the time is here When we'll git in the carryall and go ; Ma's thinkin' of the women folks she'll meet from fur and near, And Sis is kinder fig'rin on a beau ; And Dad, he's talkin' hoss-race like he allers does, yer see — He knows 'bout every trotter on the track — He 'lows he'll bet on "Country Belle" instead of " Roxy B," And says this year he'll get his money back. And Lute and me is goin' ter pitch the rings aud win a cane, And hit that nigger's head stuck through a sheet ; We's practiced chuckin' at a mark all summer, shine er rain, And this time, you jes' bet, we're goin' ter beat ! But we hain't goin' ter try ter knock them dolls down off the bars, 'Cause Lute last year bagged two the second lick, And then the inan'that run the thing he give us two cigars — And, jimmy-crickets ! wa'n't we orful sick ! We're goin' ter see the tattooed man, all red and pink and green ; We'll watch the Drawin' Match and 'Tater Race, And Dad '11 shuck his coat and lam the " Test-yer- strength " machine — And blame nigh knock the weight right otf the place. We'll all hands have some peanuts and some rawsb'ry lemonade, We'll stay as long as there's anybody there ; Our family gets their money's worth, now, don't yer be afraid, At Punkhorn County Cattle Show and Fair. — Joe Lincon, in Puck, NOTHIN' TO SAY. Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothing at all to say ! Girls that's in )<»ve, I've noticed, ginerly has their way ; Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me — Yit here I am, and here you air ! and your mother- where is she? You look lots like your mother; purty much th' same in size ; And about the same compleeted, aud favor about the eyes. Like her, too, about livin' here, because she couldn't stay ; It'll most seem like you was dead like ner ! but I hain't, got uothiu' to say ! She left you her little Bible— writ yer name acrostthe page— And left her ear-bobs for yer, ef ever you come of age. I've alius kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but if yer goin' away — Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say ! You don't, rikollect her, I reckon ! No ; you wasn't a year old then ; And now yer — how old air you? Whv, child, not "twinty!" When? And your next birthday's in Aprile? and you want to be married that day? * * * I wish your mother was livin' — But— I ain't got nothin' to say ! Twenty year ! and as good a girl as parent ever found ! There's a straw ketched on to yer dress there— I'll bresh it off— turn around. (Her mother was just twenty when us two ran away !) Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say ! — James Whitcomb Riley. THE OLD KITCHEN CLOCK. It used to tick away the years upon the parlor shelf, When first we went a keepin' house — Belindy^ an' m'self — An' thar fer more'n twenty year, it seemed to be con- tent To serve the hours in proper lime, an' be an orna- ment. An' you'd er thought 't was almost made to regerlate the sun, So stiddy, 'round and 'round each day, the wheels an' p'inters run. But when the girls growed up, ye see, they had some strange idees, They didn't consult us much 'bout things, nor drop an " if you please," But went a hustlin' things around, an' changin' ev'ry room, An' nothin' had the same old place, 'less 'twas the kitchen broom. I didn't much mind the goin's on, but sha'n't forgit the shock It gin me, when they ousted out that good old faith- ful clock. An' then a little bronze concern was got to fill its place, With dragons crawlin' up its sides, an' just above the face A gal they call " Terpsichore " is settin' in a chair An' playin' on a harp — although I never heard the air — And when it strikes the half-hours out, you'd think a fairy sighed, Or that a little mouse had gin a faint squeak 'fore he died. Then it sort o' stirs my conscience, when the old clock strikes the time. AVith a kind o' ringing music, in its dear old honest chime ; For it seems to be a sayin' in a solemn sort o' way, " It's just the way of all the world ; we flourish for a day !" An' onct I went right out thar an' says I, " Old clock, see here, You're wuth a dozen fancy clocks with complicated gear!" Though taken as an ornament (as things go nowa- days), Mebbe that tother one deserves a passin' word o' praise, But when it gits a balky turn— determined not to go— I think it's 'bout like folks I've seen— a sort o' holler show ; An' strikes me when a clock, or friend, if faithful out an' out, 'Taint best to change for suthin' that you don't know nothin' 'bout. SELECTED POEMS. 131 BOB WHITE. Old frieud, I hear your whistle Upon the zigzag rail ; Your cheery voice of welcome Kings on the autumn gale : When scarlet leaves and golden Dance in the amber light, You tell me of your presence With a vim, Bob White! A whole-souled little fellow In speckled coat of brown ; You heed not summer's passing Or skies that darkly frown ; While other birds are quiet, Your call comes to delight ; And that is why I like you Most of all, Bob White! Philosopher in feathers ! I'd join your happy school ; The heart forever sighing Belougeth to the fool ! Happy-go-lucky fellow, Though chilly breezes blight, There's always summer sunshine In your heart, Bob White ! The world has so much sorrow, We need your lively call ; A soul to face all trouble, Ah ! that's the best of all ! The snow will soon be falling, Nor hill nor vale iu sight ; But I have learned your lesson In my heart, Bob White ! —Monroe H. Rosen/eld. THE EVEN-SONG. Now the west is warm, and now Plaintive is the bird on bough ; Now the primrose shyly opes, Watching for its sister stars, And the flocks adown the slopes Loiter toward the pasture bars. Now that thickening shadows throng, This shall be our even-song : Unto youth, with night above, Welcome are the wings of love ; Unto age, when shades grow deep, Welcome are the wings of sleep. Now the brooding ear receives Little laughters from the leaves ; Now the breeze is like a breath Over seas from shores of spice, And the heart within us saith, " We are nigh to paradise." Now that discord were a wrong, This shall be our even-song : Unto age, when shades grow deep, Welcome are the wings of sleep ; Unto youth, with night above, Welcome are the wings of love. — Clinton Scollari, THE SUGAR PLUM TREE. Have you ever heard of the Sugar Plum Tree? 'Tis a marvel of great renown ! It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop Sea In the garden of Shut-Eye Town ; The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet (As those who have tasted it say) That good little children have only to eat Of that fruit to be happy next day. When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time To capture the fruit which I sing ; The tree is so tall that no person could climb To the boughs where the sugar plums swing ! But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, And a gingerbread dog prowls below— And this is the way you contrive to get at These sugar plums tempting you so ! You say but the word to that gingerbread dog, And he barks with such terrible zest That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, As her swelling proportions attest. And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around From this leafy limb unto that, And the sugar plums tumble, of course, to the ground — Hurrah for that chocolate cat ! There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppertuiut canes. With stripings of scarlet or gold, And you carry away of the treasure that rains As much as your apron can hold ! So come, little child, cuddle closer to me In your dainty white nightcap and gown, And I'll rock you away to that Sugar Plum Tree In the garden of Shut-Eye Town. —Eugene Field. ! THANKSGIVING ON THE FARM. Ye may talk about yer spring time an' the merry month o' May, Er Christmas, ef ye like it best, an' I'll not say ye nay ; But ez fer me, no time o' year hez sich a subtle charm Ez Thanksgivin' in November with the ol' folks oa the farm. Thar's dad, he's eighty-five come June, or mebby eighty-six, But chipper ez a two-year-old to argy polyticks ; Et alius does me good an' gives an' appetizin' charat To the stuffiu' o' the turkey with the ol' folks oa the farm. Then thar's dear ol' mother, with her sweet an' geatle face ; She sez 'taint no Thanksgivin' 'less her boy ez in hi* place ; An' while she's thar — why, bless ye, 'twon't need n» other charm To call me hum Thanksgivin' with the ol' folks on the farm. An' when at night we gather round the pine log's ruddy glow, An' watch the flickerin' shadders o' the firelight come and go, I dream 'at I'm a boy ag'in, an' life takes on a charm 'At lasts till next Thanksgivin' with the ol' folks om the farm. 132 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY A BOY S VIEW OF IT. Mother— she's always a-sayin', she is, Boys must be looked after— got to be strict ; When I tear iny breeches like Billy tears his, It helps 'em considerable when I am licked ! But it ain't leapin' over the fence or the post — It's jest that same lickiu' 'at tears 'em the most ! Mother — she's always a-sayin' to me, Buys must have people to foller 'em roun'; Never kin tell where they're goin' to be ; Sine to git lost, an' then have to be foun'. An' then — when they find 'em, they're so full of joy They can't keep from lovin' an' lickin' the boy ! There's Jimmy Johnson— got lost on the road ; Daddy wuz drivin' to market one day, Kelt out the wagon, an' nobody kuowed Till they come to a halt, an' his daddy said : " Hey ! Wonder where Jimmy is gone to?" But Jim — Waru't no two bosses could keep up with him ! Jest kept agoin'; an' got to a place Where wuz a circus ; took up with the clown, Cut off his ringlets and painted his lace, An then come right back to his daddy's own town ! An' what do you reckon? His folks didn't know, An' paid to see Jimmy that night in the show ! An' there's Billy Jenkins — he jest run away (Folks at his house wuzn't treatin' him right) ; Went to the place where the red Injuns stay ; An' once, when his daddy wuz travelin' at night An' the Injuns took after him, holleriu' loud, Bill run to his rescue, an' scalped the whole crowd ! Mo use in talkin' — boys don t have no show ! Wuzn't fer people a-folleriu' 'em roun', Jest ain't no tellin' how fast they would grow; Bet you they'd fool everybody in town ! But mother— she says they need licftin', an 1 so They're too busy hollerin' to git up an' grow ! — Frank L. Stanton. THE WAY IT CAME. I got to thinkin' of her— hoth her parents dead and gone- Arid all her sisters married off, and none but her and John A-hvin' all alone there in that loDesome sort o' way, And him a blame old bachelor, con (irmder every day ! I'd known 'em all from children, and their daddy from the time He settled in the neighborhood, and hadn't ary a dime Er dollar, when he married, for to start bonsekeepin' on ! So I got to thinkin' of her — both her parents dead and gone. 1 got to thinkin' of her, and a-wundern what she done That all her sisters kep' a-gettin' married, one by one. And her without no chances — and the best girl of the pack — An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back ! And mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on, 'When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John, And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must he blin' To see what a wife they'd git if they'd got Evaline. I got to thinkin' of her ; in my great affliction she Was sich a comfort to us, and so kind and neigh- borly— " She'd come and leave her housework fer to he'p out little Jane And talk of her own mother, 'at she'd never see again — Maybe sometimes cry together— though for the most part, she Would have the child reconciled and happy like 'at we Felt lonesomer'n ever when she'd put her bonnet on And say she'd raily haf to be gettin' back to John ! I got to thinkin' of her, as I say— and more and more I'd think of her dependence, and the burden at she bore— Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone And married oft, and her a-livin' there alone with John — You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life For a man that hadn't pride enough to get hisself a wife — 'Less some one married Evaline, and packed her off some day — So I got to thinkin' of her— and it happened jest that way. — James WMtcomb Riley. FIVE JOLLY RED SQUIRRELS. 'Twas a bitter cold morning : the new-fallen snow Had pierced every crack wberea snowtlake could go ; The streams were all solid, the ice sharp and clear ; And even the fishes were chilly, I tear. Almost all the wild creatures were troubled and cold, And sighed for sweet summer, the shy and the bold ; But one thrifty family, as you must know, Was breakfasting merrily under the snow. Close by a tall tree, in a hole in the ground, Which led to a parlor, with leaves cushioned round, Five jolly red squirrels were sitting at ease, And eating their breakfasts as gay as you please. A SERIOUS ERROR. Ah got no use fob the weathuh man, Slingin' them frosts errouu', En' pushin' dem cyclones all erbout Ter blow dem houses down. He got no raight foh ter fool dat way, En' dey dee ought to mek him stop, W'y, de plum fool done gone en' made er freeze En spile de melon crop. Ah got no use foh sech foolishness — Scan'lous — dat whut it is ! Ah kin tell mahself whut gwine ter be By ruah ole rheumatiz. Don't kyah 'f he is er guvment man ! En' dey bes' let him drop, 'Case he done gone get all dem 'dictions mixed, En' spile the melon crop. Hit des' aiu' faih ter de cullud man, Foolin' wid t'ings dat way. Now, de rain all raight — ah kin res' mahsef When hit er rainy day. Dat weathuh man kill de chickens nex', En' de possums, too, fust pop, Ef he don' fin' out dat he go too fah W'en 'e spile de melon crop. — Josh Wink. SELECTED POEMS. IV, THE ROBINS RAIN SONG. Therk are silver pools in the garden walks, And diamond drops in the bower, And the young green leaves and the withered stalks Are bathed in the crystal shower. At the purple plumes of the lilac spray, I look through a jeweled pane, Where a robin sitteth the livelong day And singeth a soug of rain. To the farmer driving his oxen by He sings of the harvest yield, Of the corn, aud the wheat, and the haystacks high, And the cows in the daisied field ; But to me, who gaze through a mist of tears, A sad and a sweet refrain, Set to the tune of the bygone years, Is the robin's soug in the rain. For the gate is oped by the lilac bush, Aud a fair little maid comes through And stops to hear in the twilight hush. Just as I used to do. I see the gleam of the golden hair, The neck in its slender chain, Aud the dainty skirts — that she lifts with care From the loug grass wer with the rain. But the gate, loug since, to the flame was fed, Aud the lilac bush has grown, Aud the little maid is as dead, as dead, As if under a churchyard stone ; For here in her place is a woman old, Who thinks that she sees again The rosy face and the locks of gold, When the robin sings in the raiu. — Minna Irving, DADDY AN 1 DE BANJO. When daddy plays de banjo, 'E smile— jes kinder gay, An' 's foot jes' taps de flo', right sof, An' 'is eyes look fer away ; An' up an' down, an' crosst de strings 'Is han' behgins to walk, An' us chillun listens, stiller'u mice, To hear de banjo talk. 'E don' have time to play hit much, Excep'n in de night, A'ter supper, when de dishes Am all washed out uv sight ; Den daddy goes straight to de wall An' lifs dat banjo down, An' behgins to choon hit up, an' make Hit make a funny soun'. But when 'e do behgin to play Jes' listen an' be still, Kaze you's goin' to hear de mocking bird Behgin to chirp an' trill ; An' de sky'll be blue an' sunny, An' you'll hear de hum uv bees, An' you'll feel de souf-win' blowin', Thro de blossoms on de trees. You'll hear de brook a-tinklin', 'Crosst de pebbles white, An' a dimplin' an' a-dancin', In de shadders an' de light ; Den you'll hear de bell a-ringiu', An' de folks a-singin' choons, At de church what we all goes to Uv a-Sunday aftahnoous. Deu daddy stracks anudder choon, An' you behgins to think About de " swing yo' pardners all," An' Lizzy, dresst in pink, Wid roses in 'er hair, an' slim White Slippers on Vr feet, ^An' bow, when she am goin' to dance, She looks so mighty neat. A-list'nin to de banjo den, Tears lack 'e sun shine clare : Den suddent, fo' you knows it, Dar am twilight in de air, An' great big twinkly stars come out, All hazy, sof an' slow ; ,Ad' 'mongst de pines a night-bird sings Right trembly-lak an' low. An' den you jes' kin shet yo' eyes An' see de purply sky, Wi' de new moon hangin' in it, Lak a sickle 'way up high ; An' den you thinks about dat star — Hit's bigger dau de rest — Dat shines, right 'bove li'l buddy's grave, Out yonder in de west. You feels de dew a-fallin', Au' hears mammy sorter sigh. An' you jes' keeps on a-grinnin' Yet you'd somehow lack to cry ; An' you's stiller dan befo' to hear Dem tones so low an' deep, But, all to oucet— de music stops — An' daddy am asleep. — fritz 0. Parker. A LITTLE BOY S WONDER. Ev'ky time I come to grandma's. Grandma calls me " Little dear : " Kisses me, and says she's very, Very glad that I am here ; Gives me pie and crispy cookies- Wishes I would stay a year. When I go home in the autumn, You'd most think grandma'd be sad, 'Membering the pleasant summer She, and I, and grandpa'd had. But my sakes ! she looks so smiling, You'd 'magine she was glad. THt FISHING PARTY. Wunst we went a-tishing— me An' my pa an' ma — all three, When they was a picnic, way Out to Hanch's woods, one day. An' there was a crick out there, Where the fishes is, an' where Little boys 't ain't big an' strong Better have their folks aioug. My pa he ist fished and fished ! An' my ma she said she wished Me an' her was home, an' pa Said he wished so worse'u ma. Pa said ef you talk, er say Anythin', er sneeze, er play, Haiu't uo fish, alive er dead, Ever go to bite, he said. Purt' nigh dark in town when we Get back home ; an' ma, says she, Now she'll have a fish fer shore I An' she buyed one at the store. Nen, at supper, pa he won't Eat no fish, an' says he don't Like 'em, an' he pounded me When I choked ! Ma, didn't he t — James Whiicomh Riley, 134 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY BILLS COURTSHIP. Bill looked happy as could be One bright mornin'; an' says he: " Folks has been a-tellin' me Mollie's set her cap my way ; An' I'm goin' thar to-day With the license ; so, ol' boy, Might's well shake, an' wish ine joy 1 Never seen a woman yit This here feller couldn't git !" Now, it happened, that same day, I'd been lookin' Mollie's way — .lest had saddled my ol' hoss To go eanterin' across Parson Jones' pastur', an' Ax her fer her heart an' hau'! .So, when Bill had had his say An' done set bis weddiu' day I lit out and rid that way. Mollie met me at the door— " (ilad to see yer face once more !" She — say^ she : " < 'ome in — come in !" ("It's the best man now will win," Thinks I to myself.) Then she Brung a rocket out fer me On the cool piazza wide, With her owu chair right 'lougside ! In about two hours I knowed In that race I had the road ! Talked in sich a winuin' way Got her whar she named the day, With her shiny head at rest On my speckled Sunday vest ! An' whilst in that happy state, Bill, he rid up to the gate, Well, sir-ee ! . . . Het sot him down, Cheapest lookin' chap in town ! (Knowed at once I'd set my traps !) Talked 'bout weather an' the craps, An' a thousau' things, an' then — .lest the lonesomest o' men — Said he had so fur to ride, Reckoned it wuz time to slide ! But I hollered out: " 01' boy, Might's well shake, an' wish me joy 1 I hain't seen the woman vit That this feller couldn't git 1" CHOOSING THE MISTLETOE. 'Twas Christmas eve, and all the land Had donned a robe of spotless white, When through the orchard, hand in hand, We went amid the waning light. For you had left the cheerful town, And walked a mile across the snow, To hold the apple branches down, And help me choose the mistletoe. F.ach tempting bough with frost was wreathed The creamy berries grew so high. They shone like pearls in silver sheathed Against, the brightness of the sky. It must have been the sunset red Which lent my cheeks that crimson glow, As, softly o'er my drooping head, You — held a spray of mistletoe. The glory of the west grew pale And faded to a prim rose bar ; Grave Twilight dropped her misty veil, And clasped it with a diamond star. The chimes rang out tor Evensong Before we thought 'twas time to go ; It always seems to take so loug When two must choose the mistletoe. Since then the years have rolled away, And other lips sweet stories tell ; And other lovers stroll to-day Adown the path we loved so well. Dear heart, old memories make me weep, But you — you only smile to know That with Love's dearest gifts I keep A withered spray of mistletoe. ALL THE YEAR. " Roses red, roses white," So she sang in sunny June ; " Roses red, roses white," ^And the far-off summer moon, As she stood within its light, Made her beauty seem more bright, Made her look the queen of night ; And my heart was all a-tune To her song in June. " Cherries red, cherries ripe," So she sang in passing by ; " Cherries red, cherries ripe," Pouting lip and laughing eye. Thus she stole my heart away, Singing, laughing all the day ; Sweet her breath as wind of May ; And my heart made swift reply In the hot July. " Life is short, life is sweet," So she sang when waned the year ; " Life is short, life is sweet," Darling, see me standing here. Can't you see the love I hold For you, crowned with hair of gold, My queen ? Have my eyes not told How my soul doth hold you dear, Loves you all the year ? NUTTING SONG. Oh, but the wind whistles now, Over and under the trees, Giving a poor, ragged bough Never a moment of ease ! Harlequin leaves hurry by, Dancing to this song we hear, Tho' the old earth needs must sigh, Tho' 'tis the wane of the year : Hickory, chestnut, butternut brown, Sing hey for the ripe nuts pattering down 1 Apples are gathered and gone, Beggared their mossy boughs stand ; Still these old trees linger on, Giving with bounteous hand. Spring has its rare silver showers, Summer rain-ripples of gold ; Hark ! for the autumn's brief hours Ring with rain blithe and bold : Hickory, chestnut, butternut brown, Sing hey for the ripe nuts pattering down ! Visions of purest delight Wake at the magical sound ! Logs blazing, ruddy and bright, Joy-faces clustering round. Stars, in the keen, frosty dome, iHeamingon farm-houses warm, Beauty and sweetness of home, Calm 'mid the white, whirling storm ! Then hickory, chestnut, butternut brown, Sing hey for the ripe nuts pattering down ! —George Cooper, SELECTED POEMH. 135 HICKRY BILL. Bic. man worked upon a farm, Hands they called him Hick'ry Bill; Played the" joos-harp fit to kill, Tell ye what, 'twuz like a charm ! Mouth wide open, shinin' teeth, Fingers goin' underneath ; " Money Musk " an' " Soldiers Joy," " Uncle Ned " er " Ship Ahoy !" Talk about your p'ints an' skill ! Nuthin' ekalled Hick'ry Bill. Long and lank he wuz o' limb, . Twiukliu' eyes an touzled hair — (rive him some ole rockin'-chair An' a joos-harp suited him ; Reg'lar genius with the thing, Made the limber bizness sing, Foot a-workiu' like a cog, Easy's rollin' off a log ; He could make her fairly trill. This here awkward Hick'ry BilL When the sun wuz gone to roost, 'Round the porch we used to set After chores, an' supper et ; Then, the insterment perjuced, Hick'ry thar the silence stirred Like some wilful mockin' bird, Till that orn'ry piece o' steel Kinder sorter made you feel Daucin' somewhar to its will 'Long o' that ar Hick'ry Bill. Nuthin' but a joos-harp, too ; Yit to hear that feller play " 'Cross the Hills and Fur Away " You'd be started 'fore you knew ; While the music 'peared to go — " Swing yer pardners !" " Heel and toe !" An' a sound like tromp o' feet Seemed the echoes to repeat. Caiu't fergit him ; never will. He wuz lightuin' — Hick'ry Bill. — Ernest McGaffey. THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK. I'M nine years old ! an' you can't guess how much I weigh, I bet ! Last birthday I weighed thirty-three ! An' I weigh thirty yet ! I'm awful little for my size — I'm purt' nigh littler an' Some babies is ! — an' neigbors all calls me " The Little Man ! " An' Doc one time he laughed and said ; " I 'spect, first thing you kno, You'll have a Tittle spike tail coat an' travel with a show ! " An' nen I laughed — till I looked round an' Aunty was a cryiu' — Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got "curv'ture of the spine !" I set, while Aunty's washing, on my little long-leg stool, An' watch the little boys and girls a-skippin' by to school ; An' I peck on the winder an' holler out an' say : " Who wants to fight the little niau 'at dares you all to-day?" An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' little girls peeks through, An' they all says : " 'Cause you're so big, you think we're 'feared o' you?" An' nen they yell, and shake their list at me, like I shake mine — They're tbist in fun, you know, 'cause I got " curv'- ture of the spine ! " At eveniug, when the ironin's doue, an' Aunty's fixed the fire, An' filled an' lit the lamp, an' trimmed the wick an' turned it higher, An' fetched the wood all in fer night, an' locked the kitchen door, An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind blows in up through the floor — She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles an' make* the tea, An' fries the liver an' mush, an' cooks a egg fer me ; An' sometimes — when I cough so hard— her elder- berry wine Don't go so bad fer little boys with " curv'ture of the spine." But Auuty's all so childish like, on my account, you see, I'm 'most afeared she'll be took down— an' 'at's what bothers me — 'Cause ef my good ole Aunty ever would git sick an' die, I don't kuow what she'd do in Heaven — till I come, by an' bye, For she's so ust to all my ways, an' everything, you know, An' no one there like me, to nurse, an' worry over so— 'Cause all the little children there's so straight an' strong an' fine, They's nary angel 'bout the place with " curv'ture of the spine." — Jam's Whitcomb Riley. GOODNIGHT SONG. Sleep, little dolly, for play time is over ; Jack in the box has been fastened up tight ; Bees are asleep that we watched in the clover, Noah has shut up his ark for the night. Sleep little dolly, the sand man is coming, Nursie has turned down the bed-covers white ; Outside the windows the uight-moths are humming, Sleep, little dolly, till morning is bright. — Katharine Pyle. LETTER SONG. Who is it dreams of thee all the night Till the last star dies in the gray ? Who is it calls thee his heart's delight, Though many a league away ? Who is it wishes thy sorrow to bear, Leaving the joy for thee? Who is it breathes thee a soug and a prayer? Come look in my heart and see, Dear heart, Look in my heart and see. Who is it longs for the touch of thy hand, The sound of thy feet at the door ? And who would give all the gold in the land To gaze on thy face ouce more? Who is it craving thy voice to beguile Grim cares that will not flee ? Whose eyes are athirst for thy winsome smile? Come look in my heart and see, Dear heart, Look in my heart and see. Whose are the veins that laugh and leap Whenever thy name is heard? Whose are the eyes that fain would weep To think of a hope deferred ? Whose is the arm that will not fail, If ever thy need shall lie? Whose is the love that never grows pale? Come look in my heart and see, Dear heart. Look ia my heart and see. — Samuel Minturn Peck. 136 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY POLLY S POSING. Polly's in the garden, Bravin' all the beat, Leanin' o'er the roses, Tip-toed on her feet ! Ever see a picture Ever half as sweet ? Polly's in the garden ! Look at Polly's face ! Innocence and roses, Purity and grace ! One o' Polly's sweethearts Comin' past the place ! Polly's in the garden ! Party— lawsy sakes ! Gal's the same I reckon, Town or country jakes ! Polly knows, I bet you, Picture that she makes ! AN OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG. It's the curiousest thing in creation, Whenever I hear that old song, 'Do They Miss Me at Home?" I'm so bothered, My life seems as short as it's long, For ev'rything 'pears like adzackly It 'peared in the years past and gone, When I started out sparkin' at twenty, An' had my first neckercher on. Though I'm wrinkleder, older and grayer Rignt now than my parents were then, You strike up that song, " Do They Miss Me?" And I'm just a youngster again. I'm a-standin' back there in the furries, A-wishin' fer evenin' to come, And a-whisperin' over and over Them words, " Do They Miss Me at Home ? " You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it The first time I heerd it ; and so, As she was my very first sweetheart, It reminds me of her, don't you know — How her face ust to look in the twilight, As I tuck her to spellin' ; and she JCep' a-hummin' that song tel I ast her Pint-blank, ef she ever missed me ! I can shut my eyes now, as you sing it, And hear her low answerin' words ; And then the glad chirp of the crickets, As clear as the twitter of birds ; And the dust in the road is like velvet And the ragweed and fennel and grass Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies Of Eden of old, as we pass. ' Do They Miss Me at Home ? " Sing it lower— And softer— and sweet as the breeze That powdered our path with the snowy White bloom of the old locus' trees. Let the whipperwills h'lp you to sing it, And the echoes way over the hill, Tel the moon boolges out in a chorus Of stars, and our voices is still. But, oh ! " They's a chord in the music That's missed when her voice is away ! " Though I listen from midnight to morning, And dawn tel the dusk of the day ! And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards, And on through the heavenly home, With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin' The words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?" — Janet Whitcomb Riley, DOWN THE LANE. Far down the lane as eye can reach, The hedges are aglow With roses red and roses pink And roses white as snow ; For 'tis the rose-month, queen of months, June odors in the air, And Phyllis wanders down the lane With roses in her hair. And I— I am a little bird Perched on an alder spray ; I look across the field and see Some one not far away ; I watch them both till at the stile They meet — and then think best To turn my head away and sing, And let you guess the rest ! — Clarence Urmy, KISSING GOOD-BYE. A Ktss he took and a backward look, And her heart grew suddenly lighter ; A trifle, you say, to color a day, Yet the dull gray morn seemed brighter. For hearts are such that a tender touch May banish a look of sadness : A small, slight thing can make us sing, But a frown will check our gladness. • The cheeriest ray along our way Is the little act of kindness, And the keenest sting some careless thing That was done in a moment of blindness. We can bravely face life in a home where strife No foothold can discover, And be lovers still if we only will, Though youth's bright days are over. Ah, sharp as swords cut the unkind words That are far beyond recalling, When a face lies hid 'neath a coffin-lid, And bitter tears are falling. We fain would give half the lives we live To undo our idle scorning ; Then let us not miss the smile and kiss When we part- in the light of morning. — Lillian Plunkett, SELECTED POEMS. 137 PETER. THE ORTHODOX. " Petk, you're a common laughiug-stock, You are the village butt, Your hair is so outrageous long — Why don't you get it cut?" " Bekase dere ain't no barber, sab., Hat's good ernutf'foh me ; Dere ain't no barber in dis town I hit's up to niy idee." " Why, there is 'Rastus Graham, Pete, A barber up to par." " \.:\ ! yes ; but den I kain't hev him, Foh he's a Baptis', sab. No low-down Baptis' heretic So bigotty ez he Shall never cut de ha'r upon A Meferdis' like me." " But Pratt's a barber just as good As any on the list ; A splendid barber, and besides An earnest Methodist." " He am a Meferdis', I know, But. I kain't train wiv Pratt Bekase I ain a 'Publican An' he's a Dimmerkrat." " But there is Bangs, a Methodist, A very righteous man. A Methodist in high repute, A good Republican." " But he's a nomerpatf, the wretch, Ez bad ez he can be, An' he kain't cut de wool on sich An allopaffas me. " I stan's foh righteousness, I does, Foh troof an' nuffin' less ; No Baptis' trash an' honierpaffs Can suit my piousness. Wen some good barber comes to town, A Meferdis' fair an' squar, An' allopafl'and 'Publican, W'y, he can cut my ha'r." — Sam Walter Foss. CHRISTMAS SONG. Why do bells for Christmas ring? Why do little children sing? Once a lovely shining star Seen by shepherds from afar Gently moved until its light Made a manger's cradle bright. There a darling baby lay Pillowed soft upon the hay, And its mother sang and smiled, "This is Christ, the holy child." Therefore bells for Christmas ring ; Therefore little children sing. — Eugene Field. WHEN IDY HAD A BEAU. The other night down at our house when Idy had a beau, Me an' Mandy heered a stompin' ;.; the parlor door, you know, An' when the door was opened up, I hollered : " Idy Winn, This is a purty time o' night to come a trompin' in !" At' Mandy ketched me by the arm, an' whispered, tense and low : " Fer heaven sake, quit hollerin' ! Fer Idy's got a beau '." My face turned red's a comet trailin' through the skies at night. An' I heerd Idy whisper : " Wait until I get alight !" An' out she comes an' says : " Pa, that jist shamed me nearly dead, It's cold as ice in there an' you folks pile right into bed, So's we kin have this room," she says an' we picked up to go. Fer that's the first, time in her life that Idy had a lii-aii ! Well, talk about a flustered girl ! The likes I never saw — She called her father mother and she called her mother paw ! "An' help me straighten up this room, for gracious sake !" says she ; An' here I let my brogans drop an' then she scowled at me ! I says : " We're goin' right to bed as fast as we kin go !" Fer that's the first time in her life that Idy had a beau ! We got into the bed at last an' heerd him take a seat ; We listened to the pleasant laugh that Idy rippled sweet. Says 1, a kind o' whisperin': "Well, that's a sweeter sound Than we have been accustomed to with jist ourselves around." Says Mandy, sort o' sighin' like : " Girls will be girls, yon know — That's' jist the way I fetched you in, back thirty years ago !" — Edward Singer. OLD AUNT MARYS. Wasn't it pleasant, ob, brother mine, In those old days of the lost sunshine Of youth, when the Saturday's chores were through, And the " Sunday wood " in the kitchen, too, And we went visiting, " me and you," Out to old Aunt Mary's ? It all comes back so clear to-day ! Though I am as bald as you are gray — Out by the barn-lot and down by the lane We patter along in the dust again As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, Out to old Aunt Mary's ! We cross the pasture, and through the wood Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood ; Where the hammering " red-heads" hopped awry, And the buzzard " raised" in the "clearing" sky, And lolled and circled as we went by, Out to old Aunt Mary's ! And then in the dust of the road again ; And the teams we met, and the countrymen ; And the long highway with sunshine spread As thick as butter on country bread, Our cares behind and our hearts ahead, Out to old Aunt Mary's. Why, I see her now in the open door Where the gourds grew up the sides, and o'er The clapboard roof ! And her face — ah, me, Wasn't it good for a boy to see, And wasn't it good for a boy to be Out to old Aunt Mary's ! And, oh, my brother, so far away, This is to tell you she waits to-day To welcome us. Aunt Mary fell Asleep this morning, whispering, " Tell The boys to come ! " and all is well Out to old Aunt Mary's ! —James Whitcomb Riley. 138 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY POPPIN' THE QUESTION Ah! sech a night as 'twuz, the moon hung out her silver lant'ru, An' sights o' leetle fleecy clouds across the sky went cant'riu. A inillyun stars ez peart's you please, showed all their sassy faces. An' winked an' blinked at aster stars aglow in wood- land places. Wal ! Jen an' I wuz walkin' hum, for nieetin' wuz jest over, An' I wuz tryin' to tell her how thet sl»e wuz sweet ez clover, An' sights o' other poetry things I'd hunted high'n low for. About her bein' ez dear to me ez all the gold of Gopher. There's nuthin' makes a feller feel much meachiner or greener Than when he's tryin' to tell a galo' how hell love'n screen 'er From every leetle puff o' wind, an' how, if she'll but take him, Her lovin' presence by his side will either niar or make him. Vd studied sights o' sech-like talk' an' I had popped the question A hundred times or so in thought, till* t quit bein' in- terestin' ! We talked about a slew o' things, the meetin' an' the weather, The country fair'n singin' school'n then I asked her whether She lotted bein' a sour old maid like Aunt Miraudy Claffin. Good land ! I thought she'd kill herself a giggliu' an' a laughin'. An' then I don't know how I dared no niore'n you do, mister, But she leaned up agin' my arm an' fore I knowed I kissed 'er. An' now we're jes' ez happy— wal, that goe3 without sayin'. We'll be married'n all settled afore it's titna for hayin'. There's jest one thing a worryin' me, it sticks to me like a plaster, The fact o't is, though we're engaged, I hadn't niver asked 'er. —Isabel Garden. VIRGINIA CREEPERS. Olk Mistis offen afo' she died— You know how she used ter set Out dar on de Gre't House porch, o' days ; I thinks I sees her yet— Offen she said : " You's good enough — But Auuiky's pizen mean ; An' dem chillun o' her'u an' youru's de scruff O' de y'arth ! " Now y' all" done seen How what she tole me is done come true; I always knowed it, and said so, too. What is dat sass you's up ter now ? What does you want ter know? Ef you says one word 'gin ole Mistis, boy, I'll smak you, sartin sho' ! " How come she go call you scruff? " Je* its, Y'all was de lazies' crew Dat de Lord ever made, in doin' de work Dat she wanted you ter do ; " Ferginyer Creepers ! " she used ter say, When she seen you a-pokin' aloug all day. An' now, since de freedom come, it's wus' Dan ever it was afo' ; Yon stretches out dar in de sun, an' sleeps An' sleeps foreber mo'. Ef you's got a rag ter yer back, somehow You thinks dat dat's enough, An', boy, dat's de reason o' how come why Ole Mistis call yon scru ff, Y'ou lets me slave for de grub you eat ; You sleeps, while I gethers de bread an' meat. I'm gittin' w'ared out wid dis here thing O' t'iliu' fur all o' you ; Sometimes I wishes de ole slave ways Was back fur a week or two. ' How come ? " Jes dis : Ter make you work ! De niggers never did lay Out on a bench in de sunshine den, An' sun deyselves all day. ' Ferginyer Creepers " was bad, at fits? ; ' Ferginyer Sleepers Is p'iut'ly win' ! " —.4. C. Gordon. BABY GOES TO SLEEPY TOWN. Baby goes to Sleepy Town a dozen times a day, But foolish little Baby-heart can never find the way. Mother has to go along and lead her by the hand All the way through Drowsy Lane and on to Slumber Land. Oh, my little Baby-heart, learn the way to go ! Mother has such lots to do she can't run to and fro. Mother, dear, I never saw the way to Sleepy Town, Don't you know my eyes are shut before you lay me down * — Margaret SlUton Briscoe. WHEN J AN IE MILKED THE COWS. The daisy held her dainty cup To catch the dewdrops bright ; The bee had kissed the clover bobs, And bade them all good-night ; The katydid had tuned her sung Among the apple boughs. Aud farther stretched the meadows long, When Janie milked the cows, The swallows flitted here and there The bat had left his bower. The primrose, with a bashful air, Unclosed her petaled flower ; The whippoorwill his plaintive tale Proclaimed 'ueath wooded bough*. Aud twilight dropped her dusky veil, While Janie milked the cows. And Ben, the plow-boy. strolling by, Comes through the open liars, While softly iu the western sky Shine out the tranquil stars Aud while the corn-blades whisper low, Two lovers pledge their vows, Amid the twilight's purple glow, While Janie milked the cows. ***** A little cottage, snug and new With hop vines at the door ; The sunbeams, peeping softly through Lie dancrug on the floor, And when the first pale evening stars. Shine through the forest boughs* Young fanner lieu, beside the bar*, Helps Janie milk the cows. —Helen Whitney Ctarke. SELECTED POEMS. 139 JUST BEYOND. Past the fragrant clover-fields, Past the forests with their yields Of dark verdure, resting eyes That are worn with readings wise ; Past tlic blue hills, harriers dear Twixt the hopes beyond aud here, Is a place (it must be so) Whither it is good to go. For I long for it betimes Of a morning, in my rhymes ; And the eve-Tight finds me still Looking, longing, 'gainst my will. II is always just beyond What I see, and should a wand Touch mine eyes, grown strangely dim., They might pierce the mountain rim And discover yonder spot, That is sweet, but traveled not. Yet, dim-visioned, I am sure, Whatsoever I endure, Bad and sad, that far away Past the beauties of the day, As ] see them, stretched and dumb, Is the land of Sweet-to-Come, That is gladder far and fair : Just beyond the mountains there, Just beyond the dimpled lea, Just beyond the silver sea. Just beyond, for me and thee ! —Richard E. Burton, Ph.D. THE OLD MAN AN' ME. Jenny went an' married, Billy's moved away ; Dick has been in Texas fer many a weary day ; An' nothin' of the old times about the place we see, They's only two — like shadders — the old man an' me. He keeps the chimney corner an' smokes his pipe an' sighs ; An' frequent I can see him brush the teardrops from his eyes ; An' I say some word o' comfort, though I'm lone- some as can be, Fer they's little in the worl' now fer the old man an' me. Can't keep the children with us — they've got to drift away ; We've reaped a worl' of roses — we've had our happy day ; An' now we're only shadders, an' soon we'll cease to see The light that makes the shadders o' the old man an' me ! «n WEN A FELLER IS OUT OF A JOB. All nature is sick from her heels to her hair Wen a feller is out of a job. She is all out of kilter an' out of repair Wen a feller is out of a job. Ain't no juice in the earth an' no salt in the sea, Ain't no ginger in life in this land of the free, An' the universe ain't what it's cracked up to be Wen a feller is out of a job. Wat's the good of blue skies an' of blossomin' trees w'en a feller is out of a job ; W'en yer boy has large patches on both of his knees, An' a feller is out of a job ? Them patches, I say, look so big to yer eye That they shut out the lan'scape an"' cover the sky, An' the sun can't shine through 'em the best it can try W'en a feller is out of a job. W'eu a man has no part in the work of the earth, Wen a feller is out of a job ; He feels the whole bluud'rin' mistake of his birth Wen a feller is out of a job. He feels he's no share in the whole of the plan, That he's got the mitten from Natur's own han', That he's a rejected an' left-over man, Wen a feller is out of a job. For you've jest lost your holt with the rest of the crowd, W'en a feller is out of a job ; An' you feel like a dead man with nary a shroud, W'en a feller is out of a job ; You are crawlin' aroun', but yer out of the game, You may bustle about— but yer dead just the same— Yer dead with no tombstone to puflfup yer name, W'en a feller is out of a job. Ev'ry man that's a man wants to help push the world, But he can't if he's out of a job ; He is left out behind, on the shelf he is curled, W'en a feller is out of a job. Ain't no juice in the earth, an' no salt in the sea, Ain't no ginger in life in this land of the free, An' the universe ain't what it's cracked up to be W'en a feller is out of a job. — Sam Walter Foss, " Dreams in Homespun." SINCE WE GOT THE MORTGAGE PAID. We've done a lot of scrimpin' an' a livin' hand-to mouth, We've dreaded too wet weather and we've worried over drought, For the thing kept drawin' int'rest, whether crops were good or bad, An' raisin' much or little, seemed it swallowed all we had. The women folks were savin' an' there ain't a bit of doubt But that things they really needed lots of times they done without. So we're breathin' somewhat easy, an' we're feelin' less afraid Of Providence's workin's, since we got the mortgage paid. I wish I'd kept a record of the things that mortgage ate, In principal an' int'rest, from beginuin' down to date !— A hundred dozen chickens, likely fowl with yellow legs, A thousand pounds of butter an' twelve hundred dozen egj»s, Some four or five good wheat crops, an' at least one crop of corn, An' oats an' rye — it swallowed in its life-time, sure's you're born, Besides the work an' worry, ere its appetite was stayed ! So we're feeling more contented since we got the mortgage paid. We've reached the point, I reckon, where we've got a right to rest, An' loaf around, an' visit, wear our go-to-meetin* best— Neglectin' nothin' urgent, understand, about the place, But simply slowin' down a bit an' restin' in the race ! In time I'll get the windmill I've been wantin', I sup- pose ; The girls can have their organ, an' we'll all wear bet- ter clothes, For we've always pulled together, while we saved an' scrimped and prayed, An' it seems there's more to work for since we got the mortgage paid. —Roy Farrell Greene. 1W SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY ROBIN TIME. From ev'ry fragnrant, blossoming hedge, O'erhead from topmost spray , The robin's note rings out across My winding path to-day. Brave little breasts, athrill with song ! Sweet foes to earthly cares ! Glad little hearts ! I weeu they think The whole wide world is theirs. By meadow lane and woodland path. In all the fields of spring, In forest deep, by shaded stream, The robins build and sing. Oh, days of love for all the earth. Shall I not join the chime? Shall I uot tell my love I love This gladsome robin time? No fortune I, save true love's worth ; But have the robins more? Gay little beggars, how they sing, Though scant may be their store '. No roof their own save God's blue sky, Yet proud as lords are they— Sweetheart, shall we not, with the birds, Make love this joyous May ? —Minnie Reid French. PANCAKE SEASON. When summer days are over An' the breezes start to Wow That tell us winter's cumin', With its blizzards au' its snow, I'm always sort o' happy For, although its cold an' drear, I know the syrup's waitin' Au' the paucake seasou's her*. Delicious, thick an' brownish — Six or seven in a pile— With good old country butter ; Don't it make a feller smile? Jus' loses sight o' trouble — It'll make him want to cheer, To see those steamin' pancakes With the syrup settin 1 near. Of course, to other people, Now, they may uot seem so sweet, For different folks have different tastes Concerning things to eat ; , But when a feller rises Alter eatin', maybe ten. He finds himself a-wishin' He could do it all again ! Now, when the days are short'nia' An' the lakes begin to freeae, When winter winds, a-roarin', Come a-rushin' through the trees, To me it brings no sorrow — Nay, its music to my ear, For then the syrup's waitin* Au' the pancake season's here. —Bide Dudley. UNCLE EPHRAIMS HEAVEN. Dky say t'woan' nevah mo' be dank. But Lawd, ole Kphrum knows lie wan's dera lubly moon and .Hah* A-shinin' where he goes. Fruni dem raos' eb'ry night he sees De glory trik'lin' fru, Dein jewels of de hebens, Lawd, Desert) to shine on you. Dey say de walls am jaspah dere, I>e streets ;nu pabed vvid gold ; A mons'trus lot of scrum'tius things De Holy Book's fb'toled. But when de Aingel Gabriel calls Ole Ephrum to dat place, Ah spec's dat he's a-gwine to feel Afraid to show he's face. Dey say we'se cloved in spotless white — Ah hopes, Lawd, dat ain' so ! Mah Dinah's weariu huhself out A-washin' close below. Dere Aingels evah sing, dey say. But such things ain' fo' me ; No high-bawn Aiugel's gwine to chuae A darkey melerdy. I'se jes' a po' ole dab. key, Lawd, Yet please to heed mah pray'r : Doan' hab no white folk's maushua A-waitiu' fo' me dere. Wid Dinah, and de pickanin's To climb upon mah knee, A cabin laik I'se got down yuh' Is good I'nuff fo' me. An', Lawd, Ah wan's it by de side Ob yondah tideless sea, An' ef dar ain' no grass er trees I'lease gro' some dar fo' me. No ha'ps ob gold— je-s' li'l birds, An' Lphruni's ole banjo, Deah Mar'suh, ef you grants me dese, I'se gwine to hebeu fo' sho' '. — />. M. Henderson, Jr. THE OLD CHURCH IS FOR SALE. I've worshiped there for many a year — they never seen me fail ; But now they've come an' told me that the old church is for -sale ! The auctioneer is ready, an' they're goiu' to let her go— The old church where we praised the Lord from whom all blessin's flow ! I jest can't help the heartbeat — the mist that's roua' my eyes— For there I read my titles clear to mansions ia the skies ; An' there, in years that had their tears, I found salvation free — And knew that sweet, amaziu' grace that saved a wretch like me. I knowed the "ameu corner" — I kuowed the " {un- ions seat" — An' when the organ shook the walls, or died in music sweet, Like a little child a-dreauiia', I closed my old eyes there. An' my soul went up to heaven ou the wings of love an' prayer There was sweetest consolation in the holy, heavenly calm That led us into (Ulead, where we found the healiu' balm. 'Twas there we glimpsed the beauty of a better, brighter sky That bent o'er Canaan's happy land, where our pos- sessions lie. But the old church now is throwed aside — they're buildin' of a new. But the same salvation's in it — thank the Lord t for me an' you ; But u» matter how they build it, my heart will always g» To the old church where we praised the Lord ir^m whom all Messra's rtow > SELECTED POEMS. Ut THE HARVEST MOON. FADED the last faint blush of evening's rose, And shadows- gather in the deeping ▼*!«, Where silent now, the rippling streamlet flows Beneath the mist, that, rising dim and pale, Hovers above it like a silver veil, Hiding the tears upon the closed-up flowers, That seem to weep for the day's vanished hours. Across the heavens a mellow radiance steals, The mist grows brighter, and the silver stream Reflects the tender light which half reveals Earth's loveliness, and, like an infant's dream, Make all things beautiful and holy seem ; The harvest moon along the autumn sky Holds her fair s/way and bids the darkness fly. O'er fallen leaves, o'er hill, and vale, and plain, O'er ripened fruit and fields of golden grain ; O'er lovers, lingering in the mystic light, Whispering fond words beneath the silent night, O'er the great city in its solemn rest. O'er wealth and poverty, the worst, the best, Her luster falls, and, through the listening air Breathes but of peace and beauty everywhere, Serene and pure she mounts the azure heaven, Telling the wondrous love her God to man has given. THE BOMBAZINE. l-r's s vi ry where that women fair invite and please my eye, And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny ; The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright, The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle, all give me keen delight ! And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine. Now you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but noble gown Flashed in one day the usual way upon our solemn town ; 'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing — Jim Fisk ! the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king ! And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that somber sheen, And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine. Though ten years old I never told the neighbors of the gown, For grandma said, "This secret, Ned, must not be breathed in town !" The sitting-room, for days of gloom, was in a dread- ful mess, When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous dress ; To fit and baste and stiteh a waist, with whalebones in between, Js precious slow, as all folks know who've made a bombazine. With fortitude dear grandma stood the trial to the end ; The nerve we find in womankind I cannot compre- hend ! And when 'twas done, resolved that none should guess at the surprise, Within the press she hid that dress secure from prying eyes ; For grandma knew a thing or two ; by which remark I mean That Sundays were the days for hei to wear that bombazine. I need not state she got there late, and sailing up the aisle With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a con- scious smile ; It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found ! How proud I was of her because she looked so like a queen, And that was why, perhaps, that 1 admired tlw bombazine. But there were those, as you'd suppose, who seorneH that perfect gown, For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that New Eng- land town ! The Widow White spat out her spite in one : " It doesn't fit !" The Packard girls, they wore false curls, all giggled like to split ; Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, she turned a bilious green When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bombazine. But grandma knew, and I did, too, that gown was wondrous fine ; The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a con- clusive sign. Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town, And, saying this, he snatched a kiss that liked to burst that gown ; But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, isn't grandpa mean ! " Yet evermore my grandma wore his favorite bom- bazine. And when she died that somber pride passed down to heedless heirs ; Alas ! the day 'twas hung away beneath the kitchen stairs ! Thence, in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and wing, And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous thing. 'Tis so, forsooth. Time's envious tooth corrodes each human scene ; And so, at last, to ruin passed my grandma's bom- bazine. Yet to this day, I'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part ; The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my heart. This gown, my dear, you show me here, I'll own is passing fair, Though I'll confess it's no such dress as grandma used to wear ; Yet wear it, do ; perchance when you and I are off the scene, | Our boy shall sing this comely thing as I the bom- bazine ! — Eugene Field. J FOUR-LEAF CLOVER. I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst with snow. And down underneath is ihe loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And one is for love, you know. And God put another one in for luck— If you search, you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faith, Yon must love and be strong— and so — If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four- leaf clovers grow. —Ella Higginson. -', 142 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY They ain't no style about eui, And they're sort of pale and faded ; Yit the doorway here without 'em Would be lonesomer, and shaded With a good 'eal blacker shadder Than the mornin' glories wakes, And the sunshine would look sadder For their good old-fashion' sakes. I like 'em 'cause they kind o' Sort o' make a feller like 'em ; Aud I tell you, when I find a Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em, It alius sets me thinkin' O' the ones 't used to grow, And peek in thro' the chinkin' O' the cabin, don't you know. Aud then I think o' mother, Aud how she used to love 'em, When they wuzn't any other 'Less she found 'em up above 'em Aud her eyes, afore she shut 'em, Whispered with a smile and said We must pick a bunch and put 'em Iu her hands when she wuz dead. But, as I wuz a sayin' They ain't no style about 'em Very gaudy or display in', But I wouldn't be without 'eui, 'Cause I'm happier in these posies, And the holly hawks andsich, Thau the hunimiu' bird 'at uoses In the roses of the rich. — James Whitcomb Riley. HER NAME. " I'm losted ! Could you find me, please?" Poor little frightened baby ! The wind had tossed her golden fleece, The stone had scratched her dimple knees, I stooped and lifted her with ease, And softly whispered, " May be !" "Tell me your name, my little maid, I can't find you without it." " My name is Shiney-Eyes," she said. " Yes, but your last ?" She shook her head. " Up to my house 'ey never said A single fiug about it." " But. dear," I said, " What is your name?" " Why, didn't you hear me tell you ? Dust Shiney-Eyes." A bright thought came ; " Yes. when you're good ; but when they blame You, little one — is't just the same When mamma has to scold you ?" " My mamma neber scolds," she moans, A little blush ensuing, " 'Cept when I've been a-frowing stones, And then she says" (the culprit owns), " Mehetable Sapphira Jones, What have you been a-doing?" DO WN IN APPLE-BLOW LANE. Beth Trippingtoe dances down Apple-blow lane, Tra— lala, lala— la-la ! And when she has done it she'll do it again, Tra— lala, lala— la-la ! For Apple-blow lane is so lovely in May, So pink, and so sweet, and so sunny, and gay, That no little girl with a whirlaway way Could ever help dancing and dancing away, Over and over and over again, Tra-lala, lala, down Apple-blow lane ! Again and again, Down Apple-blow lane ! Blithe Robin-bird trilling himself out of breath, Tra— lala, lala— la-la ! Keeps singing, " Oh, dance awav. dance away, Beth !" Tra— lala, lala— la-la ! There's a flit-flutter-flutter in all the pink trees, The butterflies hover and float on the breeze ; She cannot resist such gay tempters as these, She trills with the birds, and she hums with the bees, Dancing and dancing and dancing again, Tra-lala, lala, down Apple-blow lane ! Again and gain, Down Apple-blow lane ! —Elizabeth Hilt. BANJO SONG. Plink-ty, plink-ty, plink-ty plung, Tip de keg an' pull de bung, Niggas always mighty happy When de gum-tree's green and sappy, Plink-ty, plink-ty, plink-ty, plink-ty Plung, plung, plung! One li'l yellah girl I know, (Plink-ty plung ! Plink-ty plung !) Way up dar in Cai-y-ro, (Plink-ty plung ! Plink-ty plung !) Fix huhse'f to look so tony, Lived with huh ma-ma all aloney, Sayed she'd be mah ownest owney, Way up dar in Cai-y-ro ! Li'l gal say she lub me so — ( Plink-ty plung ! Plink-ty plung 1) Way up dar in Cai-y-ro, (Plink-ty plung ! Plink-ty plung 1) Baked me all sweet potato cake, Wound hub ahws around ma neck, Sayed she'd die foah ma sweet sake, Way up dar in Cai-y-ro. G'wan you nigga ! How you blow, (Plink-ty plung ! Plink-ty plung 1) 'Bout dat girl in Cai-y-ro ! (Plink-ty plung ! Plink-ty plung !) She done lubbed some other man, Packed huh trunk an' away she ran, Wid a great, big, black, buck Eth-i-opei-an ! Way up dar in Cai-y-ro I Plink-ty, plink-ty, plink-ty plung, Tip de keg an' pull de bung, Niggas always mighty happy ; When de gum-tree's green ' an' sappy, Plink-ty, plink-ty, plink-ty, plink-ty, Plung, plung, plung! SELECTED POEMS. M3 THE LITTLE HAIR TRUNK. There's a little hair trunk in the attic sterol, Under the rafters packet! away ; "With a heart nigh broken, a mother's bauds Tenderly carried it there one day. The tears fell fast as she closed the lid On the homely trinkets— you'll call then) so — That her baby loved, then with one more kise On the little hair trunk, she turned to go. Now ou the lid is the dust of years — I wonder what think all the toys within ! Do they wish for the baby voice, still bo long, To 'rouse them once more with its boyish din ? In the attic I happened to be one day ; 1 couldn't help taking a tiny peep — They were just as he left them, every one — Oh, well, perhaps it was foolish to weep ! A bottle of beans (they were yellow and black) ; He called them his " stock," which he bought aed sold; A " Mother Goose rhymes " — and his finger prints Were still on its covers, now ragged and old ! A " Dinah" doll, without any hair — All these I found — the others you know, For perhaps a like little trunk you placed Under the rafters, too, long ago ! —Adelberl F. Caldwell. THE SNOW. A muddy inland sea, the sagegrass stirs In undulations to the wind ; the rill Moans in the agony of winter's-chil) ; Within the woods hide ghostly whisperers — "Stilled when the startled quails with noisy whirs Seek safety in a copse : with neighings shrill, A stray horse wanders on the darkling hill, Browsing among the mullein and dead burs. When twilight dieth, softly flakes descend, As thistledown, an eagre-driven bark, An owl's hulk sweeps across the gray, to blend With the back line of trees ; and then the dark — Night passes on, as pass the years, and, lo ! The badge of age on Nature's head— the snow. — Will T. Hale. THANKSGIVING. We walk on starry fields of white And yet ignore the daisies ; For blessings common in our sight We rarely offer praises. We sigh for some supreme delight To crown our lives with splendor, And quite ignore our daily store Of pleasures sweet and tender. Our cares are bold and push their way Upon our thought and feeling. They hang about us all the day, Our time from pleasure stealing. So unobtrusive many a joy We pass by and forget it, But worry strives to own our lives And conquers if we let it. There's not a day in all the year But holds some hidden pleasure, And looking back joys oft appear To brim the past's wide measure. But blessings are like friends, I hold, Who love and labor near us. We ought to raise our notes of praise While living hearts can bear us. Full many a blessing wears the guise Of worry or of trouble. Farseeing is the soul and wise Who knows the mask is double. But he who has the faith and strength To thank his God for sorrow Has found a joy without alloy To gladden every morrow." We ought to make the moments notes Of happy, glad Thanksgiving ; The hours and days a silent phrase Of music we are liviDg. And so the theme should swell and grow, As weeks and months pass o'er us, And rise sublime at this good time, A grand Thanksgiving chorus. — Ella Wheeler A PLEA. Treat me nice, Miss Mandy Jane, Treat me nice. Dough my love has tu'ued my brain, Treat me nice. I ain't done a t'ing to shame, Lovahs all ac's jes' de same ; Don't you know we ain't to blame ? Treat me nice ! Cose I know I's talkin' wild ; Treat me nice ! I cain't talk no bettah, child, Treat me nice ! What a pusson gwine to do, W'en he come a-cou'tin' you All a-tremblin' thoo and thoo? Please be nice ! Reckon I mus' go de paf Othahs do ; Lovahs lingah, ladies laugh ; Mebbe you Do' mean all the things you say, An' pohaps some latah day W'en I baig you ha'd, you may Treat me nice ! — Paul Laurence Dunbar. ALONE WITH JANE. Jans, in a suit of Cameron plaid, Meanders homeward-bound with " dad." You know how well she looks in that, Crowned with a jaunty Scotia hat. Ah, me ! If I could join the twain, Or skip papa, and just with Jane, Could wander home, I would be glad, But Jane meanders home with " dad." Jane dons a dark-blue cape and gown, And, with her mother, walks to town, How proud and soldierly her mien When in that martial garb she's seeu. I would not give her mother pain, Vet I would like to walk with Jane. But, if I did, mamma would frown ; So Jane with mother walks to town. Jane, in a waist of azure hue, Sits there and looks me through and through, Her parents are away, I find. Thus fortune has at last been kind ; Aud yet my joy is not complete, Though Jane is smiling and petite, My feelings I cannot explain — 1 with I weren't alone with Jane ! 144 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE CLOVER. Some sings of the lily, and daisy and rose And the pansies and pinks that the summertime throws In the green grassy lap of the niedder that lays Blinkin' up at the skies through the sunshiny days ; But what is the lily and all of the rest Of the flowers to a man with a heart in his breast That has dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew Of the sweet clover blossoms his babyhood knew? I never set eyes on a clover field now, Or fool round a stable, or climb in the mow, But my childhood comes back, just as clear and as plain As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again ; And I wander away in a barefooted dream, When I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love Ere it wept o'er the graves that I'm weepin' above. And so I love clover — it seems like a part Of the sacredest sorrows and joys of my heart ; And wherever it blossoms, oh, there let me bow, And thank the good God, as I'm thankin' Him now ; And I pray to him still for the strength, when I die, To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye, And lovingly nestle my face in my bloom, While my soul slips away on a breath of perfume. — James WhUcomb Riley. THE EVENING OF THE YEAR. Come walk with me along the forest ways This Autumn day. What peace is in the air ! The world we look upon is wondrous fair. The far-off hills are dim in purple haze, And in the woods near by the maple's blaze Is like a ruddy bonfire. Here and there The golden rod lifts up its torch in air, And scarlet woodbine lights the woodland ways. The birds sit silent by their empty nest ; The air is drowsy with a spell of dreams, And as the leaves fall slowly, one by one, We look away into the golden west, And while the year's pale twilight round her gleams, Earth sits with folded hands, her work all done. —Eben E. Rexford. GOING BERRYING. Long years ago, on a golden day When the ripe, red berries lay fast asleep, Down where the roses were wrapt away In the tangled leaves of the meadow deep, They roamed together, the maideu fair, And he with his ringlets of sunny hair, And their laughter rang out on the air so still, As they went berrying over the hill. Oh ! sly, brown ringlets that floated gay, Oh ! little maiden, so sweet and fair, Did you dream of his thoughts as you roamed that day, Enshrined in those tresses of golden hair? For the eyes of the lover saw only you, With your cheeks that rivaled the rose in hue, As be carried the basket that you helped to fill With the berries that waited over the hill. What wonder that hands so small and brown Would meet his own in the tangled vines ! What wonder the hours would pass so soou, That the sky with the western sunset shines ! But what, little maid, were the words he said, That turned your lips and your cheeks so red, That left the basket as empty still, As when you went berrying over the hill? Though years have fled and the blushing glow Of the crimson berries has passed away Yet summer comes and her loving hands Bring others as rosy and bright to-day. And thro' the bloom of the woodland ways, With laughter and song as in other days, The youths and maidens are roaming still, To gather the berries over the hill. But he, with his eyes of the deepest blue, His ringing voice and conscious grace, ' Lies low where the willows above him wave, And the daisies cover his laughing face. And an aged woman with tear-filled eye, Stands watching the happy throng go by, And the scene is as sweet in her memory still, As when she went berrying over the hill, Her merry eyes that were laughing then, Are dimmed with time, while the hand of care Has silvered the locks on the aged brow, And furrowed the cheeks that were once so fair. Though youth's sweet visions have flown away And under the willows he sleeps to-day, Yet her heart is as true and as loyal still, As when they went berrying over the hill. KATYDID In their dewy, green abode, Close beside the country road, I can hear them as I pass, Loudly chirping in the grass. Papa Cricket raves and swears ; " Katy didn't !" he declares, " Katy did !" retorts his wife. Thus they live 'mid endless strife ; For he then disputes her word, And, of course, her voice is heard I Why is it they ne'er agree? Life an awful bore must be ! All throughout each summer day They dispute the same old way, Hidden in the wayside grass, Little caring who should pass. Autumn wanes, the nights are chill, Gone the bloom from vale and hill ; Leaves are falling ev'rywhere, Trees are standing gaunt and bare, 'Though the grass is brown and sear, Still this fretful cry I hear: "Katydid!" Then all is still. " Katy did !" more high and shrill. But no answ'ringcry comes back, Papa Cricket's gone, alack ! Did the chill frost end his life? Died he to escape his wife ? Did he to the last maintain That Katy didn't? 'Twas in vain ; For, tho' none disputes her word, Feebly yet this cry is heard : " Katy did !" throughout the gloom. Force of habit, I presume. — Min a > i' Reid French. THE RETURN OF THE ROBIN. Tiik dogwood gleams in forests bare, With red the maples bloom ; The sassafras fills all the air With subtle sweet perfume. I wake, some morn. I hear a strata Remembered well, and dear. " It is the robin come again," I cry. " The spring is here !" — Catharine Allan. SELECTED POEMS. 145 A LULLABY. Hushabye, baby, the shadows are falling, A little white crib is waiting for thee, Night winds fan softly while mother sings to thee. The browu birdie sleeps in his nest in the tree. Down in the valley the violets whisper, Listen ! I think I can hear what they say : " We'll close our blue eyes, and may be to-morrow Baby will come and will take us away." Baby's head droops, and the long, curling lashes Rest on her cheek as I sing hush-a-bye, Mother Moon throws down a flood of bright kisses, Silvery kisses from out the blue sky. Dear little baby, the rose in the garden Long has received its anointing of dew. Sleep, little baby, our Father in heaven Sends down his angels to guard such as you. — Cuiisfance Entwistle Hoar. COBWEBS. A fairy army camped one summer's night Upon the lawn ; Gayly they feasted in the soft moonlight, Until at dawn They flew away ; and lo ! upon the ground Like laces rare With jewels set, their tablecloths were found Spread everywhere. —Mabelle P. Clapp. OLD JANES SINGIN-. A lank and rather tallish form dressed up in calico, A good ol' maid that boasted that she never caught a beau, A face that wasn't what you'd call attractive, but it packed A look that more than evened up the beauty that it lacked. She never seemed to spend no time a worryin', but sung The songs o' Zion an' the Lamb until you'd think her tongue Would sure wear out from overwork ; from niornin' plum till night She'd warble them ol'-fashioned tunes that give her such delight. No matter if the sun would shine Or storm clouds was a wingin', Or if the day was dark or fine, 01' Jane'd keep on a-singin'. When she could read her title clear to mansions in the skies She'd bid farewell to every fear an' wipe her weepin' eyes, The weepin' bein' only figgerative, it appears, Fur them ol' honest eyes o' hern 'd never leak no tears. She'd sing in ringin' voice about a fountain filled with blood, An' sinners losin' guilty stains that plunged beneath the flood. An' asked if she'd be carried up on flowery beds of ease Whilst others fit to win the prize an' sailed through bloody seas. About the New Jerusalem Her voice was always ringin' — It made no dif rence how things come, She'd jest keep on a-singin'. In church that sweet clear voice o' hern 'd git right up an' 'rise Until the brethren' all knowed 'twas heerd up in the skies, Au' when revival meetin's come ol' Jane was right oa hand To help the mourners with her songs toward the Promised Land, An' many a sinner felt the pain o' deep conviction'i sting An' made a start to seek the Lord from hearin' of her sing: "Alas! an' did my Saviour bleed an' did my Sover- ereign die ! Would He devote that sacred head for sich a worm as I ? " There never was a great divine That had the power o' swingin' The keerless sinners into line Like Jane could with her singin'. When she was on her dyin' bed an' folks with tearful eyes Was standin' 'round to see her start toward the wait- in' skies, She said in song she stood upon ol' Jordan's stormy shore, An' that she was a going home where she would die no more. An' when we saw her sinking right into the arms of death, A smile crep' on her poor ol' face, an' with her dyin' breath We saw her raise her eyes to God and heerd her faintly sing : " Oh ! grave, where is thy victory ? Oh ! death where is thy sting?" An' I jest know that when its flight Her happy soul was wingin' Toward the realms o' pure delight It kep' right on a-singin'. WHEN MOTHER GETS TEA. When on a Sunday afternoon The children are away, And wife and I at home alone, She'll look at me and say : " We'll let the servants all go out ; When only you and me Are left — just as I used to do, I'll get your Sunday tea. And so we watch them as they go, The maids in ribbons gay ; Butler and cook and all the rest Depart in bright array. And when the last has disappeared I rub my hands in glee — And say, " Now, Mary, for old times !" And " Mother" gets the tea ! Stand back, each Jane a«-J Bridget, And hide your blushing face ! If you could only cook like this You'd never " lose a place !" Such oysters, and such omelets, Chicken and toast — ah, me ! How happy 'twas when, long ago, She always got the tea ! Those good old days when we were poor, And boys and girls were small ; Since then the Lord has prospered us. While they've grown strong and tall, And think they ought to have " more style" Perhaps such things must be — But still I'm longing for the days When " Mother " got the tea ! — Louise Edgar- 146 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY BIDDY S ANSWER. Did yez niver hear till o' Pat Doolin, That married young Biddy McQuirk? It wis her that would niver shtand foolin' And 'twas him that would niver shtand work. Stare an' he were that lazy he'd rayther Go wantin' his vittels than chaw — It were thin I wisht Biddy, the crayther, Would give him a taste av her jaw ! The way Biddy worked were a caution, Phwile Pat sat him down on a chair, And watched his wife doin' the washin'— Begorra, 'twould make a saint shweaT ! But she, bliss her, she'd kape on rubbin' — She'd ilegant lady loike ways — An' the shpalpeen that naided the drubbin' Would sit there a takin' his aise. But wan mornin' it happened that Biddy Had such a big launderin' job, She got the clothes sorted and riddy, Then called upon Patrick, begob ! " It's wood that I'm waitin' the mornin' — Wull yez fitch me an armful o' wood ?" Pat Doolin' got up at this warnin' An' wint out to phwere the axe shtood. But, sure as the shpring follows winter, He wint straight off to the saloon, An' he brought Biddy divil asbplinter — This long-liggid, lazy gossoon ! But 'twere whin be came home in the gloamin' As full as a fish to the brim, An' inded his zigzaggin' roamin', That Biddy were watchin' fer him. Wid a sinse av his wife's condimnation, He shpoke in the humblest av tones, An' supposed be his self-akwesation He'd milt the harrd heart o' the shtones. " Div ye think, Biddy, dear, we'll be trated To fire if we're none of us good ?" " No !" she screamed, " not if Beelzebub waited On you to be shplittin' the wood !" A BIG PUZZLE. Pse fought it over 'gane nn' 'gane, But somehow don' quite make it plain W'y t'ings is as dey be ; No, I ain't makin' no complaint, But simply sayin' that I kain't See w'y dis is, an' todder ain't ; — But God knows better 'n me. For 'zample, dere's ole Jacob Bean ; Dere ain't on yearth no man so mean, So orfle mean as he. Now, w'y should he have all de cash, Eat 'possum fat w'ile I eat hash, An' look on us as nigger trash ?— De Lord knows better 'n me. Pen comes my neighbor, Simon Bole; Jess like a lump uv solid gol' ; He's good as good can be. For eighteen weeks he's been in bed, Wid shakes dat's shook him almos' dead ; But w'y, I don't git froo my head ;— De Lord knows better 'n me. Well, 1 don' bodder 'bout it all ; De Lord's so big, an' I'se bo small I couldn' spec' to see. So I jess stumbles 'long de way, Bearin' my burden day by day, An' smilin' cos my soul kin say, De Lord knows better 'a me. —Rev. Plato Joknton. A SEPTEMBER IDYL. A brown maid crossed the hills one day, And carelessly sang as she passed : " The summer has come and passed away, The months were like weeks, the weeks as a day, The buds and the blossoms are dust and decay, What matter if love only last?" A lad in the valley heard the sweet song, And answered the words of the maid : " No work could be heavy, no sorrows could throng. No weeks could be weary, no days could be long, And Kfe would be pleasant, for naught could go wrong, With you for my sweetheart," he said. As the lad and the maiden journeyed that day, Just as the sun went down, They met, for their paths both led the same way, And he said to her : " Tarry with me, I pray." And she answered him softly : " With vou I will stay." And they nevermore journeyed alone. AN OLD EASTER BONNET. I wish the Easter days were now like those that once I knew. When Jenny wore the bonnet plain, with ribbon bows of blue ; When we walked to Sunday meetin' o'er the meadows green and sweet, Where lilies waved in welcome, with violets at our feet. It ain't the fancy fixin's I mind so much — the bills For birds and fluffy feathers — all the fine new-fangled frills ; Fer I know that fashion changes, that it rules the world complete ; But the old-time Easter bonnet was so simple and so sweet! Its ribbons matched the color of the blue sky over- head, An' the lips that smiled beneeth it seemed to mean the words they said ! The lips that smiled so sweetly — never knowin' any art— An' the eyes whose sunny glances made a light around your heart ! I've nothin' 'gainst the fashions— they've got to have their day ; But I love the simple bonnets of the far an' far away ; An' thinkin' how she looked in 'em — there, in the long ago, I sigh, anc 1 praise the Lord from whom all bleeein's used to flow ! QUEEN JUNE. June, from her rose-wreathed throne, with radiant pride, Beholds the joy beneath her skies serene; The robin piping by the leafy screen, Where broods in soft content his brown-winged bride ; The young lambs frisking in the meadows wide ; The woodlark lilting from his covert green ; The busy swarms that in the clover glean, In happy haste their honeyed spoils to hide ; And while with bird and bee the roses hold High carnival throughout her fair domains- Each passer pelting with their perfumed gold, Till all the air is rife with ruddy sheen— A rose her scepter sweet, rose-crowned, she reigns, Of all the joy-tilled realm thejovous queen. —Mary B. Sleight. SELECTED POEMS. 147 IN THE FRONTIER GRAVEYARD. Here lie the dead 'ueath headboards stained by time, In graves uncared for ; rudest heaps of earth ; Rough men whose lives on earth were black with crime, Devoid of every mark of honest worth. In ways unnatural they met with death, In blood-stained garments they were hid from sight, A curse clung to each victim's dying breath And hatred lit their eyes till dimmed of light, With boots yet on their sinful feet they'll lie Till Gabriel's trumpet echoes from on high. THE BROOK BENEATH THE SNOW. Here lies old Texas Joe, who met his death From hand of one who was of quicker fire, And Tuscarora Sam, whose fund of breath Slipped from him when he called Black Bill a liar. And here is Poker Frank, who tried to steal The frayed affection of Sport Daly's dame. And this rude board stands over Brocky Teale, Whom drink had made unsteady in his aim When with their shooters he and Grizzly Pete Went out to hunt each other on the street. Here rests the shot-up frame of Smoky Tim, Whose stolen horse lacked necessary speed, And close beside him sleeps old Greaser Jim, Who was by vigilantes roped and treed. Just over there lies Sacramento Joe, Who died with boots too full of wriggling snakes, And just beyond they planted Tommy Lowe, Who made a fatal play to grab the stakes From off the table in a game of draw — "Bit off," the boys said, "more than he could chaw." Here's Bob the Methodist and Sleepy Ike, Aud Doughface Henderson and Whiskey Mack, And poor Joe Bowers (not the man from Pike), And Faro Dick and old Three-Fingered Jack, And others, names unknown, lie in this spot ; And standing in this border burial ground, Rude and uncared for, comes the passing thought That when the doad wake at. the trumpet sound Old Gabriel will be filled with mute surprise To see this gang of thoroughbreds arise ! 'Way down in dad's ol' medder, where th« pussy willers grow, I used to go an' lissen to the brook beneath the snow ; Above I heerd the roarin' win' an' saw the snow-gust whirl ; But the brook beneath the snow an' ice danced, sing- in' like a girl. I'd put my ear down to the ice, I didn' min' the col', An' w'en I heerd the music, there wuz summer in my soul ! An' w'en dad licked me, an' my heart 'ud bile an' overflow, I would go an' hear the music of the brook beneath the snow. An' then my sobs 'ud change to shouts, an' sorter change to glee, For it strewed along its music from the mountain to the sea ; An' I'd stretch my ear to hear it, an' my heart 'ud swell an' glow, W'en I lissened to the music of the brook beneath the snow. Since then the wintry blasts of life have blown me here an' there. An' snow-storms they have blocked my way an' hedged me everywhere ; But sheltered from the harrycaue, within the valley low, I lissen for the mucic of the brook beneath the snow. For I know beneath the snow an' ice that there is golden sand, By that glorious streak uv melody that wiggles through the land ; The storm beats hard ; the wind is high ; I can not hear it blow, For I lissen to the music of the brook beneath the snow. -S. W. Fms. THE CONJURE WOMAN. Dat ole Aun' Tempy, she wot live Yander in de grove, she give Sumpin' to ou' muley cow, An' no soul cain't milk her now ; An' we-alls' hawgs dey runs an' squeals Lak some un chase 'em thoo de fiel's ; An' more'n dat, dah's ole Unc' Saul Cain't sca'cely use his laigs at all, An' say she's cunjured him, he know ; Ya-a-ap'm ! dat's so ! An' wunst dey was a 'oiuan, too, Heerd all 'bout what Aun' Tempy do, An' she gwine ax her, so she 8ayed, To kyore de risin' in her haid. Aun' Tempy mighty mad, dat day, She uuvver had a wu'd to say, But gin a cur J ous kin' o' cough. Dat 'Oman's head hit fell smack off", An' rolt acrost de cabin flo', Ya-a-ap'm ! dat's so ! Wunst me an' Uncle Isham's Bill We dumb up to de window sill At ole Aun' Tempy's, an' peeped in. An' dah dat pizen 'oman been A-cookin' sumpin' in a pot Smelt mighty bad, I dunno wot ; She spat 'er hands toge'r like dat, An' 'gun a-talkin' to de cat ! Den we lit. out to'ds home, fer sho' ; Ya-a-ap'm ! dat's so 1 —Pant Daw'. 148 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY WALKIN' HOME WITH MARY. Tub moon was silver-clear that night, The snow was pure and sparklin', And trees and bushes 'gainst the white Was blots of shadder, dark'nio'. Each fence rail had a jeweled load, Each twig was gemmed and glary, And, I, along the pastur' road, Was walkin' home with Mary. So ctill, a dog, two mile away, Could reach us with his howlin' ; The tumblin' breakers in the bay Was plain as thunder growlin'. My clumsy boot-heels' crunch and squeak, Beside her step so airy, Seemed sayin', " Now's your time to speak ; You're walkin' home with Mary." The fur-off breakers lent their help By boomin', " Now, young feller !" And all that dog could find to yelp Was, " Tell her ! tell her ! tell her !" And every crackin' bit of ice Seemed like a kind of fairy, A-givin' me the same advice, When walkin' home with Mary. And so, I swallered down my heart — 'Twarn't greatly to my credit, With all the airth to take my part — But, anyhow, I said it. And then that dog shet off his bark ; There wa'n't a breaker, nary ; The hull wide world stood still to hark And hear the word from Mary. She answered, and the breakers fell And roared congratulation ; That blessed dog let out a yell That must a-woke the nation. * * * * * * 'Twas thirty years or more ago, But still it makes me scary To think, what if I'd heerd a " No," When walkin' home with Mary ! — Joe Lincoln. When milking time came she would quietly stand With a look in her eyes so serene and so bland, But just as you finished, with a switch of her tail 1 She would raise up her hoof and kick over the pail. Though years have since passed, yet a frown clouds my brow When I think of the pranks of that old brindle cow. At length 'twas decided old Brindle must die ; So we fatted her nicely with corn, oats and rye ; And when we had killed her and tasted her meat, Twas rich, fat and juicy, delicious to eat. So at last, one and all, we were forced to allow There was good after all in the old brindle cow. Some people are like that old brindle in life ; 'Gainst everything good they hold constant strife ; No sunshine nor gladness around them they shed, They are hated by all until after they're dead ; And then some small virtue will crop out, somehow, And thus they resemble the old brindle cow. —H. H. Johnten. THE OLD BRINDLE COW. As back o'er life's pages I carelessly gaze Some pictures I find there of childhood's bright days ; Time's touch has not changed them ; they seem just as new And plain in each outline, distinct in each hue, And I seem to be back in my childhood just now As the picture I see of the old brindle cow. Oh, that old brindle cow with the one crumpled horn Was the wickedest beast I think ever was born ; She was brimful of mischief and guile and deceit From the tip of her horns to her ugly hoofed feet ; And I smile to myself as I think even now Of the manifold tricks of that old brindle cow. No fence was so strong but she'd force her way through, Or jump o'er the top spite of all we could do ; Through meadows and cornfields and orchards she'd roam And seemed in the garden to feel quite at home. How often to sell her my father would vow, But no one would purchase that old brindle cow. Her pranks drove my dear mother almost insane, And made my poor father use words quite profane ; No stable could hold her, no matter how strong ; She would burst the door open and do something wrong. No person who knew her will fail to allow A worse beast ne'er lived than the old brindle cow. YOU D BETTER CHERISH HIM. Therk are husbands who are pretty, There are husbands who are witty, There are husbands who in public are as smiling as the morn ; There are husbands who are healthy, There are husbands who are wealthy, But the real angelic husband, well, he's never yet been born. .Some for strength of love are noted, Who are really so devoted That whene'er their wives are absent they're lone- some and forlorn ; And while now and then you'll find one Who's a fairly good and kind one, Yet the real angelic husband, oh, he's never yet been born. So the woman who is mated To the man who may be rated As pretty fair, should cherish him forever and a day. For the real angelic creature, Perfect quite, in every feature, He's never been discovered, and won't be, so they say. THE SEA BREEZE Hung on the casement that looked o'er the main Fluttered a scarf of blue ; And a gay bold breeze paused to flutter and tease This trifle of delicate hue. " You are lovelier far than the blue skies are," He said with a voice that sighed ; " You are fairer to me than the beautiful sea ; Oh, why do you stay here and hide? " You are wasting your life in this dull, dark room ;" And he fondled her silken folds. " O'er the casement lean but a little, my queen, And see what the great world holds ! How the wonderful blue of your matchless hue Cheapens both sea and sky ! You are far too bright to be hidden from sight, Come, fly with me, darling, fly !" Tender his whisper and sweet his caress, Flattered and pleased was she ; The arms of her lover lifted her over The casement out to sea ; Close to his breast she was fondly pressed Kissed onee by his laughing mouth ; Then dropped to her grave in the cruel wave, While the wind went whistling south. — Ella Wheeler Wikot. SELECTED POEMS. 149 SPEAKIN 0- CHRISTMAS. Brkkzks blowin' uiiddlin' brisk, Suow-Hakes through the air a-whisk. Pallia' kind o' soft an' light, Not euough to make things white, But just sorter siftiu' down So's to cover up the brown Of the dark world's rugged ways 'N' make things look like holidays. Not smoothed over, but .jest specked. Sorter strainin' for effect. An' not quite a gettin' through What it started in to do. Mercy sakes ! it does seem queer Christmas Day is most nigh here. Somehow it don't seem to me Christmas like it used to be, Christmas with its ice and snow, Christmas of the long ago. You could feel its stir an hum Weeks an' weeks before it coiae; Somethin' in the atmosphere Told you when the day was here. Didn't need no almauacs ; That was one o' Nature's fac's. Every cottage decked out gay — Cedar wreaths an' holly spray — An' the stores, how they were drest, Tinsel till you couldn't rest, Every winder fixed up pat, Candy canes, and things like that ; Noah's arks, an' guns, an dolis. An' all kinds o' fol-de-rols. Then with frosty bells a-chiine, Slidiu' down the hills o' time. Right amidst the fun an' din Christmas come a bustlin' iu\ Raised his cheery voice to call Out a welcome to us all Hale and hearty, strong an' bluff, That was Christmas, sure euough. Snow knee-deep an' coastin' fine, Frozen mill-ponds all ashine, Seemin' jest to lay iu wait, Beggin' you to come an' skate. An' you git your gal an' go Stumpin' cheerily through the snow, Feelin' pleased an skeert an' warn* ' 'Cause she had a-holt yore arm. Why, when Christmas come in, we Spent the whole glad day in glee. Havin' fun an' feastin' high An' some courtin' on the sly, Bustin' in some neighbor's door An' then, suddenly, before He could give his voice a lift, Yellin' at him, " Christmas gift." Now sich things are never heard, " Merry Christmas " is the word. But its only change o' name An' means givin' jest the same. There's too many new-styled ways Now about the holidays. I'd jest like once more to see Christmas like it used to be ! -Paul Lawrence Dunbar, " Lyrics of Lowly Life." UNCLE PETER 1 S SERMON. " Wha's yo' reco'd, trembliu' sitinah? Wha's de tithes yo' brinein' inY Do yo' 'spect t' be a winnah Fo' yo' Christyun wuk begin ? Hussel up ! Secuah yo' lodgia' Wha' de golden lante'ns glow — Foh dey wun' be any dodgiu' Wen de ho'n begins t' blow. " Tend ter wuk an* be a saviu' ; Yo' no Lijab— heah my song? — Deg a waitiu' 'twell a riven Cunis a totin' grub along! Yo*" may hab a peaceful lodgiu' Wha* de streams o' marcy flow- But dey won't be any dodgiu' W*en de ho'n begins t' blow. " Put away de idle dreamin' — LiF Einauyul's bannah high ! Don't yo' see de lamps a gleamin' Ou de buzzum o' de sky ? Ah, ye can't deadliest yo' lodgiu' Wha' de Hebenly roses blow — An' dey won't be any dodgiu-' Wen old Gabe begins 't blow !" THE HONEY BEE S WOOING. " Mv sweet Lady Clover, Come bend your head over, So bright with the sunshine and dew. And hear my low humming; At last I am coming To whisper a secret to you. " For, dear Lady Clover, I am your true lover. The summer with blossoms is sweet ; But you are the fairest, The daintiest, rarest, No other with you can compete.*' Said fair Lady Clover, " My giddy young lover. How long have you deemed me so dear ? Pray, what was the story That wild Morning Glory And Sweet Brier were blushing to hear r" Oh, wise Lady Clover, Ere summer was over, Each blossom in gardeu and field. Had heard his low humming, And watched for his coming, To lure her, her sweetness to yield. — Myra Clarke Parsons. LITTLE MAR JO R IE. " Where is little Marjorie f " There's the robin in the tree. With its gallant call once more From the boughs above the door ' There's the bluebird's note, and there Are spring-voices everywhere. Calling, calling ceaselessly — " Where is little Marjorie? " And her old playmate, the rain, Calling at the window-pane In soft syllables that win Not her answer from within — "Where is little Marjorie? " Or is it the rain, ah, me ! Or wild gusts of tears that wer» Calling us — not calling her i " Where is little Marjorie ? " Oh, in high security She is hidden from the reach Of all voices that beseech ; Sfee is where no troubled word. Sob or sigh is ever heard. Since God whispered tenderly — " Wnere is little Marjorie? " —James WJntoomh R-tity. 150 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY JINNY. Across the meadow, yonder on the hill, Jinny, my first wife, lays at rest in death — Where through the lonesome days wild roses fill The broodin' stillness with their sweetest breath. The family graveyard is neglected some ; The fence I know's been tumblin' more each year ; But birds an' grigs, they offen wake the gloom , An' sheep-bells drows'ly tinkle always near. I am not old, an' yit the world somehow Hain't seemed just like it was before she died ; I feel myself a-wishin' she's here now, Like when we used to toil on side by side, I prize her more 'n I did before she went — Strange 'at I couldn't see her worth in life ; But then, I seldom told her how she lent A charm to home an' driv' oifmueh of strife. So thoughts like these have teched me evermore, When ploughin' in the field below her grave, Or when at noon I set out by the door Beneath the vines 'at on the trellis wave ; Her mound is jest in sight, an' I can view The little slab 'at. tells one where she lays, An' hear across the shimmerin' fields the coo Of doves that linger through the summer days. An' evenin', settin' on the gallary, The twilight's arm a-closin' round the world, It seems 'at mem'ry '11 come in spite of me, An' all the past is like a scrip unfurl'd. I think of her when raindrops patter through The shadows lurkin' 'mongst the maple boughs, I hear her voice when comes the s-o-o, s-o-o, s-o-o, Down by the gap where Jinny milked the cows. An' when the moon is shinin' ca'm an' bright — So clear 'at one can see on upland knolls The flocks of sheep a-browsin' — ghostly white, As we consider sainted wimen's souls — My eyes git full, a-thinkin' of her there, Not hearin' love, but peacefully an' still ; An' then I wish I too was done with care, Restin' with Jinny yonder on the hill. — Will T. Hale. THE LITTLE COUNTRY PAPER. It's just a little paper — it isn't up to date ; It hasn't any supplement or colored fashion plate } it comes out every Friday, unless the forms are pied ; The outside is hand printed, with boiler-plate inside. It hasn't auy cablegrams from old Bombay, But it says that " Coicher Braggins is ii: our midst to-day." It doesn't seem to worry about affairs of state, But it tells that "Joseph Hawkins has painted his front gate." It never mentions Kruger or Joseph Chamberlain, But says that " Thompson's grocery has a new win- dow pane," And that " the Mission Workers will nive a festival, And there'll be a temperance lecture in William Hooper's Hall." It tells about the measles that Jimmy Hawkins had, And says that Israel Johnson "has become a happy dad." It says " that cider making is shortly to commence," And cites the fact that Ira Todd is building a new fence. It mentions Dewey's coming in one brief paragraph, And says " that Charlie Trimble has sold a yearling calf." And everything that happens within that little town The man who runs the paper has plainly jotted down. Some people make fun of it, but, honestly, I like To learn that " work is booming upon the Jiintown pike." It's just a little paper— it hasn't much to say — But as long as it is printed I hope it comes my way. —Josh Wink. TWO LOVES OF A SAILOR. Oh, an old man sat and blinked i' the sun And a song o' the sea sang he. He sang a song of a mariner bold And his sweetheart so true — the sea. Sing ho, yo ho, sing hey ! O'er crested billows, thro' dashing spray, With sails a-bulging she scuds away ; Away, away o'er the water's gray — Away through the dying day ! Sing ho, sing hey ! Oh, the mariner bold his ain love pressed To his heart and her sweet lips kissed — Sweet lips that swore they would e'er be true, When he sailed away i' the mist. Sing ho, yo ho, sing hey ! Through the singing tops the wild winds blow, Into the dank mists the ships doth go, And the mariner sings as he rolls below, " My love will be true, I trow !" Sing hey, yo ho ! - Oh, the lassie ashore forgot her man, But his sweetheart, the sea, proved true, She lulled him to rest on her heaving breast And her white arms about him threw. Sing ho, yo ho, sing hey ! He went to his one true love that day, At peace in her arms for e'er and aye — Less lasting the lassie's peace they say — She wed with a lump o' clay ! Sing ho, sing hey ! THE OLD HOME. In the quiet shadows of twilight I stand by the garden door, And gaze on the old, old homestead, So cherished and loved of yore. But the ivy now is twining Cntrained o'er window and wall ; And no more the voice of the children Is echoing through the hall. Through years of pain and sorrow, Since first I had to part, The thought of the dear old homestead Has liugered around my heart, The porch embowered with roses, The gables' drooping eaves, And the song of the birds at twilight Amid the orchard leaves. And the forms of those who loved me In the happy childhood years Appear at the dusky windows, Through vision dimmed with tears. I hear their voices calling From the shadowy far away, And I stretch my arms toward them In the gloom of the twilight gray. But only the night winds answer, As I cry through the dismal air ; And only the bat comes swooping From the darkness of its lair. Yes still the voice of my childhood Is calling from far away, And the faces of those who loved me Smile through the shadows gray. — Arthur L. Salmon. SELECTED POEMS. Ill MATILDY' S GOT A BEAU. I hain't uo great detective like yer read about— the kind That solves a whole blame murder case by footmarks left behind ; But then, agaiu, ou t'other baud, my eyes hain't shut so tight But I can add up two and two and get the answer right ; So, when prayer meet'n's, Friday nights, got keepiu' awful late, And, fer an hour er so, IM hear low voices at the gate ; And when the gate got saggin* down 'bout half a foot or so, I says to mother: "Ma," says I, " Matildy's got a beau." We oughter have expected it, she's most eighteen, yer see ; But sakes alive ! she's always seemed a baby, like, ter me ; And so, a feller after her, why, that just did beat all ! But, t'other Sunday, bless yer soul, he come around ter call ; And when 1 see him all dressed up as dandy as yer please, Aud sorter lookiu' 's if he had the shivers iu his knees, I kinder realized it then, yer might say, like a blow. Thinks I7 " No use ! I'm gettin' old ; Matildy's got a beau." Jest twenty-four short years gone by — it dou't seem five, I vow ! I fust called ou Matildy— that's Matildy's mother now ; I recollect I spent an hour a-tyiu' my cravat, And I'd sent up ter town and bought a bang-up, shiny hat. Aud, my ! Oh, my ! them new plaid pants ; well, wa'n't I something grand When I come up the walk with some fresh posies iu my hand? And didn't I feel like a fool when her young brother Joe Sang out : " Gee crickets ! Looky here ! Here comes Matildy's beau !" And now another fellow comes up my walk, jest as gay, And here's Matildy blushin' red iu jest her mother's way ; And when she says she's got to go an errand to the store, We know he's waitiu' rouud the bend, jest as I've done afore ; Or, when they're in the parlor and I knock, why, bles.s yer heart ! I have ter smile ter hear how quick their chairs are shoved apart. They think us old folks dou't catch on a single mite ; but, sho ! I reckon they forgit I was Matildy's mother beau ! — Jo& Lincoln. DEY MISS DEY MAMMY SO De liT chillum los' dey way — Dey duuuo whar to go ; Dey des a-cryiu' night en day — Dey miss dey mammy so ! We takes en tucks dem up in bed, En coax en pet dem some ; But still at night, en in de light, Dey ax : " la mammy come?" Dat's des do word from day to da| r - A-waitin' at de do', Dey dun no dat she goue to stay En never come no mo'. En we— we des ain't got de will Ter tell dem whar she gone, Kaae dese |x>' eyes is 'hleeg<* let till Wen dey's a-takin' on. Hit's des de same by night eu day- Dey dunno whar to go, Po' li'l' lambs ! dey Io-s' dey way — ■ Dey miss dey mammy so ! DE POO 1 FOLKS IN TOWN. When I hears de quail a-pipiu' In de corn-fiel' down below, Whar de ribber am a-singin'. An' de whisperin' willers grow, I fills my pipe wid backer. An' I takes my ol' gun down. An* I'm sorry fo' de poo' folks What has to live iu town. Den I likes to steal off by myself To de woods, an' restiu' dere, Jus.' listen to de music What am tillin' all de air ; De breeze a-siguin' froo de tree*, A 3obbin', mo'nful soun'. Like de weepin' ob de poo' folks What has to live in town. Dar is voices in de woodland, Whar de speckled shadders fall, De chatter ob de gray squir'!, Or de blue jay's cheery call ; An' de leaves ob brown November Make a carpet on de groun', An' I'm sorry fo' de poo' folk* What has to live in town. An' I sometimes wish de good, kia' Lord Had gimme lots of wealth, An' lan's, an' woods, and pasters — I don' mean fo' myself ; But I'd like to own de sunshine, So as I could han' it roun', An' give some to de poo' folks What has to live in town. — Edmund Duty, A BABY HA NO. I paced one day along the dusty street, With heavy heart and iuatteutive mind, When suddenly, with tiuy, pattering feet, A little child came softly up behind. He joined me, and we walked on side by side ; Some spell of silence I could not define Was on us ; theu, with blue eyes opened wide, He looked at me and placed his hand in mine. A baby's hand, and yet so firm and strong, It held my tired oue with kiudly grasp, And as we walked still silently aloug My heavy heart fouud healing iu that clasp. What sweet, mysterious intiuenee led him there I cannot tell, but thus it seemed to me — His Guardian Angel guided him to share My burden with unconscious sympathy. Unconscious, for as yet his tender mind Had uever learnt that Love was kin to Pain. And this is Sympathy, whose links can bind Their heart to heart as with a golden chaia. He needed naught of mine, he would not miss Me when we parted, nor would understand My thanks, but on his brow I left a kiss, And thanked God for the kindly baby baud. 152 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE PICNIC AT SELINA. That picnic at Selina— it covered lots o' ground ; Thar was wimmen, men, an' bosses from fifty miles around, An' fiddles squeaked and brogaus rreaked the mer- riest kind o' song, An' 'twas " Balance to your partners ! " an' " Swing !" the whole day long. 'Twas a powerful sight o' pleasure jes' to see the fel- lers whirl Them lovely forms in calico, an' swing girl after girl. It was quite intoxicating; you could hear the rafters ring 'Till the old men couldn't stand it, an' cut the " pigeon wing ! " The old-time " double shuffle" made the dust fly from their heels, An' 'twas sich a jolly scuffle in the old Virginny reels ; The young men jes' a-sweatin' an' the rosy gals a- blowin' — But they didn't mind the weather while thev kept the fiddle goiu' ! "It's jolly!" roared the rafters; "It's painful!" •groaned the floor ; "It's dusty!" said the wimmen, hut they only danced the more. An' the young men called it " stavin'," an' I think that they was right, For the old-time Georgia "breakdown" made the stars dance with delight ! All day the fiddle's music was ringin' wild an' sweet ; The nigger parson rolled it off an' kept time with his feet. All day — with jes' a breathin' spell 'long 'about the time o' noon — The dancers kept in motion an' the fiddle kept in tune. That picnic at Selina— it ain't to be forgot, For a feller felt as happy 's if he owned a house and lot ; And when I think about them gals in ribboned calico I feel like singin' " Praise the Lord, from whom all blessin's flow ! " There'll be good times at Selina in the happy days to be, But never any times like that for all the boys an' me ; For the mem'ry of that picnic— it'll live a hundred years, An' I'll feel my old feet shufflin' when I climb the golden stairs ! —Frank L. Stanton. THE GOLD-HEADED CANE. It stands in the corner yet stately and tall, With a top that once shone like the sun, It whispers of muster-field, playhouse and ball, Of gallantries, courtship and fun. It is hardly the stick for the dude of to-day ; He would swear it was deucedly plain, But the halos of memory crown its decay — My grandfather's gold-headed cane. It could tell how a face in a circling calash Grew red as the poppies she wore, When a dandy stepped up with a swagger and dash And escorted her home to her door. How the beaux cried with jealousy : " Jove, what a buck !" As they glared at the fortunate swain And the wand which appeared to have fetched him his luck — My grandfather's gold-headed cane. It could tell of the rides in the grand yellow gig. When, from under a broad scuttle hat, The eyes of fair Polly were lustrous and big, And— but no ! —would it dare tell of that? Ah me ! by those wiles that bespoke the coquett€ How many a suitor was slain ! There was one, though, who conquered the foe when they met With the gleam of his gold-headed cane. Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac and musk ! They scent these old halls even yet ; I can still see the dancers as down through the dusk They glide in the grave minuet. The small satin slippers, my grandmamma's pride, Long, long in the chest have they lain ; Let us shake out the camphor and place them beside My grandfather's gold-headed cane. — F. L. Knwcks. WHEN MOTHER COESAWAY. When mother goes a-visitin' There's lots uv things to do ; An' fur a week or so ahead She's iu a reg'lar stew. She says she's got to clean the house, An' labors night an' day At cleanin,' scrubbin', pickin' up, Afore she goes away. She goes up iu the garret lust, An' keeps a workin' down, An' cleans down to the cellar shelves, An' does the thing up brown. Poor pa, he don't know what to do, Jes' worries night an' day ; Ma says he ain't no good to help Afore she goes away. We live a week on " picked-up " meals, " Hard pickin', too," says pa ; An' then he trembles at the look Uv scorn he gets from ma. Pa drives her to the railroad train, A-feelin' fur from gay ; An' by an' bye the train comes in, An' ma, she goes away. An' then we find our troubles jes' Begin that very day ; An' things ma baked to last a month, Like bubbles fade away. An' soon we live from hand to mouth, An' pine an' all grow thin-; An' we are tickled mos' to death When ma comes home ag'in. —Joe Cone. BABYS PRAYER. In looking backward now they come to me — The scene, the shadows and the summer air ; His little head low bowed upon rny knee, As sweetly offered he his baby prayer : " B'ess papa, an' my ma, and all who need, An' make of me a dood boy, I am p'ayin', An' if at firs', dear Dod, 'ou don't sutseed, Den twy, twy adain !" I smiled — but on the smile there also went To God another simple prayer from me, Repeated now, with tear drops sadly blent, For the dear boy wherever he may be : " If he should stumble in the untried way, Still plead with thy dear spirit from aloft ; Be patient should his feet be led astray, Not once, not once, but oft !" — Will T. Hale. SELECTED POEMS. 153 WHEN PA PUT UP THE STOVEPIPE. When pa put up the stovepipe, then My ma would say, " I'll come again 'Bout nex' week Friday." Then she'd go An' I— 1 wished I eould, you know. 'Twan't no use wishin' ; I nruststay An' hear the things my pa would say When that there stovepipe had no fit — But pa he had one, I'll admit. Firs' pa he'd take a joint of pipe An' say, " Now hit that end a swipe." And when the soot his bald spot mussed, My pa he mostly up and cussed Until he thought about his swears An' says, " That, Alfred, was my prayers, Fer I drink from devotion's cup Whene'er I put a stovepipe up." An' then he'd take a biggish joint An' try to pound it to a point To drive it in some little end. An' when the pipe would seem to bend An' sort o' swipe him on the jaw, The things my pa said then, why, law 1 I couldn't tell you if I tried, But I jus' laughed until I cried. An' when m-y pa said, " Son, commere !" But I — I didn't come real near, Because just then he slipped and fell An' six joints tumbled, too, as well, An' soot came, too, straight in their track An' poured three gallons down his back An' in his mouth an' served to calk Him up so tight he couldn't talk. An' that is all, except I got A pail of water middlin' hot, An' washed him out an' washed him off, An' all that pa could do was cough Until he said, " Now get a man To fix this dang pipe ef he can !" The man he fixed it pretty soon — An' ma came home that afternoon. GRANDPA'S ME DOER. I've been down in gran'pa's medder, an' I wish you'd been along, Jes' to see the sun a-shinin' an' to hear the cat-bird's song, An' to see the elder bushes noddin' in the lnornin' breeze, An' to smell the wild plum blossoms as thev sifted from the trees. How the timothy was wavin' ! An' the clover down below Spread a world of scented sweetness that you have to smell to know ; An' the honey bees was hummin' in the long an' tangled grass, An' the little clouds make shadders there as silently they pass. An' I lay right down an' listened to the little windin' brook, With its murmurs low an' gurgles in every turn an' crook, An' I tried my best to understand the pretty song it sings, But I can't remember half, because it said so many things. An' 'way down in the- corner where the hazel bushes grow I found the cutest robin's nest that ever was, I know ; Of course, I didn't touch the eggs, though they was awful nice, Because, you know, if you handle them they'll only hatch out mice. I do think gran'pa's medder is the very nicest place! It's wonderful what beauty there can be in jest that space. An' when I die you read out loud a chapter from the Book An' take me down an' lay me right beside the little brook. I know my slumber will be sweet in such a* lovely spot, An' sometimes when I think of.it I'd rather die than not ; An' when Gabr'l blows his trumpet, if there's any- body 'round, Tell him down in gran'pa's medder is where Billie can be found. —W. H. Pierce. CHECKERS ON THE FARM. The checker board is all worn out From use each winter night ; The checkers have become begrimed, Which once were shining bright ; But still the game goes straightway on, Altho' the squares are blurs, While Cynthy pens up Reuben's men, Or Reuben captures hers. Sometimes the old man takes a hand To show his practised skill. And then the iarm hands circle round While every one is still ; They would not say a single word That would distract his play ; So breathless they observe him drive Young Reuben's men to bay. Ah, what would winter evenings be Without the checker board, With double corners, jumps and moves And fun which they afford ; Our dissipation oft consists In too much checkers here, Which makes the gossips tell about Our checkered life's career. — Arthur E. Locke. 154 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY A BOY'S CONFESSION. Acnt Kate she said the other day, " Jim's nothin' but a boy," she said. That's jus' the way I heard her say As if she wisht all boys was dead. She ac' as if boys wasn't fit To be alive a little bit. Pa, all the time he says : " Here, James ! Don't let me speak to you again ! Don't call your little sister names ! Don't tease the cat ! Don't scare the hen I Now do be quiet if you can, An* ac' a little like a man." Seems like they ain't no room for iua To move er make a bit of noise. I wisht Aunt Kate, I just wisht she Was more than forty-'leven boys, All set up in a stiff back chair, An' made to stay all quiet there. I din't go to sass Aunt Kate. "Shut up," was all I ever said, An' pa he turned an' made me skate Out of the room up here to bed, An' made me leave the table, too, Jus' when I wasn't half way through. ****** Ma she came up, an' she been here, I heard her creakin' up the stairs. She says to me : " I come, my dear, To tuck you in an' hear your prayers." An' then I choked an' cried, boo ! hoo ! An' cried an' cried, an' ma cried, too. I'm sorry now I sassed Aunt Kate, An' hurt her feelin's like I do. 'Cause ma says she's been sick of late With nervious prostration, too. And pa was worried to-night 'Cause the store business don't go right. An' ma she tells me I shall pray That I don't do them things again, An' God forgive me, which I say I ast fer Jesus' sake amen. An' I fergive Aunt Kate an' pa, An' every one— an* love my ma ! — Milton 0. Nelson. A-PLAYIN' SEVEN-UP. My ma says playiu' cards is sin, And pa he 'lows it's bad, And teacher down at Sunday school She says it's very sad To see young boys begin to quaff The gambler's glittering cup ; But wbfu it rains, my Uncle Bill And I play seven-up. My Uncle Bill he says the rain Makes ground too soft to plough, And goes and gits his cards, and we Climb up the old hay mow ; And if we left him down he'd whine, So uncle takes the pup Ho pa won't come along and ketch Us playiu' seven-up. We never play no gamblin' games, Nor bet which one'U win— My Uncle Bill says 'long's you play For fun it ain't no sin. We never makes no noise, 'cos pa Would get a strap and whup Me black and blue if he ketched mo A-playin' seven-up. Sometimes the cattle man comes up— When he gits in the game My Uncle Bill be says to me, " My son, it's getting tame." Then I go down and watch for ;»* ; And when I pinch the pup He howls, and uncle knows he's come— Ain't no more seven-up ! AN EASTER PRAYER. Within the dusty pew I knelt And breathed a rich perfume, For near at hand the altar steps Were banked with snowy bloom. And while the people's prayers arose Like incense sweet to God , From underneath my droopiug plumes I watched the lilies nod. I gazed upon their golden hearts, Their perfect whiteness rare, Their slender stems of clearest green, And prayed a little prayer. 'Twas never found in any book. Or said in any cell, And from my soul it bubbled up Like water from a well. " Desr Lord," I said, " when I am dead And done with grief and pain, If thou from out the narrow grave Shouldst call me forth agaiu To live once more, oh, let me then A spotless lily be, Within the church on Easter morn To blossom, Lord, for Thee !" — Minna Irving. BILLY MILLERS CIRCUS SHOW. At Billy Miller's Circus-Show — In their old stable where it's at — The boys pays twenty pins to go, An' gits their money's worth at that! — 'Cause Billy he can climb an' chalk His stockin'-feet an' purt' nigh walk A tight-rope— yes, an' ef he fall He'll ketch, an' " skin a eat" — 'at's all ! He ain't afeared to swing an' hang 1st by his legs ! — an' maybe stop An' yell " Look out !" an' nen — k-spangl — He'll let loose, upside-down, an' drop Wite on his hands ! An' nen he'll do " Contortion-act " — ist limber through. As " Injarubber Mens " 'at goes With shore-fer-certain circus shows ! At Billy Miller's Circus-Show He's got a circus-ring — an' they's A dressiu'-room— so's he can go An' dress an' paint up when he plays He's somepin' else — 'cause sometimes he's " Ringmaster "— bossin' like he please — An' sometimes " Ephaluut"— er " Bare Back Rider," pranciu' out o' there ! An' sometimes — an' the best of all ! — He's " The Old Clown," an' got on clo'es All stripud — an' white hat, all tall An' peakud — like in shore-'nuff shows — An' got three-cornered red-marks, too, On his white cheeks— ist like they do ! — An' you'd ist die, the way he sings An' dances an' says funny things ! — James Whilcomb Riley. SELECTED POEMS. 166 A RANCH GIRLS CHOICE Folks shuck their heads, an' whispered 'round, In rather of a sneeriu' way, That I was crazy, when they found Me coin' to marry Tommy Gray. They hinted that I'd best be dead Than hitched for life to such as he. But I jes' let 'cm talk an' said They didn't know him well as me, Fur tbougL he might be wild at time?, He never did no ser'us crimes. When I declined young Silas Pope, Who slung at mc his ranch and herd, An' put the rowels to hia hope Without a super-fiu-ous word, An' offered Tom encouragement — A cowboy working for his hire — The neighhors 'round us nearly went In spasms, an' they used to tire Me half to death a-sayin' I Would take a tumble by an' by. An' pa an' ma, both of 'em roared Like Texas bulls, they got so wild. An' said they wisht the blessed Lord Had tuk me when I vas a child. They said if I would marry Si 'T'd make big folks of all of us, But as fur Tom, they knowed 'at I Would find he was a worthless cuss. I told 'em plain as A B C My heart was doin' it, not me. An' all the same I married Tom, An' you jes' ort to seed 'em stare To see him settle down an' come Right to the front, an' every care I ever had jes' oozed away Like smoke before the prairie breeze, An' we're as happy as the day Is long, an' also, if you please, There ain't a neighbor left or right But thinks my Tom is out o' sight. An' sometimes when I set an' peep At that fat baby lyin' there Curled in its little crib asleep, Resemblin' Tom right to a hair, An' hear its pa in the corral A-singin' tunes in his delight, An' whis'lin' dancin' music — well, I think I hit it mighty right, An' as fur Si, I shed no tears — He's gone to jail fur stealiu' steers. FIXING THE CLOCK. It's just as fawther said it was — they's something here that's wrong : The gran'ther clock is ailin', sir — we're glad you come along. It stood an' sulked a week or two, and wouldn't tick or ring. Or run its han's aroun' its face, or do a blessed thing. It's old enough to hev a rest, as people say, you know • We often think it started out a thousan' year ago. An' Cousin Pete, who sets an' tells us stories in the dark, He wonders ef it give the time for Noah in the Ark. We're glad it's goin' to start ag'in ; for when it ain't no good, It makes a sort o' friendly fuss all through the neigh- borhood • The folks inquire as if 'twas folks, an' stop us on the way, An' anxiously they ask us how the ol' clock is to-day. They's lots o' time-machines aroun' that have a deal o' lack, An' need a steady gran'ther clock to keep 'em on the track ; I've seen folks stan' out in the road, an' wait an' listen like. To set their watch by this 'ere clock, as soon's they heard it strike. We're glad it stopped, though, so's that you could take it all apart. An' we could see its thinkin'-works, an' where it kep' its heart ; An' why, before it's goin' to strike, four minutes an* a half, It 'sort o' chuckles, like, as ef it meant to try an' laugh. An' how it keeps the memory good, although it's got so old. An' how it knows the moon is new, or full o' yeller gold; An' tells it with its picture-moons, so's we can know it nigh As well as ef we went out-door an' found it in the sky. An' ef it ever has the blues, alone there night an' day, An' how it comes to know the facts, when baby went away ; For half the night there through the dark, a-cryin' in our bed, We heerd it talkin' to itself— " She's dead- he's dead — she's dead !" An' then I guess I went to sleep, an' dreamed a little while, An' thought I saw her in the clouds, an' knew her by her smile ; An' when the sunrise woke me up— 'twas maybe six or seven- It changed its mind, an' says to me, " In heaven— in heaven — in heaven '." — Will Carleton. WISHES. I asked a little child one day, A child intent on joyous play : " My little one, pray tell to me Your dearest wish. What may it be ? " The little one thought for a while, Then answered, with a wistful smile : " The thing that I wish most of all Is to be big, like you, and tall." I asked a maiden, sweet and fair, Of dreamy eyes and wavy hair : 11 What would you wish— pray, tell me true — That kindly fate should bring to you ? " With timid mien and downcast eyes, And blushes deep and gentle sighs, Her answer came : " All else above, I'd wish some faithful heart to love." I asked a mother, tired and blest, With babe asleep upon her breast : ' Oh, mother fond, so proud and fair, What is thy inmost, secret prayer?" She raised her calm and peaceful eyes, Madonna-like, up to the skies. ' My dearest wish is this," said she, ' That God may spare my child to me." Again, I asked a woman, old, To whom the world seemed hard and cold : ' Pray tell me, oh, thou blessed in years, What are thy hopes, what are thy fears ? " With folded hands and head bent low She answer made, in accents slow : ' For me remains but one request ; It is that God may give me rest." — Emile Pkkhardt. 15« SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY MY SPRING WILL COME. Thk fruit haugs thick on the orchard trees And the white bloom drifts below, Afar iu the hedgerows hum the bees And the healthful breezes blow— The hedgerows hum with a thousand bees And the healthful breezes blow. All day I sit in the grapevine shade, While the nestling bird sings clear ; The leaves are spread like a silkeu braid And the pale green globes appear- Like a screen of silk the leaves arc laid, And the pale green globes appear. Long ! long to wait till the year grow3 late And the unfledged wings have flown. For a voice well known at the garden gate And a hand to clasp my own — A voice I love by the garden gate And a hand that meets my own. My spring will come wheu the winds are Weak And the ripe nuts burst and fall, -. When the peaches bloom like an infant's cheek And the bask ou the crumbling wall — Wheu they bloom and blush like a maiden And drop by the farmhouse wall. —Dora Rend Good'''. HISSING TIME. Margaret sat iu the lane alone, A " shepherd's clock " she blew, And "one," she cried, aud " two," she cried, As down the petals flew. " What's o'clock, sweet Margery ? " Said Willie at the gate. "Half-past kis.Miig time,; So you are just too late." " Half-past kissing time?" Said Willie, sore, downcast ; " I don't believe your clock i3 right, It goes a deal too fast." And taking her sweet hand in his, And picking up the flow'r, He showed her how to put it back Exactly half an hour. But that is fifty years ago : They both arc old folks now ; They love to saunter down the lane Where first they made their vow. Those quaint old words, they linger still, But with a sweeter sound ; 'Tis never " half-past kissing time " While love's true wheels go round. LITTLE MISSY TWO-TEETH. Little Missy Two-Teeth, sitting on the floor, Bubbling o'er with laughter, like a festive fay, Tell us of the revels on the golden shore, Where the fairy babies frolic all the day ! Who's the Queen of Faery— is she lily tall With a rose for scepter, nodding on the stem ' When you pause to listen do you hear her call. As she led the children when you danced with them ■ Where's the land of Faery ; is it in the moon Or behind the Pleiades, whitely tremulous? Did you lose your way, dear, and with magic shoou Stray along the moontrail till you came to us ? From the pleasant meadows where the little dears, Whose cherubic faces sorrow never mars, F.omp among the daisies till one almost hears Lilt of baby laughter sifted through the stari i Oh, that pretty country, where the falling leaves As they flutter earthward turn to butterflies. Where 'tis dollies' dresses that the spider weaves, And the lovely pansies — they are ladies' eyes. Little Mis3y Two-Teeth, whimsically fair, Do you know who led you to this earthly nest ? Mother love was yearning like a silent prayer, Christ it was who placed you on a mother's breast — George Horton. HE ALWAYS KEPT THREE DOGS. Ephrum Eels he had to scratch durned hard to keep ahead, — But he always kept three dogs. He couldn't keep a dollar bill to save his life, they said, — But he always kept three dogs. He said he might have been some one if he'd had half a chance, But getting grub from day to day giv' Ephrum 3uch a dance, He never got where he could shed the patches off his pants. — But he always kept three dogs. They 'bated Ephrum's poll-tax 'cause he was too poor to pay, — But Ephrum kept his dogs. How he scraped up cash to license 'em it ain't in me to say. — But I know he kept his dogs. And when a sufr'ring neighbor ambuscaded 'em, Eph swore — Then in a kind of homesick way he hustled 'round for more ; He struck a lucky bargain, and, by thunder, ha bought four ! —Jest kept ou a-keepin' dogs. UNCLE JIMS DANCING. Uncle Jim, he'd never be?u To auy city ball Until he come a-visitin' The folks in town last fall. Could dance until you couldn't rest, Knowed how to fling his heel, But all the dance he knowed was jest The old Virginny reel ! So when they took him to the ball The gals had lots o' fun ; He went a-slipping crost the hall An' buuipiu' every one. Of course he couldn't waltz, but they Jest made believe he could. They kept on whirliu' him away ; 'Twas worse than splittin' wood. Jest serious as could be, he kept A-goin' roun' and roun' ; Ouall the ladies' trains he stepped When he warn't falliu' down. He stood it jest as long as he Could stand it ; then he thro wed His hat down, till they laughed to see, Then jerked his coat aud blowed. He gave his galluses a hitch An' squared himself, an' then As quick as that they seen him pitch Right 'mongst the gals aud men. 'Twasdancin' now, without a douht, For then they seen him peel His weskit oft', an' jump about la a Virginny reel ! SELECTED r OEM Is. 157 JIM. Want to wo me, hey, old chap? Want to curl up in ray lap, Do yer, .liin ? See him sit and purr and blink, Don't ycr bet be knows I think Lots of him ? Little kitten, nothin' more, Wheu we found him at the door, In the cold, And the baby, half undressed, Picked him up and he was jest All .she'd bold. Put him up for me see, And she says, so cute, says she, " Baby's cat." And we never had the heart For to keep them two apart After that. Seem's if I must hear the beat Of her toddliu' little feet, 'Round about ; .Seem to see her tucked in bed, With the kitten's furry head Peekin' out. Seem's if I could hear her say, In the cuuuin' baby way That she had : "Say dood alight to Jimmie, do, Coz if oo fordetted to He'd feel bad." Miss her dreadful, don't we, boy? Day don't seem to bring no joy With the dawn; Look's if night was everywhere, But there's glory over there Where she's gone. Seems as if my heart would break, But I love yer for her sake, Don't I, Jim? See him sit and purr and blink ; Don't yer bet he knows I think Lots of him ? — Jot Lincoln. I GOT TO GO TO SCHOOL. I'D like to hunt the Injuns, 'at roam the boundless plain ! I'd like to be a pirate an' plough the ragin' main ! An' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule ; But I just can't be nothin', 'cause I got to go to school. Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones 'at got The least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin', pitch- pine knot ; « An' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool, An' never 'mounts to nothin', 'cause he's got to go to school. I'd like to be a cowboy, au' rope the Texas steer ! I'd like to be a sleuth-houn', er a bloody buccaneer ! An' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool ; But how kin I git famous? 'cause I got to go to school. I don't see bow my parents kin make the big mis- take O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make '. It ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule ; Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school. i. be regarded as " The Terror of the Plains !" I'd like 1o hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains ! IM like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool, Au' wipe 'em off the earth ; but, pshaw, I got to go to school. What good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls, Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in twisted curls ? An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'll Remember 'at it's all because I got to go to school. — jty&con WcUermo .. THE Of HAND SLED. Now that winter is a-comin', with the sleigh-bells an' the snow, I am kinder o' sort o' minding of the days long ago, When we uster go a-skatin' an' a-takin' moonlight rides, With the sweet an' rosy damsels snuggled warmly at our sides ; But of all the sports in winter that I worshiped as a boy, An' the one that gave athrillin' and hair-raisin' sort o' joy, An' would cause my ears to tingle an' my cheeks git rosy-red. Was a-coastin' down the holler on my ol' hand sled. How we always uster to hanker for an early fall of snow, Au' we didn't care a copper if the winter winds did blow, For, when snuggled 'neath the blankets 'twas, no trouble to keep warm, An' be lulled to pleasant dreamland by the howlin* of the storm ; How the trees would snap an' crackle, an' the old farmhouse would creak, An' the snowdrift to the winders when the blizzard's voice would shriek ! But the first thing in the mornin' when we'd gotten out of bed, We would hustle for the holler with that ol' hand sled ! How the boys an' girls would gather at the top of Slocuin's hill, Jest beyond the ol' red schoolhouse, near McGuffy's cider mill ; Every eye would be a-sparkle, every ruddy cheek aglow, With the fascinatin' pleasure that we there would undergo ; When we'd'get our pretty damsels anchored safely at our side, Every female heart a-flutter at the prospects of the " ride, Then, with anxious apprehension on our features overspread, We would go a-shootin' downward on our ol' hand sled ! Oh, the memories of boyhood an' the ol' familiar days, That will come a-crowdin' forward in a sort o' misty haze ! Bringin' up the pleasant features of the friends we uster know, In the dim an' distant fancies of the happy long ago, Oh, the pleasant recollections that will crowd a fel- ler's mind, Of the ol'-tiine sports and pleasures that our man- hood's left behind ! An' we sometimes sigh an' hanker for the day6 that long have Wed, Since we took that farewell journey on the ol' hand sled! 158 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY WHEN JIM WAS DEAD. " Hit sarved him right !" the nabors sed, An' 'bused him for the life he'd led, An' him a-lying thar at rest With not a rose upon his breast ; Ah ! menny cruel words they sed When Jim was dead. " Jes' killed hisself." " Too mean to live." They didn't hav' one word ter give Of comfort, as they hovered near An' gazed on Jim a-lying there. " Thar ain't no use ter talk," they sed, " He's better dead." But suddenly the room growed still. While God's white sunshine seemed to fill The dark place with a gleam of life, An' o'er the deacLshe bent— Jim's wife ! An' with her lips close, close to his, As though he knew an' felt the kiss, She sobbed— a touchin' sight ter see — " Ah ! Jim was always good ter me !" I tell you, when that cum ter light, It kinder set the dead man right ; An' round the weepin' woman they Throwed kindly arms of love that day, An' mingled with her own, they shed The tenderest tears when— Jim was dead. SNOWDROPS. When winter's scepter quivers Within his withered hand, And from the captive rivers His crystal chains unhand, Above the sod they shyly peer, The first-born blossoms of the year. They never catch the cooing Or wood-doves in the trees, They never hear the wooing Of butterflies and bees, All pure and bright they stand alone, Unconscious of the charms they own. Anon, when day is ended And night grows crisp and chill, With airy bells suspended Along the frosty hill, They are the chimes the fairies ring To welcome in the laughing spring. — Samuel Minium Peck. WHEN PAPA S SICK. When papa's sick, my goodness sakes ! Such awful, awful times it makes ; He speaks in, oh ! such lonesome tones ; And gives such ghas'ly kind of groans, And rolls his eyes and holds his head, And makes ma help him up to bed. While Sis and Bridget run to heat Hot-water bags, to warm his feet ; And I must get the doctor quick — We have to jump wheu papa's sick. When papa's sick, ma has to stand Right side the bed and hold his hand, While Sis, she has to fan and fan, For he says he's " a dyin' man," And wants the children round him to Be there when " sufferin' pa gets through ;" He says he wants to say good-bye And kiss us all, and then he'll die ; Then moans and says his "breathin's thick' It's awful sad when papa's sick. When papa's sick, he acts that way, Until he hears the doctor say : " You've only got a cold, you know ; You'll be all right' n a day or so ;" And then — well, say ! you ought to see, He's different as he can be, And growls and swears from noon to night Just 'cause his dinner ain't cooked right, And all he does is fuss and kick — We're all used up when papa's sick. — Joe Lincoln. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE MAY. Very early in the day, before the house was light, When the earth was wrapt in slumber, when the skjr was barred with white, How often at my brother's side, with careless heart and gay, I went into the wildwood to welcome in the May. There was the slender bilberry, tossing in the breeze, With strings of milky blossoms, the darlings of the bees ; Shy hepaticas were there, mingled white and blue, And hosts of pallid innocence, and violets and rue. There was halting hobble-bush, that vagrant of tlia woods, And maples with their crumpled leaves, and downy elder-buds, And sassafras and juniper, and all the spicy train That tempt the browsing cattle to haunt a country- lane ! Oh ! many a knot and rosy wreath our eager Angel's made, And many a snatch of childish song was echoed dow* the glade ; The water glimmered like a ghost and slipped away in foam, And every roguish bird that sang was calling us from home ! I wonder if the old bridge is standing as of yore, Or if the phoebe keeps her place above the cottage door. Oh ! when my sailor brother returns from far away, We'll go together through the wood and welcome i» the May ! — Dora Read Goodalc. LOVES SEASONS. The wall flowers to the frolic wind Do dance their golden aigulets, An elf-maids steal the hawthorn beads To wear for fairy amulets. The spring is here, the spring is here — The lovetime of the year, my dear. All heavy hang the apple boughs, Weighed down by balls of yellow gold ; The poppy cups, so fiery bright, Meseems would burn the hearts they hold. The summer's here, the summer's here— The kisstime of the year, my dear ! The birds are winging for the South, The elf-maids haste them to their bowers, And dandelion balls do float Like silver ghosts of golden flowers. The autumn's here, the autumn's here The wifetime of the year, my dear. Now are the heavens not more gray Than are the eyes of her I love ; More dainty white than her sweet breast The snow lies not the earth above. The winter's here, the winter's here — But lovetime lasts the year, my dear. — Amelie Rives. SELECTED POEMfi. 159 THE FIRST FIRE OF THE SEASON. How it leaps, in dance excited, How it sleeps, in trance delighted, How it looms in liquid shining, How it glooms in wan declining, While around the hearth we gather, One and all. In the bleak and windy weather Of the Fall ! Dear the friends each heart remembers As in cheer we stir the embers, Bid the ash renew its beauty, Sparkle, flash, and grow, till duty, Through the comfort of the hour, Woos our soul, And we deem its sternest dower Life's best goal. So we dream not visionary, When we deem the missionary, Household fire, once more relighted, Blazing higher the while united, Bound the hearth of home we gather, One and all, In the bleak and windy weather Of the Fall ! — Margaret E. Gangster. THE OLD VIRGINIA REEL. In the dreamy autumn gloaming, when the fire be- gins to sing, And I look between the ivies that about my cabin cling At my lonesome little garden, where the ruined roses lie Like a heap of tattered beggars fallen in the weeds to die — And the chilly wind comes droning round the chim- ney and the eaves, And along the narrow pathway drive the wind and withered leaves, And the crazy mill is silent, and a mist hangs o'er the wheel, Then I seem to hear the music of an old Virginia reel. Very sweet and very merry, very faint and far away, Now I hear the ancient tiddlers on the strings begin to play, Keeping time with swaying bodies and a kind of whispered croon, Till a host of dainty slippers follow to the dear old tune. There is Mistress Jenny Weaver, in her gown of yel- low silk, With the crimson coral shining On her neck and arms of milk. Even Lady Betty Fairfax deigns to tap a scarlet heel To the merry, merry music of the old Virginia reel. Lady Hetty, Lady Betty, all your pride is dust and mold, , For the worms have bred and nested in your locks of paly gold : Mistress Jenny, with your laughter and your ribbons and your beaux, And the hearts that you have broken, you are dead as yonder rose. I alone am left- to mourn y< — poor and palsied, bent and grsc, Mumbling of ne vanished glories and the joys of yes- terday, When I had a gallant lover, and my heart to him was leal, And we gayly darned together in the old Virginia reel. Oh, the instruments are shattered and the strings are snapped in twain, And the fiddlers have forgotten and will never play again ! 'Twas the creaking of the branches on the shingles to and fro That recalled to me the music and the mirth of long ago. But above the stars eternal, in their faded pinks and blues, With the powder on their ringlets and the buckles on their shoes, I shall see the beaux and sweethearts in the long pro- cession kneel. And their harps will play the music of an old Virginia reel. — Minna Irving. THE OLD WAY. Them folks in town has curious ways of doin' things, fer shore, And some o' them are curiuser than any I seen be- fore ; But the most dodgasted cne of all, as fur as I can know, Is that of waitin' to kiss a gal " under the mistletoe !" Geerusalem ! When I was young they didn't do that way ! Why, any place was good enough, and any time of day ! The parlor er the kitchen, er the good old cliekin' gate, Er the meetin' house er picnic ground would do, I want to state. And we used to kiss 'em easy, fer we had a lot of time — No rushin' and a-racin' then, fer kissin' wa'n't no crime ; Jest a pleasant recreashun ! Yes. It's forty year ago That first I kissed yer maw, and then there wa'n't no mistletoe ! THE HEART OF THE HOME. Be the home where it may, on the hill, in the valley, Hemmed in by the walls of the populous town, Set fair where the corn lifts its plumes to the rally, Or perched on the slope where the torrent rolls down. Still ever the heart of the home is the same, Still ever the dearest of names is the name, And ever the purest of fames is the fame, Of the home-queen, the mother, whose gentle com- mand, LTnchalleuged, bears rule in our beautiful land. Be the home what it may, whether lofty or lowly, The mansion, the cottage, the plaiu little room, 'Tis the heart-beat of true love shall make the place holy, 'Tis the outlook to heaven shall keep it from gloom. For the heart of the home is the same, is the same, In hall or in hut there is ever one name Which kindles the torch of a swift-leaping flame, As we bow to the mother, whose gentle command Is the scepter that sways in our beautiful land. Oh, sweet, with the dawn flush of morning upon her, She cradles her first-born in tender embrace ; And sweeter, when age brings her glory and honor, she smiles with the glow of life's eve" on her face, We are glad to her praise, we are sad at her blame, Her name was the first for our child-lips to frame, And loyallv, loudly all homage we claim For the ho'ine-queen, the mother, whose gentle com- mand Is potent and strong in our beautiful land. — Margaret E. Songster. 160 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY WHEN FATHER FILES HIS SAW. When father starts to file his saw, As oft he has to do, There is a rush for other spheres Uutil he gets all through. My ma she goes across the street, Altho' it's cold and raw ; And sister takes her sewing out When father files his saw. The cat jumps off the kitchen mat And straightens neck and lail I; And Towser, though he's somewhat deaf, Sets up a dismal wail, And soon he follows all the rest With fleetness in his paw, For naught can stand that awful pitch When father files his saw. When father files his saw it seems As though my time was near ; And when he says, " Young man, sit still !" Life holds me nothing dear. I wish he were a minister, Or counsellor at law, Or somethln' else so he'd ne'er have To file another saw. — Joe Cone. OLD CHRISTMAS It's a long way round the year, my dears, A long way round the year ! 1 found the frost and the flame, my dears, I found the smile and tear ! The wind blew high on the pine-topped hill, And cut me keen on the moor ; The heart of the stream was frozen still, As I tapped at the miller's door. I tossed them holly in hall and cot, And bade them right good cheer, But stayed me not in any spot, For I'd travelled around the year. To bring the Christmas joy, my dears, To your eyes so bonny and true ; And a mistletoe bough for you, my dear, And a mistletoe bough for you ! TELL-TALE THRUSHES. The soft full moon swung low in the sky, And the dew gleamed out in the grasses ; The silvery leaves on the aspen trees Were ashake where the south wind passes ; And my lover stopped in the clover walk, His eyes like the stars were gleaming, And I went on with my idle talk, But idle only in seeming. He caught my quivering hands in his In a clasp that was firm and tender ; And he bent till his face had touched my own. Lo ! my heart made a full surrender ; For he murmured words that were soft and low- On, the summer night and its glory— And the winds went whispering to and fro, As I listened to the old sweet story. He held me close that I might not go, And he cried, " ere my heart be broken." For how could he know that I loved him so, When never a word was spoken ? Oh, the dewy breath of that summer night, And the exquisite air around us ; As the moon shone out from a silvery cloud, And the glimmering stars that found us. I caught my breath, as I answered low ; For he heard my heart's loud beating. Ah ! who should tell what the answer was? But a night-bird fell to repeating, In the hedge close by, till my cheeks were red. Ah ! the wakeful ear of the thrushes. And he told every word that my lover said, To his mate in the hawthorn bushes. — .Vavrf Meredith. A TREASURED VOLUME. At night when work is over, an' I have said good- bye t' care, I seat myself for restin' in a good ol' easy chair That I've drawed up toward the table, an' I usually proceed T' try an' find some volume that it's worth my while t' read. There isn't what you'd call a feast o' readiu' on our shelves, Jes' humble works we've gathered now an' then V please ourselves, But one in p'int o' interest beats any I've seen yet — A scrap-book made o' clippiu's from the Poseyville Gazette. I like t' turn its pages, for somewhere about the back A full account is given of the accident t' Jack, An' then a poem follers that was written on his death, An' opposite the weddin' of our Eveline t' Seth. You'll find my brother Adam's name in it somewhere appears, The time he comes V visit, him I hadn't seen fer years, It says : " He likes the country, an' his trip won't soon forget " — Does this scrap-book made o' clippiu's from the Posey- ville Gazette. It tells about my raisin' that big pumpkin, recollect? An' says : " I took the premium, 'twas with blue rib- bon decked." An' little farther back's a piece they needn't ha' put in : " We talked with Squire Jones to-day — he thinks 'at Blaine will win !" An' so, I say, I'd rather have than any later books This volume sorter home-like, if it isn't much fer looks. An' oftentimes I read until my specs get misty wet A scrap-book made o' clippin's from the Poseyville Gazette. SELECTED POEMS. 161 THE PLUM CRICK 'LEVEN. Plum Ceick uster hev a 'leveu, but it hesn't any more ; They could swipe the other 'levens— never even let 'em score. Why, they done the Coon Crick fellers without turn- in' of a hair— Ev'ry team they ever tackled they hed beat 'em fair an* square. Shorty Johnson wuz the capt'in — uster work fur ol' man Smith, Bin a cowboy down in Texas, wouldn't do to monkey with— He wuz sort o' low and cbunkv, like a story and a half, An' he uster bunt the center like a hungry suckiu' calf. Bud Carney was the quarter— he had alius lived out West ; Take his fist an' hit a critter an' the butcher done the rest ; Then Evans wuz their fullback, an' he wus mighty hard to beat, An' the halfbacks they wuz speedy when they's jn their stockiu' feet. All in all, the Plum Crick 'leveu wuz a dog-nab'd gamy set, Uater praetis all day Sunday an' wuz never overhet. They's so used to breaking bronchos an' a bein' kicked by mules They could scrimmage 'cross a gridir'n an' be fresh at kickin' gools. After swipin' all the 'levens that wuz playiu' on the Cricks, They concluded that they'd ought to teach a college team some tricks — What wuz college fellers good fur, 'cept it wuz fur growin' hair? Plum Crick couldn't help believiu' they could do 'em fair an' square. So they got a game Thanksgivin' with a college they'd heard of : Bought some black and blue silk ribbin fur their friends to wave above ; Fixed a yell up fur the 'casbun, practis'd reg'lar ev'ry day — Ev'ry feller in the 'leven took his girl to see him play. All the girls they wore white dresses with rozets of black and blue, An' they walked 'round town all mornin', 'cept one girl whose shoes wuz new — An' the fellers bought some peanuts, an' some pep- permints to crunch, An' they hed their piekchers taken all a-standin' in a bunch. When at last they came to line up they wuz laughin' in their shoes At them long-haired college fellers they intended fur to bruise ; An' they couldn't keep from chucklin' when they thought how they'd sashay Clean across them college fellers like they owned the rightaway. When the college feller kicked off, somehow ruther then it seemed Like he knew more 'bout see!) bizness than the flum Crick 'leven dream'd ; After that the 'levens lined up. Shorty Johnson passed the ball When the people in the gran' stand either seen or heerd him fall. An' the college hed a touchdown long 'fore Shorty struck the ground. Then the Plum Crick fellers kicked off, an' thecollega run around, An' the quarter tried to stop 'em, an' they sent him up to Mars — Hedn't been for gravitation he'd a stayed up 'moug the stars. Then the Plum Crick 'leven give up, an' the girls hid their rozets, An' they started back for Plum Crick without leavia' their regrets ; Just before they reached the crossin' Shorty Johnson he come to, Couldn't tell jest what hed hit him, asked the fellers if they knew. Now, the Plum Crick 'leven never knew the kind of school they'd met ; Shorty Johnson thought it over afterwards an' said he'd bet "Thet it wuz a preacher college— thet's the meanest kind o' school ; 'Bout ez handy at Queensbury ez they are the Uolden Rule." But the Plum Crick 'leven never tried it after thet there game ; They decided thet same evenin' thet their schooliui' was to blame, An' they 'greed among each other thet they'd g» away ter school, Fur they'd seen thet educashun helps a heap to kick a gool ! —D. A. Ellsworth. THE GRAPEVINE SWING. When I was a boy on the old plantation, Down by the deep bayou — The fairest spot of all creation, Under the arching blue — When the wind came over the cotton and com. To the long slim loop I'd spring, With brown feet bare, and a hat brim tora And swing in the grapevine swing. Swinging in the grapevine swing, Laughing where the wild birds sing — I dream and sigh For the days gone by, Swinging in the grapevine swing. Out — o'er the water lilies bonnie and bright, Back to the moss-grown trees ; I shouted and laughed with a heart as light As a wild rose tossed by the breeze. The mockiug-bird joined in my reckless glee I louged for no angel's wings ; I was just as near heaven as I wanted to be, Swinging in the grapevine swing. Swinging in tbe grapevine swing, Laughing where the wild birds sing — On, to be a boy, With a heart full of joy, Swinging in the grapevine swing. I'm weary at morn. I'm weary at night, I'm fretted and sore of heart ; And care is sowing my locks with white As I wend through the fevered mart. I'm tired of the world, with its pride and pomp, Ami fame seems a worthless thing ; I'd barter it all for one day's romp, And a swing in the grapevine swing. Swinging in tbe grapevine swing, Laughing where the wild birds sing — I would I were away From the world to-day, Swinging iu the grapevine swing. —■Samuel Minium Peck. W2 fiJX HVNDRED AND FIFTY THE COONS THEY USED TO CATCH. Bud Foots an' me an' Jake Maloon, We ketched the durnedest biggest 'coon 3 ever see, last Friday night. Gosh, but you'd oughter .seen him tight ! Me blame nigh whipped Bud's brag ©1' noun' ! He weighed exac'ly thirty poun' On them new soaks at Mate's store — Fat on his ribs inch thick, er more. But Had, he says that 'coon can't teteb The full-grown' 'coons they useter ketch Bound here when timber still growed thick i'cr miles an' miles 'long Copperas Crick. 'Bout twenty-seven year ago Dad ketched" a 'coon, five rod er so i where our barn stands now, brought down The beam — kerplunk ! — at fifty poun'. An' gran'dad, he says sech a runt As that wa'n't wu'th the while to hunt; When he come here, in forty-five, All Fulton county was alive With 'coons as fat as any hogs, An' bigger than one-half the dogs. He ketched five, made a bar'l o' grease An' two men a fur coat apiece. My |"iie ol' great-gran'dad, he's dead. I xpect if he was here he'd said That gran'dad's 'coons was nothin' sech A* them he useter hunt an' ketch. lit s here 'way back in thirty-two — Three years before the big storm blew ; Must 'a' been 'coons in Illinoy As big as bears, when he 's a boy ! —,4. J. Slater. FISHERMAN JIM'S KIDS. Fisherman .Tim lived on the hill With his bonnie wife an' his little hoys ; 'Twas " Blow ye winds, as blow ye will — Naught we reck of your cold and noise ! " For happy and warm were he an' his, And he dangled his kids up on his knee To the song of the sea. ri'-herman Jim would sail all day, But when comes night upon the sands His little kids ran from their play, Tallin' to him an' wavin' their hands ; Though the wind was fresh and the sea was high He'd hear 'em — you bet— above the roar Of the waves on the shore ! Fisherman Jim sailed into the bay As the sun went down in a cloudy sky, i ver a kid saw he at play : A i.d he listened in vain for the welcoming cry. In bis little house he learned it all, And he clenched his hands and he bowed his head— " The fever ! " they said. 'Twuz a pitiful time for Fisherman Jim With them darlin's a-dyin' afore his eyes, A-stretchin' their nee hands out to him An' a-breakin' his heart with the old-time cries He had beared so often upon the sands, For they thought they wuz helpiu' his boat ashore— Till they spoke no more. But Fishermau Jim lived on and on, Castin' his nets an' sailin' the sea, As a man will live when his heart is g..ne Fisherman Jim lived hopelessly, Till once in those years they col < lid : " Old Fisherman Jim is powerful sick— Go to him quick i " Then Fisherman Jim says he to me : " It's a long, long cruise— you understand — But over beyond the ragin' sea I kin see my boys on the shinin' sand Wail in' to help this ol' hulk ashore Just as they used to — ah, mate, you know 1 In the long ago." No, sir ! he wuzn't afeared to die ; For all night long he seemed to see His little boys of the days gone by An' to hear sweet voices forgot by me ! An' just as the mornin' sun come up — " They're holdin' me by the hands !" he cried, And so he died. — Eugene Field. AN OLD SAW. A dear little maid came skipping out In the glad new day with a merry shout ; With dancing feet and with riving hair She sang with joy in the morning air. " Don't sing before breakfast, you'll cry before night J" What a croak to darken the child's delight ! And the stupid old nurse again and again Repeated the ancient, dull refrain. The child paused, trying to understand ; But her eyes saw the great world rainbow-spanned; Her light little feet hardly touched the earth, And her soul brimmed over with innocent mirth. •' Never mind, don't listen, sweet, little maid ! Make sure of your morning song," 1 said ; " And if pain must meet you, why all the more Be glad of the rapture that came before. " Oh, tears and sorrow are plenty enough — Storms may be bitter and paths be rough, But our tears should fall like the dear earth's showers That help to ripeu the fruits and flowers. " 1*0 gladden the day with your blissful song, Sing on while you niay, dear, sweet and strong ! Make sure of your moment of pure delight, No matter what trials may come before night." — Celia Thazter. CABIN LACONICS. Darkey wuck hard w'en de boss am a-lookin' ; Chillun mighty cross w'en dinnah am a-cookin' ; Doahs shet tight w'en de po' am a-kuockin' ; Nubbin mighty 'shamed w'en de cohn am a-shockin' ; Ducks quack de loudes' w'en dey march to de wahter, An' you dun lose yo' frien' w'en vo' leu' him a quab- ter. Rooster mighty proud w'en de hen am a-layin' ; Mule back its ears w'en de donkey am a-brayin' : Cow step low w'en dey come to de milkin' ; Squir'l whet him teef w'en de cohn am a-silkin' ; Little dog barks w'en de moon am a-blinkin' ; An' de coon up a stump does a big pile ob thinkin'. Vines hug de tightes' w'en de wall am a-crnmblin' ; Darky's feet de lightes' w'en de storm am a-rumblin' ; Wahtermillion's ripes' w'en de rin' goes a-snappin' ; Nuts mighty plenty w'en de leaves am a-drappin' ; Bees hive the bes' w'en yo' kick up a racket, An' yo' kyaut jedge a man by de size ob his jacket. Rabbit mighty tired w'en de snow am a-falliu' ; Darky neber def w'en de dinnah horn am callin' ; Crow bery fren'ly w'en de cohn am a-plantin' ; Traces offen loose w'en de boss am a pantin' ; Stiddy layin' hens am de fus' to go to settin' ; An' de debbil hoi's de stakes w'en de darky gets to bettin'. — J. H. Gray. SELECTED POEMS. 163 GRANDMOTHER S CHEST. There's a chest in the dim old garret, wrapped in a pall of dust And curtained with dainty cobwebs that cover the signs of rust , 'Tis grandmother's sacred heirloom, and there, un- touched, it stands Since over her peaceful bosom she folded her wrinkled hands. And now they were going to search it— Myrtle and beautiful May, In quest of some quaint old garments to wear in a mimic play, 80 they shattered the dainty cobwebs, and scattered the piles of dust, And turned the key in the ancient lock, that creaked with the grains of rust. But thoughts of theatricals ended as they lifted the heavy lid, And gazed on the wonderful treasures that through the long years had been hid ; And the mirth of the girlish voices was changed to a smothered sigh, As fancy wreathed each relic with the halo of years gone by. They found a package of letters, faded, and worn, and old, And among them softly nestled a curl of shining fold; e dainty ribbon that bound them was a lover's knot of blue That meekly whispered the story so old yet always new. And here wa3 the crape and illusion lying side by side— This for the sorrowing widow, and that for the bloom- ing bride- One kissed the golden tresses — one clung to the sil- vered hair, Each tells its sacred story lying in silence there. And they found a golden circlet close by the veil of snow That was given with love-pure kisses in the misty long ago, But the hands that wore it are silent, and the pas- sionate heart is stilt That throbbed 'neath orange-blossoms at the whis- pered words — " I will ! " And there was a baby's slipper, worn at the dainty toe, And embalmed with tears and kisses rained on it long ago— There were toys and tiny garments, and one soft, silken curl, And a cross of faded lilies with the name of the baby girl. And they found two old-time paintings, that both hearts knew full well, Of grandmother's fair twin daughters, Bertha and beautiful Belle ; Alike, yet oh ! how different are the faces fair they view, For each had a story written in the beautiful eyes of blue. Belle was a fair queeu lily, with drapings of satin and lace, And the pearls at her throat no whiter than the hue of her beautiful face ; Her fair hands were laden with jewels, and gems in her golden hair, But the blue eyes, ah, there was the story of anguish and utter despair ! And the picture of dear little Bertha had roses in place of the pearls, And her dimpled cheeks vied with the flowers, and sunshine seemed caught in her curls ; And the blue eyes were peaceful and tender, and sweet is the story they tell, For true love was given to Bertha, and honor and homage to Belle. There, too, was a letter from Willie, the darling first born son, That was written beside the camp-fire after the battle was done — 'Twas a letter of hope to mother, with a prayer for the cause of right, For Willie would lead the army on the morrow's desperate fight. That letter told half a story ; and here was the other part — That hard-earned badge dyed crimson with the blood of his loyal heart ! He had worn it but once in battle, when bravely he fell at his post, And the badge was brought home by a comrade to her who had loved him most. And they found a queer, gold locket that grand- mother used to wear, With the tresses of raven and silver she clipped from grandfather's hair ; But the quaint, old-fashioned treasures were all to» sacred for play, For a joy or a grief was blended with all that was hid away. And while in sober silence they searched the old chest through, Grief crept to the haughty dark eyes and tears to the eyes of blue ; With a sob and a stifled murmur, they closed the ancient chest, And the relics, like her who prized them, were left ia peace to rest. — Harriet Esther Warner. A LAUGH IN CHURCH. She sat on the sliding cushion, The dear wee woman of four : Her feet in their shiny slippers Hung dangling over the floor. She meant to be good ; she had promised ; And so, with her big brown eyes She stared at the meeting-house windows And counted the crawling flies. She looked far up at the preacher; But she thought of the honey bees Droning away in the blossoms That whitened the cherry-trees. She thought of the broken basket, Where curled in a dusty heap. Three sleek, round puppies, with fringy earg. Lay snuggled and fast asleep. Such soft, warm bodies to cuddle, Such queer little hearts to beat, Such swift, round tongues to kiss you, Such sprawling, cushiony feet. ! She could feel in her clasping fingers The touch of the satiny skin, And a cold, wet nose exploring The dimples under her chin. Theu a sudden ripple of laughter Ran over the parted lips, So quick that she could not catch it With her rosy finger-tips. The people whispered, " Bless the child I" As each one waked from a nap ; But the dear wee woman hid her face For shame in her mother's lap, SIX BUNDEED AND FIFTY THE LOVERS SONG. When winter hoar no longer holds The young year in his gripe, And bleating -voice* fill the folds, And blackbirds pair and pipe ; Then coax the maiden where the sap Awakes the woodlands drear, And pour sweet wildflowers in her lap, Ana sweet words in her ear. For spring-time is the season sure, Since Love's game first was played, "When tender thoughts begin to lure The heart of April maid, Of maid, The heart of April maid. When June is wreathed with wilding rose, And all the buds are blown. And, oh, 'tis joy to dream and doze In meadows newly-mown ; Then take her where the grayling leaps, And where the dabchick dives, Or where the bees in the clover reap The harvest for their hives. For summer is the season when, If you but know the way, A maid that's kissed will kiss again, Then pelt you with the hay, The hay, Then pelt you with the hay, When sickles ply among the wheat, Then trundle home the sheaves, And there's a rustling of the feet Through early fallen leaves ; Entice her where the orchard glows With apples plump and tart, And tell her plain the thing she knows, And ask her for her heart. For autumn is the season, boy, To gather what we sow ; If you be bold, she won't be coy, Nor ever say you do, Say no, Nor ever say you no. When woodmen clear the coppice-lands, And arch the hornbeam drive, And stamp their feet, and chafe their hands, To keep their blood alive ; Then lead her where, when vows are heard, The church-bells peal and swing, And, as the parson speaks the word, Then on her clap the ring. For winter is a cheerless time To live and work alone ; But what to him is snowor rime Who calls his love his own, His own, Who calls his love bis own? — Alf/td Austin. EFRUM. Whar's Efrum ? Whar's Efrum ? W'y de Lawd kin on'y tell. I sont him to de wood pile mo'n twenty yeah ergo. Whareber he's a-libin', I hopes he's doin'"well, But he oughter brung dat wood back to he mammy. Yes, dat's so. An' you knowed him ? You knowed him ? Well, hit's comfortin' to fin' Somebody ez war 'quainted wid my harum-scarum boy ; Hit kinder brings him back into hee's poor ole mam- my's min', j An' makes her t'ink he'll come eigin to bring her ole heart joy. He alius war a mischief, but dar warn't nothing bad Erbout dat chile, jist 'ceptin' w'eu he had some devilment Into hee's haid, an' den he'd up an' makememons'us mad, Untwell I'd say I'd skin him ; but he nebber cared a cent. He alius minded mammy, an' he'd do jist w'at she say. 'Ceptin' 'pon some 'casions he war kinder sorter slow, An' he do jist w'at she'd wanter ef she let him hab he way ; But hed oughter brung dat wood back to he mammy long ergo. An' so you knowed my Efrum? Lawd bress us ! You doan' say ! Hit's twenty long, long yeahs I's been a-grieben fur dat boy. I nebber kin furgit hee's prangs an' hee's rapskallion way ; I's prayed fur him an' weeped fur him, an ain't had much ob joy Sence he went off. Ef I could ketch him now I'd skin him, shoah, Fur nebber bringin' back dat wood. An' you dat rascal knowed ? He poor ole mammy nebber will lay eyes on him no moah. W'at ? You is— Sho ! You Efrum ? Hush ! Lawd bress us, how you's growed ! HEADACHES JES' FORE SCHOOL I GUESS my health is gittin' poor, Er somep'n er the kin', Fer every mornin', jist as sure (EspBchully if it's fine), I git sith offul shootin' pains ' 'At ma says: " It's jes' cru'l Ter make 'at poor boy study, with Sech headaches jes' 'fore school." Ma thinks my mind is breakin' down From learnin' of so much. She puts wet towels on my head, An' chopped up ice, an' such, Ah' tries to git me off ter bed, But pa says he's no fool. He thinks birch oil's the ODly stuff Fer headaches jes' 'fore school. An' teacher, too, don't symp'thize 'Ith boys wots feelin' bad. Fer, soon's she sees me mopin' in, She says : " Now, ain't 'at sad Ter make them suft'rin' children work ! Young man, set ou 'at stool An' do them sums." Huh ! she makes fun Of headaches jes' 'fore school. 'Tis kind'r funny, though, how soon I'm over bein' sick, An' me an' Jim (Jim, he gits cramps), We sneak off down t' the crick An' go in swimmin'. Gee ! We got A bully divin' pool An' spring board. Gosh ! you bet they cure Them headaches jes' 'fore school. An' fishin' too. We got a raft An' dandy hooks an' lines ; Ketch bullheads, lots— an' sunfish. Say ! Down underneath them pines They bite like thunder ! Settin' there, Feet swashin', nice an' cool, Pains, nothin' ! Say, d'you ever git Them headaches jes' 'fore school ? -M. a John. SELECTED POEMH. 1S5 LIZY ANN. My darter? Yes, thet's Lizy Ann— Ez full o' grit ez any man 'T you ever see. She does the chores Days when I can't get out o' doors, Account o' this 'ere rheuniatiz— An' sees to everything there is To see to here about the place ; An' never makes a rueful face At housework, like some women do, But does it all, and cheerful, too. There's mother: she's been bed-rid now This twenty year. And you'll allow It takes a grist o' care an' waitiu' To 'tend to her. But I'm a-statin' No more'n the facts when this I say : There's never been a single day That gal has left her mother's side Except for meetin' or to ride Through muck or mire, through rain or snow To market when I couldn't go. She's thirty-five or so? Yes, more Than that — she's mighty nigh two score. But what o' that? She's sweet an' mild To me an' mother as a child. There doesn't breathe a better than Our eldest darter, Lizy Aun. Had offers? Wal, I reckon ; though She's never told me ner mother so. I mind one chap, a likely man, Who seemed clean gone on Lizy Ann ; And yet she let the critter slide, An' he's sence found another bride. The roses in her cheeks is gone, An' left 'em sort o' pale an' wan. Her mates is married, dead or strayed To other places. Youth ner maid No longer comes to see her. Yet You'll hear no murmur of regret. " My life's a part of heaven's own plan," She often says. That's Lizy Ann. KNEADING THE DOUGH. In brown holland apron she stood in the kitchen ; Her sleeves were rolled up, and her cheeks all aglow ; Her hair was coiled neatly, when I, indiscreetly, Stood watching while Nancy was kneading the dough. Now, who could be neater, or brighter, or sweeter, Or who hum a song so delightfully low, Or who look so slender, so graceful, so*tender, As Nancy, sweet Nancy, while kneading the dough? At last, when she turned from the pan to the dresser, She saw me and blushed, and said, shyly, " Please go. Or my bread I'll be spoiling, in spite of my toiling, If you stand here and watch while I'm kneading the dough." I begged for permission to stay— she'd not listen ; The sweet little tyrant said, " No, sir ! no ! no ! " Yet when I had vanished on being thus banished, My heart stayed with Nancy while kneading the dough. I'm dreaming, sweet Nancy, and see you in fancy, Your heart, love, has softened and pitied my woe ; And we, dear, are rich in a dainty, wee kitchen, Where Nancy, my Nancy, stands kneading the doug" — John H. Frazer, WHEN BETTYS CHURNING Shb stands within the dairy door, A comely maid. While I to 'proach would fain be bold, Yet am afraid ; Plies she the dasher valiantly, My ardor spurning — A picture in a rustic frame Is Betty churning. , Within her reach the roses droop, All envy-ladeu At seeing the red cheeks that graca This perfect maiden ; While at her feet the violets, With fine discerning, Look up to watch the blue eyes of My Betty churning. Nor is the sunbeam that athwart The door is gleaming More golden than her smoothed hair — 'Tis no vain seeming ; The milk that fills the polished pau* To cream a-turning, Is no whit whiter than the arms Of Betty churning. With sleeves up to the elbows tucked In careless fashion, And plenteous apron hung about In fear of splashin', She plays the dasher up and dowa While I, a-burning, Feel that my heart is being hit When Betty's churning. Ah, me ! I can but sigh and hope — Poor heart a-flutter ! That she will yield and let me help To make the butter, That she will pity me and heed My fervent yearniug, And let me call her mine — my own — My Betty churning. — Charles Monck Rvan. WHEN I WAS A BOY. Up in the attic where I slept When I was a boy— a little boy ! In through the lattice the moonlight crept, Bringing a tide of dreams that swept Over the low, red trundle-bed, Bathing the tangled curly head, While moonbeams played at hide and seek With the dimples on each sun-browned cheek- When I was a boy — a little boy ! And, oh, the dreams, the dreams I dreamed When I was a boy— a little boy ! For the grace that through the lattice streamed Over my folded eyelids seemed To have the gift of prophecy. And to bring me glimpses of times to be Where manhood's clarion seemed to call, Ah, that was the sweetest dream of all— When I was a boy— a little boy ! I'd like to sleep where T used to sleep When I was a boy — a little boy ! For in that lattice the moon would peep, Bringing her tide of dreams to sweep The crosses and griefs of the years away From the heart that is weary and faint to-day, And those dreams should give me back again The peace I have never known since then— Whenj was a boy— a little boy ! — Eugene Field, 166 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY AX HANDLES. Under a gnarled, old apple tree, Back in the grass-grown orchard lot — (Plain as 'twere yesterday, to me, Thirty years since I saw the spot), Stood the old workbench, where Tom and I With boyish terrors amused ourselves, Wringing from grandpa many a sigh, As he slowly polished the hickory helves. Oh, many a wild, uncanny tale O'ereame our juvenile unbelief, Till the hair arose, and the cheek grew pale, At the fluttering sound of the falling leaf, And our started senses were wont to paint The evening shadows as horrid elves, While grandpa, humming an old hymn, quaint, Still plied the glass to the gleaming helves. And when the thickening twilight shade Over the ancient orchard broke, With corncob pipes, but rudely made, We gathered the shavings for mimic smoke, Till grandpa laughed with a boyish glee, (And we joined in the mirthful play ourselves). Yea, he laughed, and cried, as against the tree He added one to his finished helves. A mansion stands where the orchard lot Hallowed the play of my boyish will ; Grandpa sleeps in a sacred spot, Close by the top of the meadow hill. Poor Tom is gone, there are none but me Left 'mid the ancient joys to delve — But a sweeter memory cannot be, Than grandpa scraping a hickory helve. WHO KNOWS ? June leaves are green, pink is the rose, White bloom the lilies ; yet who knows, Or swears he knows, the reason why? None dare say — " I." The oriole, flitting, stoops and sips A soft, sweet kiss from the lily's lips ; Who taught the oriole to steal so? None say they know. Whether the oriole stops and thinks, Or whether he simply stoops and drinks, Saying it only suits him well ; This who can tell ? We marvel whither this life-stream fends, And how remote are its hidden ends ; But life and loving soon slip over Time and the lover. A kiss is all , a sip and a song ; A day is short, and a year not long. Loving would double — but thinking stole Half from the whole. —James Herbert Morse. THE SPINET. Beneath the rafter, black and bare, The ancient spinet stands ; The spiders o'er its yellow keys Have stretched their filmy strands ; Around its weak and tottering frame The airy cobwebs blow, In lieu of silken tapestries That mouldered long ago. But windy nights a quaint old tune Comes stealing down the stair ; For then she wakes the keys again— A ghost with powdered hair. The mice go dancing in and out To melodies she sung, When fashion trod the minuet And Washington was young. Around her on the garret floor Her shining satins trail ; A haunting sorrow dims her eyes ; Her face is proud and pale. But when I climb the creaking stair, The gusty moonlight falls On nothing but the withered herbs That hang along the walls. And yet the spinet trembles still To that forgotten tune ; The ashes of a crumbled rose Upon the keys are strewn ; And yonder chest below the eaves Her gown of satin holds, AVith springs of broken lavender Between its faded folds. — Minna Irving BABY BOY. What shall we give the baby— A kingdom and a crown ? No ; give him a coach and sunshine, With steeds of thistle-down, With little reins of roses To hold in his dimpled hands, And he must pay toll in kisses When he rides through mamma's lands. How shall we dress the baby — A princely robe for him ? No ; make him a slip of poppies, Deep pink for his pearly skin ; A cap of snowy lilies, With feathery daisy spray ; Dress him all up in posies, For baby is king to-day ! What shall we feed the baby ? A royal, dainty feast? No ; cook him a plump canary Fresh from the amber East ; Send the orders swiftly, By blue-birds on the wing ; Then call in all the birdies, For baby, to-day, is king ! What shall we call the baby ? King Baby, let it be? No ; let the angels whisper A sweeter name far to me. Oh, such a beautiful darling ; Oh, such a precious joy ! Listen, I've heard the sweet answer: " Mother's own baby boy .'" — Frank M. Imbrie. MARCH. Beneath the sheltering walls the thin snow clings, Dead winter's skeleton, left bleaching white, Disjointed, crumbling, on unfriendly fields. The inky pools surrender tardily At noon, to patient herd, a frosty drink From jagged rims of ice ; a subtle red Of life is kindling every twig and stalk Of lovely meadow growths ; the willows wrap Their stems in furry white ; the pines grow gray A little in the biting wind ; mid-day Brings tiny burrowed creatures, peeping out Alert for su 1 ".. Ah, March ! we know thou art Kind hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, And out of sight, are nursing April's violets ! —Helen Hunt Jackson. SELECTED POEMS. 167 A MEMORY OF AUTUMN. Thk farthest hills that vaguely are outline! Loom loveliest to the backward-turning view ; The dearest days are those that lie behind. Resting afar in recollection's lilue. The tenderness for earlier scenes and days Was horn of our foreparents' exile paiu ; Since when their wandering thoughts sought Eden's ways, Who has not yearned for home's delights again ? The hollyhocks beside the farm-house door, The pinks that sweeten all the village yard, The roses thriving in the city's roar — These burgeon fadeless through life's Afterward. And I, a wanderer from the roof-tree, spend A little while among the hills of home, Where catbirds through the morn their carols send, And zephyrs thrill to ecstasy the gloani. Npt here may come the noises where, upcurl'd, The city's smoke the shuddering welkin drapes — Harsh hammerings on the anvil of the world Where rush'd humanity its fortune shapes. Unvex'd by much that makes the spirit sore With witnessing the war of Wroug and Right, A peaceful tide upon a soundless shore The day rolls 'twixt its banks of morn and night. The spider nets are scarcely even stirr'd, But hang out dewy in the autumn air — Some bathing nymph as peering dawn she heard, Has fled and left her jeweled garments there ! The garrulous crows go flapping out of sight, Where brooding woods their tatter'd banners raise ; While from his perch a partridge stands upright And slides his whistle-shuttle through the haze. The grig's drone rises faintly and forlorn From where the fallen leaves the moist earth press — As of a fair}' Samson grinding com, Blind dupe of some Delilah's faithlessness. Far off, the voice of laborers, and near, The bee hums where the gentians are in bloom ; Anou the rain crow's calling, and the whir Of insects buzzing in the orchard gloom. Almost as strange and distant seems the gone As things that now tradition only throng — Old trysts on lighted roofs oT Babylon, And days when Sodom heard fair woman's song. And quietly I brood, half-seeing gleams Of rest awaiting down the future years, Where Peace lies lissome by the sacred streams, And God in grace " shall wipe away all tears." — Will T. Halt. THANKSGIVING IN THE OLD HOME. Like the patient moss to the rifted hill The wee brown house is clinging ; A last year's nest that is lone and still, Though it first was filled with singing. Then fleet were the children's patting feet, And their trilling childish laughter, And merry voices were sweet, oh ! sweet, Ringing from floor to rafter. The beautiful darlings one by one, From the nest's safe shelter flying, Went forth in the sheen of the morning sun, Their fluttering pinions trying. But oft as the reaping time is o'er, And the hoar-frost crisps the stubble, They haste to the little crib once more From the great world's toil and trouble. And the mother herself is at the pane, With a hand the dim eye shading, And the flush of girlhood tints aguiu The cheek that is thin and fading. For her bors and girls are coming home. The mother's kiss their guerdon, As they came ere yet they had learned to roam, Or bowed to the task and burden. Over the door's worn sill they troop, The skies of youth above them, The blessing of God on the happy group, Who have mother left to love them. They well may smile in the face of care, To whom such grace is given : A mother's faith and a mother'3 prayer, Holding them close to heaven. For her, as she clasps her bearded son ; With a heart that's brimming over, She's tenderly blending two in one, Her boy and her boyish lover. And half of her soul is reft away, So twine the dead and the liviug. In the little home wherein to-day, Her children keep Thanksgiving. There are tiny hands that pull her gown, And small heads bright and golden ; The childish laugh and the childish frown, And the dimpled fingers folden, That brings again to the mother breast The spell of the sunny weather, When she bushed her brood in the crowded aest, And all were glad together. A truce to the jarring notes of life, The cries of paiu and passion, Over this lull in the eager strife, Love hovers, Eden fashion. In the wee brown bouse were lessons taught Of strong and sturdy living, And ever where honest hearts have wrought, God hears the true Thanksgiving. — Margaret E. Sangstzr. A REVISION. How fresh in my mind are the scenes of my girlhood^ As keen recollection presents them to view — The kitchen, the woodshed, the knots of green fire- wood, And all the hard work I had then to go through ; The bread I must knead out, and doughnuts to frf brown, The pies for the threshers, and town folks, so swell, The clothes I must rub out, with pounder and wash- tub, The leaky old washtub, remembered so well ; The washtub, the washtub, the iron-bound washtub, The back-breaking washtub that sat on the well. The cows I must milk ere the breakfast was ready, The beds I must make ere the dinner begun, The dishes to wash when the men folks were resting— Sure man's work oft ceaseth, but womau's ne'er done— The floors I must scrub hard, and bags I must patch up, The stockings to darn : all the tasks nonecould tell, How oft in my dreams I am doing big washing With a leaky < >ld washtub, remembered so well ; The washtub, "the washtub, she iron-bound washtub, The back-breaking washtub that sat on the well. The old worn-out vessel, I now think with pleasure, Has gone where it never will trouble me more ; I view in its stead now with exquisite pleasure. Machines which prevent the old backaches of yore ; Although long removed from that hard situation, Few tears of regret do itrtrusively swell When fancy reverts to my father's old farmhouse, With softsoap-streaked washtub way out on ttie well. The washtub, the washtub, the iron-bound washtub, The back-breaking washtub that fell on the well. 168 812 HUNDRED AND FIFTY To die at dawn ! And the tale he told would have melted a heart like mine ; But our captain's features were stern and cold with never a softened line. Grimly he listened, and shook his head when we'd heard the story through, Then slowly, with face unmoved, he said: "My man, that tale won't do." Three years of war with a cunning foe had quick- ened suspicion's hreath ; Jn this dread game, a single throw oft meant de- feat and death. So the man they captured that Christmas Eve, hid in the wood near by, Though a tale told he one could well believe, must meet the fate of a spy. "I was trying to reach my home," said he; " I stole from our camp to-day ; 'Twas so very near that it' seemed to me I could not stay away ! The orders were strict, but I disobeyed— mine was not a coward's flight ; I knew 'twas a risk, but was not afraid ; I meant to get back to-night. " My wife is dead." He looked away, then followed an awful pause. ""But the babies — well, every Christmas Day, they expect old Santa Claus ! I wanted to see them all once more; I've got them some Christmas toys — " He glanced at his pitiful, meager store, then appeal- in gly at the boys. Poor careless wretches that we were, we'd been gay enough till then ; But now we, too, thought of faces dear we might never behold again. And all were grave, a stillness crept through the revel of army life, As each one thought of a vigil kept by mother, sweet- heart or wire. .And hushed were the laugh and merry jest ; soon, almost without a sound, Each, wrapped in blanket, sought his rest on the bare and frozen ground. Exhausted, the men soon fell asleep, while all alone was I ; For to me it fell a watch to keep on the man con- demned to die. I was sorely troubled that Christmas Night ; I seemed to see his home, And the little faces eager and bright, that looked for the morn to come. I thought of my dear ones far away, and of bygone peaceful joys ; I looked at the man who must die next day — he was clasping those pitiful toys. I whispered something ; the wretched man made eager and low reply ; I knew 'twas a terrible risk I ran if he were indeed a spy ! But I felt that the story he told was true, and did what I thought was right ; Somewhere, my own dear little ones, too, looked for Santa Claus that night ! We stole from the camp, and through the wood he silently led the way, Till at length, in the shadows before us, stood a farm- house old and gray. SELECTED I' OEMS. 169 (Save the creak of a gate (hat idly swung, unbarred by the winds at will, And a light where a broken shutter hung, all else was dark and still. The window revealed a simple room, and we saw in the firelight's glow 'Neath a high dark mantel, half hid in gloom, three stockings hung in a row. Ad old man sat in a great arm-chair, while gathered about his knee, Repeating softly their evening prayer, hands clasped, were children three. " Grandpa, good-night." They kissed his cheek. " Vou mustn't look sad," they said. The old man smiled, but did not speak as he stroked each curly head. " Don't think Santa Claus won't come to-night. Why, he never did treat us so ! He isn't afraid of the men that fight ; they wouldn't hurt him, you know." My companion groaned, I turned away ; it was more than I could bear. I strode down the path that in shadow lay, and left him standing there. Time passed ; perhaps 'twas an hour or more, the light at the window died ; He softly opened the unlatched door — I waited alone outside. Did I fear he would try to escape? Not I ! He knew 'twould mean death to me ; It would be my fate next day to die if I were to set him free. All this I knew, but my heart was sore ; I offered to let him go ; He shook his head, and we turned once more to the camp in the vale below. At dawn a volley rang sharply out, but more than one man fell ; The enemy charged with triumphant shout, mid the scream of shot and shell. Surprised, confused, we at first fell back, then rallied our flag around ; Again and again met their grim attack, but stub- bornly held our ground. The battle was neither lost nor won when we rested that Christmas Day ; Red, in the glare of the setting sun, the field of carnage lay. And here, once more, at that long day's close, we met on the gory plain, In the pause of battle, no longer foes, Blue and Gray, to bury our slain. Heaped where they bravely fought and died, they lay on the frozen earth, Whose names that night would be spoken beside full many a genial hearth ! I found him lying apart from the rest, the man we condemned to die, Stiff and cold, a wound in Mb breast — as soldier he fell, not spy.j As we buried him there in the waning light, I thought of the little row Of childish faces, eager and bright, revealed by the firelight's glow. Rude was his grave and our prayers were few in that brief grim battle pause ; His name unspoken, I only knew he was somebody's .Santa Claus. — Minnie Reid Fiench. THANKSGIVING MORNING. The first snow of the waning year, The chimes of bells upon the air ; In countless households joy and cheer- Thanksgiving reigneth everywhere. IN APRIL. Not a breath to break the stillness, Not a cloud to fleck the blue, But the skylark in the sunshine, And the primrose in the dew. Buds are bursting in the hedges, Leaves are stirring in the lane, Everywhere the sap is stirring, Love returns to life again. — John Denni SLY SANTA CLAUS. All the house was asleep, And the fire burning low, When, from far up the chimney, Came down a " Ho ! ho !" And a little round man, With a terrible scratching, Dropped into the room With a wink that was catching. Yes, down he came, bumping, And thumping and jumping, And picked himself up without sign of a bruise ! " Ho ! ho I" he kept on, As if bursting with cheer, "-Good children, gay children, Glad children, see here ! I have brought you fine dolls, And gay trumpets, and rings, Noah's arks, and bright skates, And a host of good things ! I have brought a whole sackful, A packful, a hackful ! Come hither, come hither, come hither and choose. "Ho! ho ! What is this? Why, they all are asleep ! But their stockings are up, And my presents will keep. So, in with the candies, The books and the toys ; All the goodies I have For the good girls and boys. I'll ram them and jam them, And slam them and cram them ; All the stockings will hold while the tired creatures snooze. " Ho ! ho ! How they'll laugh When they open their eyes ! Ha ! ha ! How I wish I could see their surprise ! But I'll give one a kiss, And I then must be off. He ! he ! Little puss, Does my breath make you cough? Don't worry ; I'll skurry, Be off in a hurry ; So you all may sleep on while 1 finish my cruise." All the while his round shoulders Kept ducking and ducking, And his little fat fingers Kept tucking and tucking, Until every stocking Bulged out on the wall As if it were bursting And ready to fall. And then, all at once, With a wisk and a whistle, And twisting himself Like a tough bit of gristle, He bounced up again, Like the down of a thistle, And nothing was left but the prints of his shoes. — Mrs. S. C. Stone. 170 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY SWEET-BRIER. Thk brier-rose, she is the sweetest — la the beanty of rose-life completest : From her root, through her leaves and her stem, To the thorns of her diadem, She is filled with a haunting perfume. Rarer yet than exhales from ner bloom, Whatever the rest of the roses may be, A rose with a soul is she ! The blossom divinest in beauty Unfolds on a thorn-branch of duty. The loving are also the true ; The sweetest are sweet through and through. Pervaded as wholly were we, Soul of all sweetness with Thee, Our life were no rose-bloom that fades in an hour — Breathe Thou through our leaf and our flower ! — Ltiot Lnreom. SWING HIGH AND SWING LOW. Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow, It's oft' for a sailor thy father would go ; And it's here in the harbor in sight of the sea He hath left his wee babe with my song and with me Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow ! Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow, It's oh, for the waiting as weary days go ! And it's oh, for the heartache that smiteth me when I sing my song over and over again : " Swing high and swing low While the breezes they blow !" "Swing high and swing low," The sea singeth so, And it waileth anon in its ebb and its flow ; And a sleeper sleeps on that song of the sea, Nor recketh he ever of mine or of me ! " Swiug high and swing low While the breezes they blow, 'Twas off for a sailor thy father would go !' — Eugene Field. WOULD IT BE TOO LATE? Goin' to separate to-day— after twenty years, Twenty years o' married life— mingled smiles and tears. Jes' drawed a deed for th' house an' farm — she's a-goin' to stay, An' as for me, I'm goin' to quit — quit an' go away. We can't hitch up no longer ; I'm a-hangiu back, A-draggiu' on the wagon wheel or else she flies the track ; An' when a team don't pull right the's nothin' else to do But put shafts in th' wagon, with one horse 'stead o' two. The's a vision sort o' comes to me — comes through the mist an' blur, A vision o' twenty years ago— I wonder if 't comes to her ? When the preacher joined our hands in his an' said ; " My children, give Yer hearts an' lives t' each other as long as ye both shall live." I wonder if she remembers — I'd sort o' like to know ; I'd like to go an' ask her, but now it's too late to go ; Too late to come together — we've got to face our fate. I wonder if anything'* sadder'n them two words, " Too late !" Twenty years — I was thirty then ! I'm over fifty now ; Seems sort o' childish business to break up in a row For a man as old as I am and a woman old as she — Sort o' odd for people to find they cant agree. I wonder if I was hasty ! Mebbe I was, I b'lieve With an evener on th' wagou I wouldn't 'a' had to leave. An evener o' Patience th' balance would sorto' make, When we got to goin' sideways, an' let us give an' take. I wonder if I was to go to her— go to her an' say : " We've been pullin' uneven — let's try another way ; We'll lengthen th' temper strap a hole and shorten up th' tongue, An' move the load forrud a little so th' weightll be better hung. Mebbe we's not beeu hitched up right— could pull th' load along If we'd look th' harness over an' find out what wa» wrong. " I wonder if I was to go to her an' put th' case an' state What I b'lieve to be th' matter— if it would be too late? RACHEL. No days that dawn can match for her The days before her house was bare ; Sweet was the whole year with the stir Of young feet on the stair. Once was she wealthy with small cares And small hands clinging to her knees ; Now she is poor, and weeping, bears Her strange, new hours of ease. — IAzettf W. Riese. FOREVER. They sat together in the suu And Youth and Hope stood hovering near, Like dropping bell-notes one by one Chimed the glad moments soft and clear; And still amid their happy speech, The lovers whispered each to each, " Forever ! " Youth spread his wings of rainbow light, " Farewell !" he whispered as he went. They heeded not nor mourned his flight, Wrapped in their measureless content ; And still they smiled, and still was heard The confidently-uttered word, " Forever ! " Hope stayed, her steadfast smile was sweet, tin til the even-time she stayed ; Then, with reluctant, noiseless feet. She stole into the solemn shade; A graver shape moved gently by, And bent ana murmured warningly, " Forever ! " And then — where sat the two, sat one No voice spoke back, no glance replied ; Behind her, where she rested lone, Hovered the specter, solemn-eyed. She met his look without a thrill, And smiling faintly, whispered still, " Forever ! " O, 3weet, sweet Youth ! O, fading Hope ! O, eyes by tearful mists made blind ! O, hands which vainly reach and grope For a familiar touch and kind ! Time pauseth for no lover's kiss ; Love for its solace has but thi3— " Forever ! " — Suitm Oyolidge. SELECTED POEMS. 171 JACK'S PLOUGHING. Oct in the field in the sunshiny weather Jack and the farm boy are ploughing together. The dandelions in bloom by the wall Twinkle gayly at Jack ; and the robins call From the apple tree boughs, " Ho, Jack ! Look here !" While the chipmunks are chattering, " Come, Jack, my dear !" But Jack keeps on with his ploughing. The plough is high, and the dimpled hands Must reach for the handles, 'twixt -which he stands. The south wind lifts the loose brown rings 'Neath the sailor hat with its flying strings, And kisses the lips pressed tightly together, When out in the fields in the sunshiny weather Jack lends a hand with the ploughing. Up and down the long furrows brown He manfully trudges, a tiny frown Cn the smooth, broad brow, so earnest is he. " We has such lots of work to do, Jim, hasn't we ? If I didn't help you now what would you do?" Says Jim : " Master Jack, if it wasn't for you I'd never be done with the ploughing." The sun grows hot, the lazy breeze Scarce stirs the boughs of the apple trees. The soft earth clings to the moist little hands, When, at last, at the end of a furrow, he stands And looks toward home. " My mamma, I guess, Will be 'fraid 'thout a man in the house unless I did come home from ploughing." Such a dirty boy as runs home at last ! Such a dirty boy ! but mamma holds him fast, And kisses the dimples that come and go As he tells of the morning's fun, till lo ! The white, lids droop o'er the eyes of brown, And in the meadows of Slumber-town Jack still goes on with his ploughing. —Mabelle P. Clapp. DEAD ROSES. The roses that he gave Babette, One morning when the skies were blue, Were flecked with pink and set with dew ; Sweetheart," he said ; " do not forget ; Be these a sign 'twixt me and you." Then laughed and spurred his horse anew, Though on her little heart and true They rested till the spring was through — They died before the sun had set — The roses that he gave Babette. He fought and drank and loved and slew ; What matter if he cared or knew That far away one laid at rest With withered roses on her breast. Ah, me ! The dead hand holds them yet, The roses that he gave Babette. — TheoJosia Pickering Garrison. THE OFF SIDE OF THE COW. Old Wendell Hopkins' hired man is an absent-minded chap ; He'll start for a chair and like as not set down in some one's lap. I happened along where he stopped to bait his hosses the other day — He'd given his hosses his luncheon pail and was try- ing to eat their hay. A kind of a blame fool sort of a trick for even a hired man, But he tackled a different kind of a snag when he fooled with Matilda Ann. When he fooled with Matilda Ann, by jinks, he got it square in the neck, And the doctors say, though live he may, he's a total human wreck. He's wrapped in batting and thinking now Of the grief in insulting a brindle cow. Matilda Ann gives down her milk, and she doesn't switch her tail, She gives ten quarts — week in, week out, and she never kicks the pail. She doesn't hook and she doesn't jump, but even Ma- tilda Ann Ain't called to stand all sorts of grief from a dern fool hired man. And when he stubbed to the milking shed in sort of a dream and tried To make Matilda "So" and "Whoa" while he milked on the wrong off" side, She giv' him a look to wilt his soul and pugged him once with her hoof, And I guess that at last his wits were jogged as he slammed through the lintel roof. He's got a poultice on his brow Of the size of the foot of a brindle cow. WEAKLY DICK. Long ago, before the 'hoppers aucL the drouth of sixty-four, Long before we talked of boomin', long before the first Grange store, Long before there was a city on the bank of Wilier Crick, Come a womern doin' washin' and alittul boy named Dick. Kinder weakly like and sick ; Wasn't even common quick ; An' the folks said 'at his daddy used to be a loonytick. He was undersized an' ugly an' was tongue-tied in his talk ; Awkward an' near-sighted, an' he couldn't more'n walk ; An' the other boys all teased him ; no one knew the reason why, 'Cept to hear his mother pet him, " There, ma's angul ; there, don't cry !" When there was nobody nigh She would set by him an' sigh ; An' she'd comb his hair an' kiss him ; " Ma's boy ull be well, bye'm bye." But instead of gettin' stronger, Dick grew thinner ev'ry year ; An' although his legs got longer, his pore brain ketched in the geer. But he always loved the crick so, an' 'twas there 'at he 'u'd play ; Killing lucky bugs an' building dams 'at always broke away. But his mother used to pray : " God make Dickie strong some clay ; " God 'u'd make him strong 'n' happy, her " poor angul," she'd say. They was not a long percession when he died ; an' all I mind Was a little green farm wagon with two churs set in behind. But it held a lonely mother, sobbin' wildly for her own ; An' the sorrow ate in deeper, for she knew she grieved alone. 'Mid the sunflower's lightly blown, Where the sticker weeds are sown, No one knows the hopes an' heartaches ber- ried 'ne:itb that rough-cut stone. 172 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE OLD WIFES K/SS The funeral service ended, the voice of prayer had ceased. It was an aged pilgrim, whose soul had been released. The neighbors were conversing in whispered under- tone, Yet the old wife at the coffin-head in silence stood alone. Her wet eyes gazed intently upon tile shriveled face. The furrowed history written there her soul could plainly trace. She saw in that sad moment his whole life pictured there, Old-age, strong manhood, buoyant youth, when both were young and fair. Again a bright hope sprang to life, a moment — but the pall Recalled her "desolation, her loneliness and all. No home, no husband, children goue ; oh, agony ! oh, pain ! The fallen keystone of that arch could ne'er be placed again. And 'mid the shattered fragments she bowed her trembling head Aud stretched her withered, piteous hands in silence toward the dead, And gazed in dumb expectancy — then left one linger- ing kiss, Expressing every sentiment that fills a life like this ; A kiss of love, of sorrow, of memory, of farewell ; A kiss with life's whole history all crowded in its spell. But look ! whence comes that grayish hue, that sud- den gasp for breath ? The limp hands fall, the form sinks down into the arms of death ! Oh, say not spirits meet aud kiss. The worn-out thread of life Snapped in the ecstasy of bliss when husband claimed his wife. Oh, say not that his unseen hands were clasped iu grateful prayer, When that grand kiss released her soul and gave it to his care. -rfHiza Lamb Martyn. WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUMS Born of the clouds and darkness, Of the frosts and early snow ; When the summer blooms have faded, The beautiful Christ (lowers blow. All through the budding springtime, All through the summer's heat, All through the autumn's glory, They hide their blossoms sweet ; But when the earth is lonely And the bitter north winds blow, With a smile of cheer for the dear old year The Christmas blossoms blow. Sweet as a dream of summer, White as the drifting snow ; When our hearts are filled with grieving, The beautiful Christ flowers blow. Not all the south wind's wooing Opens their secret heart ; Slender they grow and stately, Guarding their life apart. But when the earth is dreary And the heavy clouds hang low, With their tender cheer for the way-worn year, The Christinas ij1o.i-.ouis blow. Sweetest of all consolers ! Fairest of flowers that grow ! When hopes and flowers have faded The beautiful Christ flowers blow. Bright in the cottage window. Sweet in the darkened room. Fair in the shortened sunlight, Cheering the dusky gloom, Oh, when our hearts are lonely And clouds of care hang low, With blessed cheer for the dying year The Christmas blossoms blow. VILD GEESE. The wind blows, the sun shines, the birds sing lotid, The blue, blue sky is flecked with fleecy, dappled cloud, O'er earth's rejoicing fields the children dance and sing, And the frogs pipe in chorus, " It is spring ! it is spring !" The grass comes, the flower laughs where lately lay the snow, O'er the breezy hilltop hoarsely answers the crow, By the flowing river the alder catkins swing, And the sweet song sparrow cries, " Spring ! it is spring !" Hark ! what a clamor goes winging through the sky ! Look, children ! listen to the souud so wild and high I Like a peal of broken bells — kling, klang, kliiig — Far and high the wild geese cry, "Spring! it is spring ! " Bear the winter oflf with you, oh, wild geese, dear! Carry all the cold away, far away from here ; Chase the snow into the north, oh, strong of heart and wing, While we share the robin's rapture, crying, "Spring ! it is spriug !" — Ce/ia Thaxter. BETTY AND THE BABY. My home seems deserted, I'm lonely and sad, I miss all the pleasures of home I once had, I try to be cheerful, I fail to be glad. Since Betty left home with the baby. I sit in the rooms, and I read and I write, I whistle and sing, but the only delight That is mine is to joyfully dream every night Of Betty, who's gone with the baby. It seems that a mother's sweet face I can see As I dandle the baby in joy on my knee ; But no man was ever more lonesome than tne Since Betty's been goue with the baby. The house is a picture of silence and gloom, As I walk through its halls that are still as a tomb, Like a crazy man, silently searching each room For Betty, who's gone with the baby. She has " gone to see ma," and it's many a mile ; Every day that she stays seems a terrible while. And I'll never be happy or able to smile Until Betty conies home with the baby. 'Twill be joy to my heart when the message sh» come That the hen and our chicken no longer will roam. Gee ! won't this old rooster crow loudly at home When Betty gets back with the baby ? — Will H. Hays. SELECTED POEMS. 173 THE TWO ORPHANS. " Yws, sir ; we lived home till our mother died, 'N' I'd go a-walkin' with Jim, 'cause he cried Till night time ud come, 'n' we'd go up to bed And bofe say the prayers 'at she taught us ter said— Didn't we, Jim ? "'N' pa ud stay late, 'n' we used ter call, 'Cause we thought we heard 'im down-stairs in the hall; An' when he comes home once he fell on the floor, 'N' we run'd an' hid behind ma's bedroom door — Didn't we, Jim? She told us, our ma did, when she's sick in bed, 'N' out of the Bible some verses she read, To never touch wine and some more I can't think, But the last words that she said w.as to never to drink — Didn't she, Jim ? " But our other ma, what our pa brought home there, She whipped little Jim 'cause he stood on a chair 'N' kissed our ma's picture that hung on the wall, 'N' struck me fer not doin' nothin' at all — Didn't she, Jim ? " She said 'at we never had no bringin' up 'N' stayed round the house 'n' et everything up, 'N' said 'at we couldn't have no more to eat, 'N' all 'at we's fit fer was out iu the street — Didn't she, Jim? " We said 'at we bated 'er, didn't we Jim? But our pa — well, we didn't say nothin' ter him, But just took ma's picture and bofe run'd away, 'N' that's what Jim's cryin' 'bout out here to-day— Didn't we, Jim? " Mister.* don't feel bad, 'cause Jim's cryin', too, Fer we're goin' to hunt 'n' git somethin' to do ; 'Cause our ma 'at died said to work an' to pray, 'N' we'd all be together in glory some day — Didn't she, Jim?" THE NEXT MORNING. You may reap your harvest of wheat and tares, You may gather your cockle and barley ; You may husband a harvest of joy and cares Laboring late and early — The grain of gold And the poppy bold And the cornflower blue for adorning ; But the fullest ears of the seven fat years Will be gleaned by the gleaner next morning. You may draw your nets, you may draw your line, Find silvery fish in plenty ; You may angle for honor, hook titles fine, And of places and posts fill twenty — The fish of weight Swallowed up your bait, Your mres and your wiles not scorning ; But the lustiest trout, there's no manner of doubt, Will be caught by the fisher next morning. You may think out thoughts that are witty and wise, You may think some deep, some shallow ; You may store your brain with truth or with lies, You may let your brain lie fallow. Thought is good, Be it understood ; But this fact on your mind must be borne in, That the latest thought that mankind can be taught Will bethought by some thinker next morning. You may cling to this world of time and sense, You may think of another rarely ; You may sigh, ah ! whither? and ask, ah ! whence? And find life puzzling— fairly. Yet life is sweet We still repeat On this dear old earth we were born in, Good bettered to best, best changed into blest When we wake to God's cloudless " next morning." FOLDED HANDS. Poor tired hands that toiled so hard for me, At rest before me now I see them lying, They toiled so hard, and yet we could not see, That she was dying. Poor rough, red bauds, that toiled the livelong day, Still busy when the midnight oil was burning, Oft toiling until she saw the gray Of day returning. If I could sit and hold those tired hands, And feel the warm life-blood within them beating, And gaze with her across the twilight lands. Some whispered words repeating, I think to-night that I would love her so, And I could tell my love to her so truly, That e'en though tired, she wonld not wish to go, And leave me thus unduly. Poor tired heart, that had so weary grown, That death came all unheeded o'er it creeping, How still it is to sit here all alone While she is sleeping. Dear, patient heart, that deemed the heavy care Of drudging household toil to its highest duty ; That laid aside its precious yearnings there Along with beauty. Dear heart and bauds, so pulseless, still and cold, (How peacefully and dreamlessly she's sleeping 1) The spotless shroud of rest about them fold, And leave me weeping. — Albert Bigelow Paint, GROWING OLD. The fairest lilies droop at eventide, The sweetest roses fall from off the stem, The rarest things on earth cannot abide, Ami we are passing, too, away like them. We're growing old. We had our dreams — those rosy dreams of youth— They faded, and 'twas well. " This after prime Hath brought us fuller hopes, and yet, forsooth, We drop a tear now in this latter time To think we're old. We smile at those poor fancies of the past — A saddened smile, almost akin to pain — Those high desires, those purposes so vast. Ah, poor hearts, they cannot come again ! We're growing old. Old '! Well, the heavens are old ; this earth is, too ; Old wine is best, maturest fruit most sweet. Much have we lost, more gained, although 'tis true We tread life's way with most uncertain feet. We're growing old. We move along and scatter as we pace Soft graces, tender hopes on every hand. At last, with gray streaked hair and hollow face, We step across the bouudary of the laud Where none is old. in SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY WHISPERIN' BILL. So you're taking the census, mister? There's three of us living still, My wife an' I an' our only son, that folks call Whis- perin' Bill ; But Bill couldn't tell ye his name, sir, and it's hardly worth the givin', Fer ye see a bullet killed his mind and left his body livin'. Set down for a minute, mister. Ye see, Bill was only fifteen At the time o' the war, and as likely a boy as ever this world has seen ; An' what with the news o' battles lost, the speeches an' all the noise, I guess every farm in the neighborhood lost a part of its crop of boys. "Twas harvest time when Bill left home ; every stalk in the fields o' rye Seemed to stand tiptoe to see him off, an' wave him a fond good-bye ; His sweetheart was here, with some other girls— the sassy little miss ! An', pretendiu' she wanted to whisper 'n his ear, she gave him a rousin' kiss. Oh, he was a hansum feller, an' tender an' brave an' smart, An' tho' he was taller than I was, the boy had a woman's heart. I couldn't control my feelin's, but I tried with all my might, An' his mother an' me stood a-cryin' till Bill was out o' sight. His mother, she often told him, when she knew he was goin' away, That God'd take care o' him, mebbe, if he didn't fergit t' pray ; Au' on the bloodiest battlefields, when bullets whizzed 'n the air, An' Bill was a-fightin' desperit, he used to whisper a prayer. Oh, his comrades has often told me that Bill never flinched a bit. When every second a gap in the ranks told where a ball had hit, An' one night, when the field was covered with the awful harvest o' war, They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs o' the cause he was fightin' for. His fingers were clutched in the dewy grass — oh, no, sir, he waan't dead, But he lay sorto' helpless and crazy with a rifle ball in his head. Au' if Bill had really died that night I'd give all I've got worth givin', For, y* see, the bullet had killed his mind an' left his body livin'. An -officer wrote an' told us how the boy had been hurt in the fight, But he said that the doctors reckoned they could bring him around all right. An' then we heard from a neighbor, disabled at Malvern Hill, That he thought in the course of a week er so he'd be comin' home with Bill. We were that anxious t' see him we'd set up an' talk o' nights, Till the break o' day had dimmed the stars an' put out the northern lights. We waited an' watched fer er month or more, an' the summer was nearly past, When a letter came one day that said he'd started for home at last. I'll never forget the day Bill come— 'twas harvest time again, An' the air blown over the yellow fields was sweet with the scent o' the grain. The doorway was full o' the neighbors, who had come to share our joy, And all of us sent up a mighty cheer at the sight o' that soldier boy. An' all of a sudden somebody said : " My God, don't the boy know his mother?" An' Bill stood a-whisperin', fearful like, an' starin' from one to another ; " Don't be afraid, Bill," said he to himself, as he stood in his coat of blue, "God'll take care o' you, Bill; God'll take care »' you." He seemed to be loadin' an' firin' a gun', an' to act like a man who hears The awful roar o' the battlefield a-soundin' in his ears. I saw that the bullet had touched his brain an' some- how made it blind, With the picture o' war before his eyes an' the fear •' death in his mind. I grasped his hand, an' says I to Bill : " Don't ye re- member me ? I'm yer father — don't ye know me? How frightened ye seem to be?" But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself, as if 'twas all he knew : " God'll take care o' you, Bill ; God'll take care •' you." He's never known us since that day, nor his sweet- heart, an' never will. Father an' mother an' sweetheart are all the same te Bill, An' many's the time his mother sets up the whole night through An' smooths his nair an' says: "Yes, Bill, God'll take care o' you." * Unfortunate? Yes; but we can't complain; it's a livin' death more sad When the body clings to a life o' shame an' the soul has gone to the bad. But Bill is out o' the reach o' harm an' dangers of every kind, We only take care o' his body, but God takes care •* his mind. — Irving BacheUer, VIOLETS. Purple and white and beautiful they gleam Amid their green, sweet, fragrant flower-bells, Their perfume rare shed on the keen March air, Their modest beauty gladd'ning all the dells. Fair violets — sweet, pure, fresh violets— Ye rival not perchance the queenly rose ; Yet dearer far to me than prouder flowers Your blossoms in their still and chaste repose. For, ah, your perfume brings to me again A vision of my manhood's early dawn — A pale, sweet face, bright crowned with golden hair, Blue eyes, with pure faith filled of girlhood's morn ! She sleeps — and 'tis the everlasting sleep That knows no waking till the last dread day. Passed hath her brief young life, but, ah, from me Shall ne'er that tender mem'ry die away I Peace, trembling heart ! Methought that I had learned, After long years of suff'ring to forget ; Yet over once again I live my youth At sight or perfume of a violet. SELECTED POEMS. ITS BEAUTIFUL BETHLEHEM BELLS. Over the roar of the cities— over the hills and the dells, With a message of peace to the nations, ring the beau- tiful Bethlehem bells. Bringing .joy to the souls that are sighing is the hovels where Poverty dwells — B life — there is life for the dying in the beauti- ful Bethlehem bells ! Far oft'— in a land that is lovely for the tender, sweet story it tells, In the light of a glorious morning rang the beautiful Bethlehem bells ; And still, in the hearts of creation an anthem exult- ingly swells At that memory sweet of the ringing of the beautiful Bethlehem bells ! They rang o'er the hills and the valleys, they sum- moned the glad world that day, From regions of night to the radiant light of the cot where the Beautiful lay. And forever and ever and ever a wonderful melody dwells In the tender sweet ringing and singing of the beau- tiful Bethlehem bells! For they sing of a love that is deathless — a love that still triumphs in loss ; They sing the love that is leading the world to the Calvary cross ; Ring sweet o'er the sound of the cities— ring sweet o'er the hills and the dells, And touch us with tenderest pities, oh, beautiful Bethlehem cells ! — F. L. St antii a. THE RAILROAD CROSSING. I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so pow- erful quick ; But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish heavy lick ; It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked my arm most out, But take a seat, I'll try and tell jest how it kem about. You see, I'd started down to town, with that 'ere team of mine, A-haulin' down a load o' corn to Ebenezer Kline, And drivin' slow ; for, jest about a day or two before Tbe off-horse run a splinter in his foot, and made it sore. You know the railroad cuts across the road at Mar- tin's Hole ; Well, thar I seed a great big sign, raised high upon a pole; I thought I'd stop and read the thing, and find out what it said, And so I stopped thehosses on the railroad track, and read. I ain't no scholar, reckollect, and so I had to spell ; I started kinder cautious like, with R-A-I and L ; And that spelt " rail," as clear as mud ; R-O-A-D was " road." I lumped 'em—" railroad"" was the word, and that 'ere much I knowed. C-R-0 and double S, with I-N-G to boot, Made " crossing " jest as plain as Noah Webster dared to do't. " Railroad crossing " — good enough !— L double O-K, " look •" And I was looking all the time, and spellin' like a book. O-U-T spelt "out" jest right; and the*e it was, " look out ;" I's kinder cur'us, like, to know jest what 'twas all about ; F-O-R and T-H-E ; 'twas then "look out for the ;" And then I tried the next word ; it commenced with E-N-O. I'd got that fur, when, suddintly, there came an awful whack ; A thousand fiery thunderbolts just scooped me otl'tb* track ; The bosses went to Davy Jones, the wagon went to smash, And I was histed seven yards above the tallest ash. I didn't come to life ag'in fur 'bout a day or two ; But, though I'm crippled up a heap, I sorter strug- gled through ; It ain't the pain, nor 'tain't the loss o' that 'ere team of mine ; But, stranger, how I'd like to know the rest of that 'ere sign ! —Hezukiah Strang. GOLDENROD AND ASTERS. The goldenrod, the goldenrod, That glows in sun or rain, Waving its plumes on every bank From the mountain slope to the main — Not dandelions, nor cowslips fine, Nor buttercups, gems of summer, Nor leagues of daisies, yellow and white, Can rival this latest comer ! On the plains and the upland pastures Such regal splendor falls, When forth from myriad brauches green Its gold the south wind calls, That the tale seems true, the red man's God Lavished its bloom the day Wautahmo, chief of the Iroquois, Wedded the fleet Nahuay. And darker than April violets, Or pallid as wind flowers grow, Under its shadows from hill to meadow, Great beds of asters blow. Oh, plots of purple o'erhung with gold That need no wall nor wardens, Not fairer shone, to the Median queen, Her Babylonian gardens ! On Scotia's moors the gorse is gay, And England's lanes and fallows Are set with broom whose winsome grace The hovering linnet hallows ; But alas ! for the flowers of heath and hedge, And the linnet, lightly won— Their bloom, to one blaze of wayside gold, Is the wan moon to the sun ! And were I to be a bride at morn, While the chimes rang out Fd say : " Not a rose, but the goldenrod, Strew in my path to-day ; And let it brighten the silent aisle, And flame on the altar stair, Till the glory and light of the field shall flood The solemn dimness there." And should I sleep in my shroud at eve, Not lilies, pale and cold, But the purple asters of the wood, Within my hand I'd hold ; For the goldenrod is the flower of lores That time and change defies ; And asters gleam through the autumn air With the hues at paradise ! — FAua Dean Proctor 176 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY MY LITTLE GIRL. Ok course the little girl was just as much of mine as hers, But somehow, when our wedded life got full of pricks and burrs, I told her that she'd better take the little one and go And stay a spell at Newton Creek, along with Uncle Joe, While I'd go off to some far land, and there I'd work and live Until I'd quite made up my mind which one was to forgive. I tell you pride's an awful thing when it gets into the heart ; I guess it was a thousand times I thought I'd rise and start And go right after her and that little maid of mine ; I never heard a word from them, she never wrote a line. Then I had a spell of sickness and counted through my tears, And found I hadn't seen them both for more than fifteen years. Oh, my pretty, laughing darling, she must be tall and fair ! How I'd rig her out in ribbons and feathers rich and rare. I could almost feel my fingers upon her soft, white brow, That little sunny head of hers would touch my shoulder now. Vet the strangest thing, in all my dreams, she was a little child, With the yellow curls of babyhood and big eyes round and mild. As soon as I was better I started on my way, And reached the town at noon time, one hot and dusty day. And near by, in the churchyard, I stopped to rest and wait. There was a little baby's grave close to the mould- 'ring gate. I pushed aside a straggling vine, kind o' curious, no more, Great God ! my little girl lay there, dead thirteen years before. — Jessie Norton. GRANDFATHERS BARN. Grandfather's barn ! I shall uever forget The mossy old roof where the gray swallows met For their councils, at morning, ere labor begun, And again at nightfall when the day's work was dona Such chirpings and chatterings never were heard As came from the throat of each talkative bird. Busy all day with their nests and their brood, Building their dwellings and bringing in food, They gathered at evening in neighborly way, To visit awhile and talk over the day. Under the eaves like a long village street The homes of the swallows hung cozy and neat ; For hours at a time we would watch them and wonder How the busy birds built them the sloping eaves under. We saw the keen eyes of the mother bird peer From the door of her dwelling if we climbed anear, We wished we were swallows when roused from our dreams By the thunder's deep roar and the lightning's red gleams, That we might sleep under the eaves in a nest, With the music of rain-drops blent into our rest. Then the dusty old mows where we romped on the hay, And hunted for eggs every hour in the day ! What stories we told when we sat down to rest And reckoned our spoils from our raids on the nest. We heard the mice scamper along the great beams, And fancied the fairies were driving their teams. Sometimes from a corner, two eyes laright and keen, Like sparks iu the shadowy gloom could be seen, And we knew that a wary old mouse had crept out To see what the noise in the mow was about, If we planned for his capture with suddenish dash, Lo ! a iwiukle, and he disappeared like a flash. Old Dobbin would stretch out his head from the stall, And we seemed to hear " oats " in his whinnying call. Many's the measure full out of the bin We gave the old horse that he shouldn't get thin, And many the rides that he gave us to pay For the grain that he got in a contraband way. The creaking old wagon was carriage or car, As suited our mood best, and frequent and far Were the journeys we took in it on the barn floor, With our fancies for steeds prancing gayly before. What fun it was for us to ride on the hay As they gathered it in, and to trample away The sweet-smelling stuff as 'twas filled in the mow, Till the play became work, and brought sweat to the brow ; And then in the winter, to watch the flails fly, As they threshed out the wheat and the oats and the rye, With their rat-a-tat-tat on the floor, all day long Makiug music we thought far sweeter than song. Then the buzz of the fanning mill blowing the chaff From the grain, to the chorus of chatter and laugh. Oh, grandfather's barn was the place for the boys Where no one was scolded for making a noise 1 No place half so pleasant, we say with regret, And a thought of the time we'll never forget. KNEELING AT THE THRESHOLD. I'M kneeling at the threshold, weary, faint, and sore, Waiting for the dawning, for the opening of the door ; Waiting till the Master shall bid me rise and come To the glory of his presence, to the gladness of his home. A weary path I've traveled, 'mid darkness, storm, and strife, Bearing many a burden, struggling for my life ; But now the morn is breaking, my toil will soon be o'er ; I'm kneeling at the threshold, my hand is on the door. Methinks I hear the voices of the blessed as they stand Singing in the sunshine of the far-off, sinless land ; Oh, would that I were with them, amid the shining throng, Mingling in their worship, joining in their song. The friends that started with me have entered long ago ; One by one they left me struggling with the foe ; Their pilgrimage was shorter, their triumph sooner won ; How lovingly they'll hail me when all my toil is done ! With them the blessed angels that know no grief nor sin, I see them by the portals prepared to let me in ; Oh, Lord, I wait thy pleasure, thy time and way are best, But I'm wasted, worn, and weary ; Oh, Father, bid me rest 1 — W. L. Alexander. SELECTED POEMS. 177 Where country roads diverge with graceful angle To skirt the wood or perfume laden held, Above the climbing vines and wild flowers tangle The gray old guide post's fingers are revealed, Whose letters time's soft touch has half concealed. To dusty wanderers it speaks in pity ; It marks the pleasure-seeker's nearing goal ; It counts the weary miles to the far city ; It names old towns where nature holds control, Or points the way where ocean's surges roll. And aged men, this thoroughfare frequenting, Bear semblance to this weather-beaten sign ; Time's tabulated miles they seem presenting : 'Mid nature's bowers they point down life's decline, Their placid faces coming nigh divine. Some stranger 'tis, observing, speaks most often, Of mellow marks upon the sign-board's face, And strangers, too, first note the lines that soften The visage of a lifelong friend with grace, So subtly done we failed the change to trace. Submitting to earth's edict of succession, This landmark gray will fall 'neath time's vast trend. And gentle, aged faces make confession These last descents on toward life's ocean tend ; Each calmly rests and waits its mission's end. — Arthur Howard Hall. SONG OF THE HUSKER. A PLOVER ON GUARD. Hark ! Far on in the field over yonder, 'Tis the cornhusker merrily sings. Oh, why is he happy? I wonder, As the ears in the basket he flings, As he tears the dry covers asunder, And reveals the smooth grain gleaming under, And the ears in the basket he flings. ' Ah, here is a plump one, and yellow ; And here is another as fine, And that was more fair than its fellow, And this has a color divine ! " So his voice, by the distance made mellow, Has a musical cadence and swell, oh, A swell and a cadence divine. Blithe husker, cease not from your singing, Though my sadness I cannot control ; While the ears you are carelessly flinging, I ask how it fares with my soul. These words in my brain keep a-ringing • What harvest to God am I bringing Should death tear the husk from my soul? Oh, little plover, still circling over Your nest in clover, your house of love, Sure none dare harm it and none alarm it While you are keeping your watch above. 'Tis she doth love you and well approve you, Your little love-bird so gray aud sweet ; If hawk and falcon swept down above you, 'Tis she would trust you the twain to meet. Now let me pass, sir, a harmless lass, sir, With no designs on your eggs of blue. I wish your family both health and wealth, sir, And to be as faithful and kind as you. But not a shadow steals o'er the meadow That he will swoop not to drive away ! The bee in clover and Wind the rover He fears mean ill to his love in gray. The showers sunny and sweet as honey Have power to trouble his auxious breast Now might one purchase for love or money That watchful heart and that pleasant uest. — Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 178 SIX BUNDBED AND FIFTY BREVITY OF LIFE. We are farther on our journey with the course of every sun, And we near the final hour when the work of life is done ; No hand can stay the current that onward ever sweeps, Ho hand can stop the sickle that the field of harvest reaps. like the pleasant hills of sumn^er in their robes of living green, Like the withered wreaths of summer 'neath the blasts of autumn seen, Follow each and followed faster is the father by the son ; Aye ! from the walks of childhood the race is swiftly run. Ah ! like the rose of morning bedecked in gems of dew "Which, ere the shades of eTen-tide, the winds of Heaven strew, So is this waning life of ours, its pleasures and its pain Are swiftly intermingling as the vernal sun and rain. Yea, tbo' our days are passing, yet let us ever be Progressive, brave and earnest and battle valiantly ; Yea, let us till our vineyards well and faithful ever stand To guard the portion that our God has placed beneath our band. — Robert M. Williams. MISS LUCINDAS THANKSGIVING. But why do I keep Thanksgiving, Did I hear you aright, my dear? Why ? When I'm all alone in life, Not a chick nor a child to be near, John's folks all away in the West, Lucy across the sea, And not a soul in the dear old home Save a little bound girl and me? It does look lonesome, I graut it ; Yet strange as the thing may sound, I'm seldom in want of company The whole of the merry year round— There's spring when the lilac blossoms, And the apple trees blush to bloom, There's summer when great moths flit and glance, Through the twilight's star-lit gloom. Then comes the beautiful autumn. When every fragrant brier, Flinging its garlands on fence and wall, Is bright as a living lire ; And then the white, still winter time, When the snow lies warm on the wheat, And I think of the days that have passed away, When my life was young and sweet. I'm a very happy woman To-day, though my hair is white, For some of my troubles I've overlived, And some I keep out of sight. I'm a busy old woman, you see, my dear, As I travel along life's road, I'm always trying as best I can To lighten my neighbor's load. That child ? You should think she'd try me? Does she earn her bread and salt ? You've noticed she's sometimes indolent, And indolence is a fault ; Of course it is, but the orphan girl Is growing as fast as she can, And to make her work from dawn till dark Was never a part of my plan. J like to see the dimples Flash out on the little face. That was wan enough and still enough When first she came to the place. I think she'll do, when she's older ; A kitten is not a cat, And now that I look at the thing, my dear, I hope she'll never be that. I'm thankful that life is peaceful ; I should just be sick of strife. If, for instance, I had to live along Like poor Job Slocum's wife ; I'm thankful I didn't say " yes," my dear — What saved me I do not see — When Job, with a sprig in his button-hole, Once came a-courting me. I'm thankful I'm neither poor nor rich, Glad that I'm not in debt ; That I owe no money I cannot pay, And so have no cail to fret. I'm thankful so many love me, And that I've so many to love, Though my dearest and nearest are all at home, In the beautiful land above. I shall always keep Thanksgiving In the good old-fashioned way, And think of the reasons for gratitude In December, and June, and May, In August, November and April, And the months that come between ; For God is good, and my heart is light, And I'd not change place with a queen. — Margaret E. .Sangtttr. ADOWN BY THE ORCHARD WALL. Adown by the mossy orchard wall, The while the perfumed rose-leaves fall, And the robin trills his merry song, Two lovers stroll ; but what they say, Nor you nor I shall know to-day ; For the boundless store Of love's sweet lore To robins and lassies will ever belong. By busy hands the meadows are strewn With fragrant billows of grass, new-mown. But still the robin pipes his lay, And listening, now, the lovers wait Beside the slowly-swinging gate. For once they pass Outside, alas"! Through workaday paths their feet must stray. They are living now life's blossoming hours, When every walk is aglow with flowers, And never a day is fraught with care. Though toil may threaten and frown at will, Their happy hearts keep singing still, " Youth is the time For a wedding chime ; Love, love is sweet and the whole world fair." They never dream that youth must grow old — That the sunny head must lose its gold — That bounding limbs e'er grow less free — That ever the white and shapely hand May grow too thin for love's shining band, And, saddest of all, That one may fall, And their love live only in memory. Ah ! happy, happy, youthful pair, The world is sweet and life is fair, While you joy in the clasp of clinging bands. And when, oid'aud lonely, you totter down, Life's last, slow hill, may love still crown Each silvering head, By true love led Across earth's wearying, desert sands. SELECTED POEMS. 179 A SONG OF CHRISTMAS. Chris'mus comes but once er year, Nigger don't stan' no show, Ev'ry while man git his sheer — Dis de way hit go : " 'Ought's er 'ought, Five's er figger — All fer de white man None fer de nigger." Sole my cotton de yuther day, Fiitch ten cents er pouu', White man say, " Des step dis way," En I look on de books en foun' : " 'Ought's er 'ought, Five's er figger — All fer de white man None fer de nigger." Heard er Shanghai rooster crow Loud en long fer day, But I foun' er lock on de fowl-house do', En er ole tu'kky gobbler say : " 'Ought's-er-'ought, Five's-er-figger — All-fer-de-white-man None-fer-de-nigger." 'Spec' when it come to de las' great day En I ax fer a starry crown, I'll hear de angels sing en say, Es dey pint to de stairway down • " 'Ought's er 'ought, Five's er figger — All fer de white man None fer de nigger." — Bart Hosey. JACKS BIRTHDAY. Twas erbout one week till his birthday, an' Susan she sez to me : " Got ter git sunthin' purty soon, but I don't know what it'll be ; He's too old now fer toys an' sech like things w^ us't ter buy When he's a little feller, fer now he's er'most six feet high; Five days 'fore he's fifteen, but mercy me, he's taller' n you ; Does beat all how his arms an' legs do keep er-push- in' through ; An*, father," sez she, "I've ben er-lookin' fer over two weeks back, But I can't somehow jest settle on ther thing ter get fer Jack. "Ain't er man yit, but makes him 'shamed ter be treated like he's small, Must kinder humor him, 's though we know he's gettin' big an tall ; Couldn't hardly b'leve my eyes when I seen him take ther glass, An' hunt on his lip at ther winder, ter see if he'd got er mushtass. Shouldn't wonder ef he found it er-sproutiu' through ther skin, Fer he took ther bottle o' goose's ile an' greased his lip an' chin ; But, father," sez she, " ef I wuz you, I'd hitch up Jess 'n' Mack A-purpose ter drive ter town an' git er-sunthin' nice for Jack. "He's jest a little skittish, like ther colts out in ther barn, An' don't keer much fer books 'at have a heap in 'em ter larn, But he's got er heart that's big an' kind ter every- thing alive, Frum the sheep out in ther runway to ther bees out in the hive ; His whistle hez er cheerier sound any time ter me. My heart somehow jest lightens up an' feels so glad an' free ; So, father," sez she, " when yer git ter town, don't think uv comin' back, Till yer firm you've foun' ther very thing 'at's goin' ter please our Jack. " He's gone ter ther medder, bless him, ter rake u» the clover hay, I somehow feel so lonesome like, if he gets fur erway. He waved his hand clear down ther lane, an' up aroun' ther hill, I couldn't see him any more, but heard him whistliu' still ; The birds wuz all er-answerin' him, a-warblin' ia every tree, An' he a-twitterin' like every one, ez natural ez could be ; So, father," sez she, " I don't much care whatever els« we lack, Jest keep er-huntin' an' find er-sunthin' 'at's sure ter" suit our Jack." — W. H. Stranahmn. A THANKSGIVING WELCOME. It's comin' erlong — Thanksgiviu', An' welcome the hearty day ; It's a good old land whar we're livin', Whatever the preachers say. A good old land whar we're livin' — Good in the field and town ; We sin, but the Lord's forgivin', An' showers the blessin's down. I'm thankful still for the breakin' O' day, whar I sow an' reap ; For night, with the shadows makin' A place fer the world ter sleep. Fer joy, an' the strength fer sorrow, Fer the winter an' the May ; The Lord — He's keepin' to-morrow, An' all I want is to-day ! An' somehow His smile has found me, An' the dark like the light'll shiue, While my children's arms air 'round me, An' the dear wife's hand in mine ! — Frank L. Slantm. A NOVEMBER VIOLET. Little blue-eyed blossom, sweet, In my pathway gleaming, Has some whisper wakened thee From thy loDg, long dreaming? Swift to sunny lands afar Birds in flocks are flying ; Summer days long since gone by Saw thy sisters dying ; Ah, no scene all fair and sweet Greets thy trusting glances ; Far above thee, chill November's Cloudy host advances ; Yet, oh, dim-eyed violet, Not in vain thy waking, When the smile of loveliness All the world's forsaking ; Symbol glad and sweet art thou Helping us remember, Flowers of hope shall wake from sleep In the heart's November. — Alice Jean C/eal*r. 180 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY " OH, I DUNNO!" Ljndy's hair's all curly tangles, en her eyes es deep en gray, . , , • , , En' they alius seems er-dreamm' en' er-gazm' lar Wen I see, " Say, Lindy, darlin', shell I stay er shell I go ?" En' she looks at me er-smilin' en' she ses, " Oh, I dunno !" Now, she knows es I'm er-lovin' her fer years en years en' years, But she keeps me hesitatin' between my doubts en' fears. En' I'm gettin' pale en peaked, en' et's jes' frum tret- tin' so Ovur Lindy weth her laughin' en' er-sayin', I dunno !" T'other night we cum frum meetin', en' I asks her fer a kiss, En' I tells her she's so many thet er few she'll never miss ; En' sLe looks up kinder shy-like en' she whispers sorter low, " Jim, I'd ruther thet yer wouldn't, but— er— well— oh, I dunno !" Then I ses, " Now, see here, Lindy, I'm er-wantin' yer to state Ef yer thinks yer'll ever love me, en' ef I hed better Fer I'm tired uv this foolin', en' I wants to be yer beau, En' I'd like ter hear yer sayin' suthin' else but "I dunno !" Then I puts my arms aroun' her, en' I holds her close eu' tight, En' th' stars away up yander seems er-winkin' et th' sight, Es she murmurs sof en' faintly, weth th' words er- comin' slow, " Jim, I never loved no other >" Then I ses, " Oh, I dunno !" ♦-•-♦ WHERE WE BURIED JOE. A monotonoi'S stretch of heaving grass; The nodding weeds of a wild morass; And the eouteaux, speeter-like and grim, Piercing the sky at its misty brim. 1 remember well that lonely plain, And the weird, unearthly, dirge-like strain Of a skyward songster, while below We moulded the mound that sheltered Joe. A free-lance he, and a simple child Jtear'd iu the midst of the wildest wild, And he gasped in halting words and slow : " This is the place fur to bury Joe." " The flowers are sweet an' I kin hear The wild rice rustle low an' clear ; An' the birds, an' buttes, an' sky," sighed he : " This is the place fur to bury me." Each man of us in that wagon train Clustered about, him and heard the strain Of a lark that flitted high above And carried to heav'n an earthly love. And every one in the sturdy throng Listened in awe to the fading song ; Then under the sod where flowers grow With tender hands we buried Joe. No mausoleum stately or grand Rises aloft in that lonely land ; Only a cross with a rough-carved name Is rear'd to Joe and his simple lame. And then, as our wagons one by one Journeyed away to the setting sun, We turned to see the sunlight glow On the new-made mound that sheltered Joe. A monotonous stretch of heaving grass ; The nodding weeds of a wild morass ; A glimpse of the couteaux, dark and grim And a rough-hewed cross on the prairie brim. — William. W. Cook. MY PLAYMATES. The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool, Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool ; It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill, I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill ; So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know Where the sassafrass and snakeroot and checkerber- ries grow. BACK TO GRAN'PA'S. I'm goin' back down to gran'pa's, I won't come back no more To hear remarks about my feet A-muddyin' up the floor. They's too much said about my clothes The scoldin's never done— I'm goin' back down to gran'pa's, Where a boy kin have some fun. I dug up naif his garden A-gettin' worms for bait ; He said he used to like it When I laid abed so late ; He said that pie was good for boys An' candy made 'em grow ; Ef I can't go back to grand'pa's I'll turn pirate fust you know. He let me take his shotgun An' loaded it fer me ; The cats they hid out in the barn, The hens flew up a tree ; I had a circus in the yard With twenty other boys— I'm goin' back down to gran'pa's Where they ain't afraid of noise. He didn't make me comb my hair But once or twice a week ; He wasn't watchin' out fer words I hadn't orter speak ; He told me stories 'bout the war, An' Injuns shot out west : Oh, I'm goin' down to gran'pa's, Fer he knows what boys like best. He even run a race with me, But had to stop an' cough ; He rode my bicycle and laughed Bec'us' he tumbled off ; He knew the early apple trees Around within a mile ; Oh, gTan'pa was a dandy An' was " in it" all the while. I bet you gran'pa's lonesome, I don't care what you say ; I seen him kinder cryin' When you took me away. When you talk to me of heaven, Where all the good folks go, 1 guess I'll go to gran'pa's, An' we'll have good times, I know. SELECTED POEMS. 191 THE WAY TO SLEEPTOWN Thk town of Sleeptown is not far la Timbuctoo or China, For it's right near by, in Blinkton County, Ie the State of Drowsyliua ; It's just beyond the Thingumbob Hills, Not far from Nodville Centre ; But you must be drawn through the valley of yawn, Or the town you cannot enter. And this is the way, They say, they say, That baby goes to Sleeptown. He starts through the city of Odreame, Through Boohoo Street he totters, Until he comes to Don't-cry corners, By the shore of the Sleeping Waters ; Then he comes to the Johuuy-juiiip-up Hills And the nodding Toddledon Mountains, And straight does he go through the Vale of Heigbo And drink from the drowsy fountains. And this is the way, They say, they say, That baby goes to Sleeptown. By Twilight path through Nightcap Hills The little feet must toddle ; Through the dewy gloom of Flyaway forest, By the drowsy peaks of Noddle ; And never a sound does baby hear, For not a leaf does quiver From the Little Dream gap in the hills of Nap To the Snoozequhanna River. And this is the way, They say, they say, That baby goes to Sleeptown. Away he flies over Bylow Bridge, Through Lullaby Lane to wander, And on through the groves of Moonshine Valley By the hills of WayofTyouder ; And then does the fairies' flying horse The sleepy baby take up, Until they enter at Jumpoflf Centre The Peekaboo Vale of Wakeup. And this is the way, They say, they say, That baby comes from Sleeptown ! — Sam Walter Foss. BOB WHITE. Shrill and clear from coppice near, A -long within the woodland ringing, A treble note from silver throat, The siren of the fields is singing — Bob— Bob— White ! And from the height the answer sweet ! Floats faintly o'er the rippling wheat- Bob— White ! The elder flowers in snowy showers Upon the velvet turf are' falling, Aud where they lie the soft wiuds sigh, The while the fluted voice is calling — Bob— Bob— White ! And far across the yellow graiu The wafted echo swells again — Bob— White ! The purple mist by sunbeams kissed Drifts upward toward the morning's splendor. Aud through the haze of shaded ways The plaintive reed pipes low and teuder — Bob— Bob— White ! While fainter, sweeter, softer grown The answer on the breeze is :>lowu — Bob— White ! The shadows sleep in hollows deep, The dewy pawpaw leaves are thrilling, The silence broods o'er solitudes Unbroken, save one pure note thrilling— Bob— Bob— White I So pure, so clear, so sweetly rare, The answer steals upon the air- Bob— White ! Oh, song of youth ! of love and truth ! Of mellow days forever dying ! Still through the years my sad heart hears Your tender cadence sighing, sighiug — Bob— Bob— White ! And far across life's troubled ways The echo comes from boyhood days — Bob— White ! — Marion Franklin H«ni . AS ROSEBUDS WILL. The dewdrop loved the rosebud and the rosebud' loved the dew, But the frost king, hoary-headed, came between the lovers true. Oh, a million jewels brought he to entice the rosebud sweet, Ten hundred thousand diamonds, and cast them at her feet. The dewdrop's tender opals paled before such kingly show ; The rosebud chose the diamouds— as rosebuds will, you know. And now? Oh, well, the sequel can be whispered in a breath — She had her hour of splendor, and she paid for it with death. — Carrie Blake Morgan. APRIL. Oh, " Sweet ' sweet ! sweet ! " so soon the birds were calling. Oh, "Sweet ! sweet ! sweet ! " the apple-blossoms fall- ing, For April now cometh — the maid as sweet As the song of the birds, or the blooms at her feet. And the South Wind bears to the birds a-wing In the tropic skies the news of Spring ; And the robin awakes at the dawning of light, And the breast of the blue lake thrills with delight. And April awakens with half-opened eyes, With their lingering dreams of Paradise, And the violet smiles and lifts its head— For it heard the news that the south wiuds said — And it nestles close to the dreamer's feet, And drifts over her bosom with "Sweet! sweet! sweet !" In a fragrant sigh : "She is so fair ! " And the bluebells chime their praises there ! And she wakes and listens and dreams awhile, And the skies look down and catch her smile ! And her eyes, downcast, reflect the blue Of the violet's cup with its drop of dew. She binds her tresses and dips her feet In the singing stream where the cowslips meet — Where the orioles woo, and where, they say, The bluebells chime on the wedding day. Aud she smiles and weeps with half regret, For the winds are cold and thde banks are wet — The winds are fickle from north aud south — They chill her heart and they kiss her mouth. And all their gifts, alackaday ! They promise her, but they bring to May ! — Lida Letois Watson. 182 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE WOOD Witch-hazel, dogwood, and the maple here ; And there the oak and hickory : LinD, poplar and the beech tree, far and near As the eased eye can see. Wild ginger, wahoo, with its roan balloons ; And brakes of briers of the twilight green ; And fox grapes plumed with summer ; and strung moons Of mandrake flower between. Deep gold-green ferns, and mosses red and gray — Mats for what naked myth's white feet? And, cool and calm, a cascade far away, With ever-falling beat. Old logs made sweet with death ; rough bits of bark ; And tangled twig and knotted root ; And sunshine splashes, and great pools of dark ; And many a wild bird's flute. Here let me sit until the Indian dusk With copper-colored feet comes down ; Sowing the wildwood with star-fire and musk, And shadows blue and brown. Then side by side with some magician dream ■ To take the owlet-haunted lane, Half-roofed with vines ; led by a firefly gleam, That brings me home again. — Madison Caioein. A SPRAY OF APPLE BLOSSOMS. They lay on the broad, low window ledge, Where the hand of a little child Had placed them, dewy, and fresh and sweet; And the grandmother had smiled, And softly stroked with her wrinkled hand The curly, tumbled head ; And then the needles bright were still ; Unrolled the snowy thread. For, borne on the breath of the apple bloom, She lived in the golden past ; She saw an orchard where blossom snows Were falling thick and fast- Falling upon the fair, bent head Of a maiden in girlhood's prime, Reading a letter, worn and creased From folding many a time. "When the apple blossoms are here once more, I shall come back, Allaire- Shall come for my answer." The scented wind Which ruffled the maiden's hair, Brought to her ears a well-known voice, She turned in a startled way : " I have come for my answer ; what is it, dear?" What could she do but lay Her hands in the eager, outstretched ones? Ah ! life is sweet in June, When hearts keep time to the liquid flow Of life, and light, and tune ; And when, in her snowy, floating veil, She stood on her bridal morn, she would have but the tinted apple bloom Her white robe to adorn. Through the open window the western wind Blew soft on the wrinkled face, When a smile shone, sweet as that could be Which had lit her girlhood grace. A little voice called her truant thoughts : " Grandpa has sent to see If you knew that the clock has been striking six ? And he wants you to pour hi;- tea !" AS WE WANT EM, YOU KNOW. If we only had things as we want 'em, you know, The world wouldn't go so confoundedly slow ; For there's many a skip, And there's many a slip, And there's many a flip, And a rip, And a dip, That makes us quite weary and bleary and blue, Because we can't do as we'd all like to do. If we had preachers who wouldn't grow prosy, If we only had deacons who wouldn't get dozy, If lawyers weren't fly, If drinkers weren't dry, If folks wouldn't die — By and by We'd all try To see how unblushingly good we could grow, Because we'd have things as we want 'em, you know. If only the world was built square, 'stead of round, If only hard sense could be made of mere sound, If we had lots of cash, And similar trash, If— without being rash — We could mash, Like a flash. Any daughter of Eve when we cared to do so, Then we d sorter have things as we want ' know. em, yon But when we get down to a mere business base, We find that we seem to have missed a fat place. The outlook is murk, And we sigh like a Turk, As there's no chance to shirk, Or to lurk, While we work For our grub by the sweat of our brow here below, 'Cause things isn't just as we want 'em, you know. DOWN THE LANE. Along the fields the shadows fall The sun is hanging low, And on the ivy-mantled wall The soft lights come and go. A zephyr wafted from above Drifts o'er the waving grain, My heart goes out to meet my love As she comes down the lane. I lean upon the moss-grown bars, As 'long the path she fares. My gracious queen, no blemish mars The coronet she wears. The sceptre in her woman's hand Will banish care and pain, For I am lord of all the land When she comes down the lane. Soft breezes play about her now, And lift her shining hair, The sunset glow is on her brow, To make her passing fair. Her beauteous face, her modest mien, To picture them were vain, And she is mine, my bonny queen, As she comes down the lane. The daisies nod as she goes by, The wild rose blushes pink, Sweet song-birds round her pathway *y And sing the praise they think. She lifts her head, her eyes so clear Smile into mine again ; My heart cries out, " God bless you, dear ! " As she comes down the lane. — E. De Camp. SELECTED POEMS. 183 A LAMENT. Littlk Winnie's gone away — Gone away ! (lone away for good'u all ; Been here with us since last fall. Scolding, kissing, romping 'round; Wa'n't her like a-top of ground |; Kept us feeling gay ; Now the fidget's gone away- Gone away ! Little Winnie's gone away— 1 .June away ! With her plaid waist in a bundle. And her umbrell', off she'd trundle Though I almost cried boo-hoo ! " I can't always stay with you " — That was all she'd say. Little Winnie's gone away — (lone away ! Little Winnie's gone away — Gone away ! Asked a good-bye kiss, but " No, ' Won't have any left for Joe ! " So I gave her one, for she Couldn't give Joe's kiss to me. 'Las, alack aday ! Little Winnie's gone away — Gone away ! THANKSGIVING DAY. Come to us cheerily, Thankful-day, Out of the sweet, blue sky : Hearts are hoping and laughs are gay Flowers are blooming along the way, E'en if the frost be nigh. Come to us hopefully, Thankful-day, Out of the tearful tomb ! Stars are steady and sure to stay — God is watching forever and aye — E'en in the darkest gloom ! — Will Carleton. SAT' OAT NIGHT. " The's never a week," says Uncle .Si, With his corncob pipe alight — "The's never a week o' sob 'n' sigh, Wen clouds V gloomy 'n' floods run high, But comes to Sat'day night. " Monday's hours o' toil may drag, '8 if they'd never git pas' ; 'N' Toosday 'n' We'n'sday may linger 'n' laj While the sun is hot 'n' our sperits flag ; But Sat'day comes at las'. " Wen things goes wrong, jes' stop ; 'n' 'low 'At time 11 set 'em right. Mebbe the darkness 'at kivers us now Is meant to try us, 'n' teach us how To 'predate Sat'day night. "I've toiled 'n' troubled 'n' sorrowed much, I've tit thro' storm 'n' ca'm Fer Dead Sea apples 'at cheat the touch 'N' roses 'at leaves but thorns to clutch ; But Sat'day night brings ba'm. "'N' so," says Uncle Si, " ye'll find, Ef ye value yer blessiu's right, The' hain't no place fer a mortal mind, 'Ith the Sabbath ahead 'n' the week behind Like a restful Sat'day night." — John Langdon Beaton, The Quilting Bee.' MOTHER'S LULLABY. HusH-a-bye, baby ! Mother will sing to thee. Soft is the moan of the wind in the tree, Angels are listening, Bright stars are glistening, Like sentinels watching my baby and me. Hush-a-bye, baby ! What shall I sing to thee.' Sinketh the bird to her nest on the lea ; Shadows are creeping, Moonbeams are peeping. Twilight is deepening o'er moorland and sea. Lullaby, dearie ! Mother is near thee. Bright may the dreams of my little one be. Angels defend thee ; God His love send thee, And carefully guard both my baby and me. — Gerald Hayxrard, THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE. We don't git to meetin' much, we're gettin' old an' lame, But when we hear the old church bell a-souudiu' jest the same As in the days when we were young, myself an' Sary Ann, We set out on the doorstep an' we listen all we can. An' when it stops a-ringin' out, an' all is soft an' still, We look up to the old white church a-standin' on the hill, An' pretty soon, like heav'uly strains above the holy calm, We faintly hear the organ an' the singin' of the psalm. The church has seen its better days, like Sary Ana an' me ; Like us it's lost its vigor, an' ain't what it used to be. The winds that sweep across the hill have swept it* strength away ; An' now it's old an' rickety an' fallin' to decay. The last time we were in it, it's quite a spell ago, Whene'er the sexton pulled the bell the house rocked to an' fro, An' creaked in all its j'ints, the seat it jolted 'g'in my back, An' once I dropped my hymn book an' it landed with a whack Right on to Sary's corn. " My now," thought I, " In* booked ;" But Sary Ann she never lisped, she only sat an' looked. The parson then came up the aisle, the organ 'gua to play, An' soon we had a sermon on the everlastin' day. When the sun sets behind the hill an' makes the sky all gold, An' right thar stands the meetiu'-house a-looniin' up so bold An' lookiu' like a portal to a land beyond the skies, I sometimes feel almost 's if heaven lay right before our eyes. Sary an' I hare most got through, an' soon will come the day When out beside the meetiu'-house we'll both be laid away. But oft I think when Sary 'n' I hev climbed the heav'uly stairs, We'll want to look down on the church where once we j'ined in prayers — Mayme Ishitm. 184 SI J HUNDRED AND FIFTY THE CHRISTMAS JOURNEY OF LITTLE JOE. Far up from the din and bustle of the street lived Little Joe, Tn a world that was peopled with fancies that most children never know, For he was a poor little cripple, who could not walk alone, And the world other people live in was a world to him unknown. Day after day in the shipyard his grandfather worked to gain The bread that kept them from starving, and the lit- tle lad must remain Alone in the dreary chamber from morn till the nightfall came. And busy himself with the fancies for which he knew no name. In the long and quiet evenings the old man told the child Strange tales of the world whose wonders his daily dreams beguiled. And sometimes he spoke of the mother who had loved her little one so That she plead with God to spare her for the sake of Little Joe. " Some day," the old man promised, " I will take you out to see The great, wide, beautiful city, and yon shall go with me To the places where flowers are blooming and the mu- sic sounds sweet and gay, Then you'll have something to think of when grand- father is away." One night as they sat in the shadows, with Joe on the old man's knee, It was planned that at coming of Christmas should the talked-of journey be. Then the poor little lad, from his fancies about the world unseen, Looked up in a childish wonder and asked, " What does Christmas mean ?" The grandfather told the story of Christ, the Saviour's birth, And how, to the Bethlehem manger, came tie wisest ones of earth, Led by a star whose glory turned midnight into day, While the angels sang for gladness o'er the place where the Christ-child lay. " Oh, that's a beautiful story !" cried the child, with face aglow. And all that night he was dreaming of the Christmas long ago, And he heard the angels singing as they sang that glorious morn When, in the lowly manger, the little child Christ was born. SELECTED POEMS. 185 And all next day he kept thinking of that Christmas day of old, And the Christinas that was coming, and the joy that it would hold — The day when he went on his journey into the world to sec The wonderful things he dreamed of. What a jour- ney that would be ! ****** I( was the day before Christmas, and up in the lonely room Little .Toe looked out of the window into the sky's gray gloom, And listened, listened, listened, for the bells to ring ' Christmas in, Growing, each hour, more eager for his journey to begin. Suddenly into the silence above the roofs a sound Sroke in melodious cadence, and Little Joe looked around With a startled face to listen to the music far and sweet, That seemed like a golden echo from the Heavenly City's street. "oh, I know!" he cried out, gladly. "I hear the angels sing ! They cannot w T ait for to-morrow, and the Christmas bells to ring. Oh, if I could but see them !" cried excited Little Joe, " They're so near, so near ! and to-morrow it'll be too late, 1 know !" Why should he not try to find them ? The thought set his brain aflame, And all in one brief moment purpose and courage came, And the lad who across the threshold had never made his way Set out on his quest for the angels who seemed so near that day. Down, down the gloomy stairway, out into the noisy street He crept, and strange strength seemed given to his poor little crippled feet. Whither he went he knew not. He only knew one thing — He wanted to find the angels and hear the angels sing ! Near the old tenement building that was all the home he knew A church stood, grand and stately, and open to his view. As they made it ready for Christmas, and he caught, through the door swung wide, A vision of splendor undreamed of, and "This must be Heaven ! " he cried. Little Joe knew not that the music he had heard in the attic dim Was the echo of voices Rehearsing to-morrow's Christ- mas hymn. He only knew that with rapture his fluttering heart seemed riven — He had come to the place of the angels, he had found the door of Heaven ! ******* God walked in the beautiful garden where the fade- less (lowers grow, And came where a woman stood looking at the little earth-star below And He said: "I know what the thought is that troubles thy heart to-day." Then she held her arms out, empty, but had not a word to say. Then said He : " Thy singing makes discord, as I hear it in the choir, With its note of loss and longing. I will give thee thy heart's desire. Oh, daughter, go earthward straightway, and bring thou back with thee The little child thou hast missed so much, as my Christmas gift to thee." Oh, the look on the face of the woman as she dropped upon her knee ! " Thou hast the heart of a mother if thou art God ! " cried she, Then swift through the star-sown spaces the mother of Little Joe Sped earthward on her mission, and love told her where to go. They were wreathing arch and pillar with branches of pine and fir, And the air was sweet with odors like breath of balm and niyrrh, And roses, and tall white lilies made the altar bright with bloom As Little Joe, from the threshold, looked into the wonderful room. From the organ-loft soft music came pulsing through the air. Then it grew to stronger cadence, and became the voice of prayer, And the listener on the threshold held his breath in awe, to hear The grand and mighty harmony that made God seem so near. No one knew how it happened. There came a crash — a cry — A scaffold-board had fallen — and Little Joe must die 1 They lifted the mangled body with pitying, tender care, And bore it in where the blossoms brightened the place of prayer. There came to the lad a vision of something white, like flame, Or the lilies at the altar, and it softly spoke his name. Though no oue else could see it, he saw it, and he smiled, For it was the face of the mother who had come to find her child ! "Joe, Little Joe!" she whispered, "I have missed you, oh, so long ! I have heard your voice in the pauses of the Heavenly City's song — I have seen your face in visions that came by the Great White Throne— And now, oh, my little darling, God gives me back my own ! " Such wonderful glory as brightened the face of the dying child ! " Mother ! " he whispered, softly, and then once more he smiled. For a moment his thin hands fluttered like a leaf in the autumn blast, Then the struggle of life was over — the dream had come true at last ! ******* In the gladness of Christmas morning that filled the home of God Little Joe gathered fadeless flowers that sprang where the angels trod, But the sweetest sight in Heaven, to his awed and wondering eyes, Was the face of his angel mother, in the midst of Paradise. God smiled when He heard her singing. " The dis- cord is gone," said He, And laid His hand in blessing on the head of the child at her knee, And Joe, no longer a cripple, kept the birthday of the King In the land to which he had journeyed to hear the angels sing ! " —Eben E. Rexford. ■m SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY IN THE ORCHARD. The breeze amid the blossoms playing, By sweets enchanted, falls asleep, While downy clouds go softly straying, Like drifting isles, the upper deep, And lying in the grass, I think How morbid fears and fancies shrink Before the breath of May ; And how 'twixt walls three times accurst, Full half our cares are boru and nurst To fret our lives away. The morning winds with viewless fingers- Remove vexation from my brain, And when they go a fragrance linger* Behind them like a sweet refrain-. The golden light sinks iu my heart, And straightway with a gush upstart The tides of love and joy. God never meant this world below For sorrow — hue skies, flowers — im ! Nor any base annoy. As noonday glow conceals the planet That beams the while on outer space, So with God's love, no eye may scan it, Because his blessings hide his face ; And that is why he sends us woe, That iu the darkness we may know, Uudazzled by his smile, The tender guidance of His hand, And feel the love no faith has spanned, That loves us all the while. — San • •> Peck. PLAY IN' CHECKERS 3 lots o' fun iu winter time when woods is full o' haze, An' the blue smoke comes a-curliu' where the cabin fires blaze ; When the squirrel shakes the hick' ry nuts that tum- ble fur an' free ; But the best fun's playin' checkers by the chinyberry tree. That takes you back to summer time — the village heavesin sight, The sim a-silverin' the leaves an' burniu' 'em with light ; The- whole town roun' the grocery store a-lo»kin* on to see The boys a-playiu' checkers by the chinyberry tree ! A piue box was the table — what they shipped the dry goods in ; It was kinder hacked an' whittled, but as 'rigiual as sin ! With the " board " marked out in pencil, jest us plaiu as plain could be, For the boys that played the checkers by the chiny- berry tree. I use to stand an' watch 'em— jest a boy, with ragged hat, ters made o' cotton, an' me wearin' one at that ! Ir was most as good as swimmin', or as flying kites to me, To watch 'em playin' checkers by the chinyberry tree ! The mayor came out to see 'em, an' the ma: his beat ; The preacher, kinder solemn-like, came walk the street Au' half fergot bis sermouts of salvation full an free, As he watched that game a' checker berry tree : You could hear the birds a-siugiu' in the meadow* fur away, The whistle o' the partridge an' the wranglin' »' tha jay; An' the trains rolled to the station jest as noisy ».j could be ; But they kept on playin' checkers by the chinyberry tree*! I guess they're still a-playin' though the years has roiled away, An' the boy that loved to watch 'em is a-gettin' old ait gray ; But I see the light still shiuin' on the meadow-lauds o' Lee, Au' in dreamsl'm playin' checkers by the chinyberry tree! IN CLOVER. A peep of blue sky and a patch of red clover. The brook laughing by and the sunshine all over ; Green branches above us and green grasses under ; And we sang, she and I ; we were glad — do you wonder ? A dear robin red and a bluebird chirped near uat, A shy rabbit fed, not a whit did he fear us ; The mantle of peace over the fair earth had covered, While around us, above us, God's messengers hov- ered. A peep of blue sky 'neath her lily-lids hidden, Heaven'* beauty seemed nigh and the swift blush un- bidden Crept up to her brow till it shamed the red clover, And the wind kissed her hair and her cheeks, saucy rover '. A kiss for the wind and a kiss for the morning — Wherein have I sinned that she flees without warn- ing? Across the bright meadow her gold hair a-streamiug, A-dazzling my eyes with its glistening and gleam- ing. A peep of blue sky and a patch of red clover, The brook laughing by and the sunshine alt over ; I caught her and kissed her, and this day a week, I shall call her " my wife " if fm able to speak. WHO WAS IT? I met — when was it ? — ah ! between The sunset and the morn Of one indelible day as green As memory's eldest born. I met her where the grasses grow, Away from tower and town, Whose gypsy bonnet dipt the glow Of chestnut isles of brown ! I asked the rose to breathe her name. She i>outed and she said She could not speak of her who came To pale her richest red. I asked the lily, ripple-rimmed — A flake-like curve of snow ; She sighed, her glory had been dimmed By one she did not know. I stooped beside a tufted bed Of leaflets moist with dew, Where one sweet posy hung its head Of deep, diviuest blue, And asked the violet if her powei Could reach that sj>ell of flame. She smiled, " I aui her favorite flower, And Lizzie is her name." SELECTED POEMS. 187 HARVEST-HOME. Now autumn thins the changing leaves, And mellow sunbeams softer shiue, And harvest brings its golden sheaves, And purple clusters of the vine. To him her fruit the orchard yield*, The lanes and hedges tribute owe : And through his treasure-laden fields He bids the happy gleaners go. I would that in so fair a guise 'Twere ours all harvest-time to see ; I would that unto wistful eyes It ever might thus welcome be. That we were wiser than to sow About our daily upward path, The baneful weeds which only grow Into a bitter aftermath. But no — the aged worldling weeps O'er wasted youth's unhallowed gains; Amid his gold the miser reaps Anxiety for all his pains. Or genius cramps itself, and strives For place and honor— toys of earth ; Alas ! the harvest of our lives Too oiten is of little worth. Shall it be so with you and me? Though plenty crown the waning year, The field anew may furrowed be, The precious seed-time yet is here. To use it right, God's grace be given ! Until afar no more we roam, But safe at last in yonder heaven, With angels spend our harvest-home. —Sydney Gray. BALLADE OF THE TAPES TRIE. Mistress Lisbeth sits low at her embroidery frame, A-weaving of fancies with never a name, With cross-stitch and half-stitch and cross-stitch again, With gay scarlet crewels and silken-gold skein. The sunbeams lay bright through the half-open door, The zephyrs drone songs they have droned oft before ; On the rocky, ribbed court the soft spring shadows fall, As the blushing peach-blossoms drift over the wall ; But cross-stitch and half-stitch and cross-stitch again, With gay scarlet crewels and silken-gold skein. Pert Jenny goes by with a smirk and a bow, On the way to the fair with young Philip, I trow, And Dorothy passes as blythe as a bird, Without e'en a glancing, "without e'en a word ; Then cross-stitch and half-stitch and cross-stitch again, With gay scarlet crewels and silken-gold skein. All the world laughs so gayly, with joy to spare, Yet lends not a ripple to glint the brown hair, And the warm rosy fingers are pausing, I fear, To brush from the long, sweeping lashes a tear ; Then cross-stitch and half-stitch and cross-stitch again, With gay scarlet crewels and silken-gold skein. The pattern's the same old impossible style — The swain and the same Dresden shepherdess smile ; But in flies the needle, and out comes the thread, As hard as the laborer delves for his bread ; With cross-stitch and half-stitch and cross-stitch again, With gay scarlet crewels and silkeu-gold skein. A canter — a gallop adown the green lane — And the long, shaded lashes are lifted again ; A ringing of hoofs — then a pause at the gate — The tryst with Philander — alas, he must wait ! Yea, cross-stitch and half-stitch and cross-stitch again, With gay scarlet crewels and silken-gold skein. A stride through the courtyard, a step on the floor, He has lifted the latch and he stands at the door, But shy Mistress Lisbeth bends low o'er her frame, With never a glance, and her soft cheek aflame ; With cross-stitch and half-stitch and cross-stitch again, With gay scarlet crewels and silken-gold skein. " Is it thus, Mistress Lisbeth, ah ! thus, that I see You have broken the troth that you plighted to me?" But poor Mistress Lisbeth spake never a word. And the silence was drunk but by bee and by bird— And cross-stitch and half-stitch and cross-stitch again, With gay scarlet crewels and silken-gold skein. Philander looks down with a sigh, as he ought, On the shy, blushing worker, the work that she wrought ; There's a laugh in the shepherdess's eyes of blue beads- Mistress Lisbeth has pricked her soft thumb till it bleeds ; With cross-stitch and half-stitch and cross-stitch again, With gay scarlet crewels and silken-gold skein. There's a clipping of scissors, a snipping of threads, A blending of blushes, a bending of heads ; Oh ! some way and somehow, he knelt by the fair, To find Mistress Lisbeth sewed fast to the chair. To cross-stitch and half-stitch and cross-stitch again, With gay scarlet crewels and silken-gold skein. But Love laughs at locksmiths and Love sneers at threads, Then on, through the violets drooping their heads — Then on, with swift hoof-beats — yea, on to the fair, They'll find the old parson awaiting them there. Ah ! cross-stich and nalf-stitch and cross-stitch again, On Life's rosy canvas with Love's golden skein. — Virginia F. Evyle> A RESTING PLACE. I know a pool among the reeds, A quiet, restful spot, Where the mud hen nests and the turtle breeds, And the noisy world comes not. Ah, gently the low-stemmed lily-pads move As the wind passes over the reeds above, And the midday sun is hot. Just tie your boat in the flags so tall And bait an artless hook, And let it out in the center fall ; Then don't fish hard, but look At the lively life in the water clear — The million wrigglers sporting here Or darting from sheltered hook. A blackbird teeters upon a reed And chirps its quick, loud cry, Or skims the pool with an arrow's speed In a race with a big blue fly. And the breeze in the rushes that shut you in Picks low, sweet chords on its mandolin, A weird and happy sigh. My friend, there is rest and refreshment there And a balm for the weary brain, And a surcease sweet from anxious care, And respite from cruel pain. Then come, let us float where the lily-pads grow, Forget the vain world with its glamor and show And its struggle for glory or gain. 188 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY AUTUMN DREAMS When the maple turns to crimson And the sassafras to gold ; When the gentiau's iu the meadow And the aster in the wold ; When the moon is lapped in vapor, And the uight is frosty cold ; When the chestnut burs are opened, And the acorns drop like hail, And the drowsy air is startled With the thumping of the flail — With the drumming of the partridge, And the whistle of the quail ; Through the rustling woods I wander, Through the jewels of the year, From the yellow upland calling. Seeking her who still is dear ; She is near me in the autumn, She, the beautiful, is near. Through the smoke of burning summer, When the weary wings are still, I can see her in the valley, I can hear her on the hill, In the splendor of the woodland*. In the whisper of the rill. For the shores of earth and heavea Meet and mingle in the blue ; She can wander down the glory To the places that she knew, Where the happy lovers wandered In the days when life was true. So I think when days are sweetest, And the world is wholly fair. She may sometimes steal upon me, Through the (liuine.ss of the air, With the cross upon her bosom, And the amaranth in her hair. Once to meet her, ah ! to meet her, And to hold her gently fast, Till I blessed her, till she blessed me — That were happiness at last, That were bliss beyond our meetings In the autumn of the past. — Bayard Taylor. JIM DIDNT WORRY Nobody never quite made out Jim ; 'Peared like they allers jest thought him queer, And kinder cranky and laughed at him, When Jim would tell 'em he didn't keer. " Don't make no diff' r'nce," I've heard him say, An' most folks called him a jolly brick— " It's a tough ol' world, an' '11 have its iraf ; 'Tain't worryin' me — I've got no kick." But I knowed better ; he's come to me Mauy's the time heartsick and sore ; " I'm tired of the whole outfit," sez he, " They ain't no use ever tryin' no more ;" An' then in a crowd he'd peark up smart, An' sorter sneer at the deals he'd git ; "That? That's uothin' ! W'y, bless your heart, /ain't a-worryin' a little bit." Jim was onlueky, no use to talk ; Folks wondered sometimes at the way he done, But I know w'y he used to balk An' give up suthin' he'd just begun. His back had been broke by circumstance, An', allers unlucky, he'd lose his grit ; But still he'd laugh—" I ain't had no chance ; But / ain't a-worryin' a little bit." So Jim went a-laughin' right down to death, An' he let go o' life not keerin' a darn ; " Pardner," sez he, kinder catchin' his breath, As I set watchin', with the night ou the turn, " I ain't had much of a deal down here, And I ain't askin' now for a softer sit ; I'm jest a-lettin' go— bend lower— d'ye hear? I ain't— worryin' now — not— a — little — bit!" HER FIRST CHURCH GOING. Sweet Margaret, with golden hair And eyes of heaven's blue, Sat silently as if iu prayer The long, long service through. The prayer-book on her little knee Lay open in its place-; Between its leaves small fingers three Were thrust with artless grace. With head bowed down in rev'rent wise, The small maid seemed to be The picture, to her elders' eyes, Of sweet humility. The service done, her mother, proud That neither cry nor pout, Nor anxious question, rashly loud, Of" When will church be out?" Had made her darling's presence there Unwelcome to the throng- Had ne'er disturbed the rector's prayer, The sermon nor the song — With ready commendation bent To her who'd silence keep ; She touched the child — ou praise iutent- And found her fast asleep. A CHRIS MAS GIF. Moonlight on de glis'nin' saow — Wiutah stahs a-shinin' — Quite a piece I'm got to go, But I ain't a-minin' ; Kase, 'fo' long, you undahstan', I gwine see niah Sally Ann — Dah's de great house lit up gran' — White folks mus' be dinvn'. By de kitchen fireplace, Whah de back log's blazin', Sally's fix in' to make tas'e Eatiu's that's amazin' ; Dis hyar bein' Chris'mas ebe, Dem ah white folks gwine to lebe Goodies that I do belebe Ambeyon'all praisin' ! Down in town, a mile away, Whah I comes from daily, Me 'n' Sal wuz 'gaged one day, Ses de gossips gayly. 'Cause I cotch huh " Chris'mas gif," Week 'fo' las' — I wondah if She's forgot — I spoke so swiT ? Well, Pll make huh pay me ! 'Fo' de moon hab sunk to sleep, Vondah 'cross de meddah, 'Speck we'll set an' talk a heap, An' I'll ask huh wheddah She won't be mah " GiP " er no, 'N' ef she auswahs " yes," we'll sh»' Make a bargain, 'n' we'll go 'Long th'u' life togethah. SELECTED POEMS. 189 SAM. A cjountrt boy by the old stone wall, That keeps the meadow and road apart, stands handsome and manly and strong and tall ; And sturdy is he as the maple tree That's by bis side. For .Sam is young And his honest heart is as light and free As the bird that sings in the summer skies He looks far off o'er the distant hills, While a soft light shines in his hazel eyes ; And leaning there by the meadow wall, He gives this sweet, familiar call : " Ho boss ! ho boss ! ho boss !" Now to manhood grown, and the bells sound sweet As the cows come slowly from out the wood ; - And he leaves the wall and hurries to meet The mild-eyed creatures, for they all know The hand that strokes them as they pass Aloug the road where the daisies grow. And each one stands by the cow-yard bars, Seeming well content with the strong brown hand That milks them there 'neath the summer stars ; And Sam's eyes look love as he sings again The well-remembered, sweet refrain : " Ho boss ! ho boss ! ho boss !" 'Twas a day in June, such as poets love, There by his side a fair girl stands, And the flying clouds in the sky above Seem to play at forfeits with the sun. How well Sam knows that a lover's heart Throbs 'neath his coat, and that every one Of the clover blossoms in the field Is breathing to him an old love-song, And that every bud a joy can yield. So the maiden there by the broken wall Takes up and sings the old-time call : " Ho boss ! ho boss ! ho boss !" Once more Sam stands by the meadow bars With his wife beside him, and her arms Enfold a dear form, whose baby prate Is sweeter to them than the brook's gay song As it flows away at the foot of the hill. Happy they wait, for they know ere long The cows will come from the meadow side. So Sam caresses his little son, While the young wife looks with joy and pride ; And a piping voice o'er the old stone wall Just breathes in baby notes the call : " Ho boss ! ho boss ! ho boss !" —Alfred H. Hardy. GRANDMOTHER'S PROMISES Grandmother sits in her chair at ease ; Her faded eyes have a dreamy look ; A Bible is open upon her knees, But her hands are clasped on the sacred book. Children have left her and scattered wide ; Some of them wander far over the sea, And some of them sleep on the green hillside In the sweet, sad memory of a used to be. (Grandmother sees them in a hazy dream, They are trooping back through the wastes of years : " Still mine, thank God !" and a rainbow's gleam Lies banked in the mists of her silent tears. There is Baby Margie, who died on her arms, When the snow lay white over hill and lea ; But grandmother reads she is safe from harm Tn the bosom of Him who said, " Come unto Me." There's Richard — wild Richard— who ran away And sailed forever from earthly shore ; Mad, blue oceans may toss their spray — Up there, and the sea shall be no more. And Walter, the wayward — has he been reclaimed ? She wonders if feet like his may stand ; She turns the pages — the doubt is shamed — For " none shall e'er pluck them out of My hand." She closes the book with a sigh of rest, She has banished doubting and banished care ; Her chin drops down on her heaving breast, And grandmother sits asleep in her chair. GRANDFATHERS ROSE. Does yo' see dem yaller roses, clinging to de cabin wall, Whar de bright sunshine twinkle all de day? I's got a yaller rose dat's sweeter dan dem all, An I's gwine to gib my yaller rose away. Dat pesky dandy Jim, wid his button-hole bouquet, He knows I's gwine to gib my rose, my yaller rose, my yaller rose ! it growed close to de cabin flo', An' its mammy lef it 'fore it 'gau to climb ; But it run kind o' wild in an' out de cottage do', An' it got roun' de ole man ebery time. I's mighty loth to do it, but I hasn't long to stay — So I's gwine to gib my wild rose, my yaller rose, away. Now, dandy Jim's de parson's son — dey growed up side by side, My yaller rose an' dat ar harnsum boy ; Sense she's a leetle creepy ting, dat Jim has been her pride, But now an' den she grows a little coy ; But I spec's it's 'cause I tole her — 'twas on'y t'other day — Dat Jim had got his cabin done, an' I was gwine away. She put dem little han's in mine, her head upon my breas' , An' dar she seemed to sort o' sob an' sigh. 1 couldn't tell de matter, but it wasn't hard to guess ftr-Dat she's moaning 'cause de ole man's gwine to die ; So I coax my pretty wild rose with kisses, an' I say, " De ole man's gwine to lib, perhaps, dese many an' many a day." boys ! I didn't hab a fought dat bressed head would lay On any oder brest but Jim's an' mine ; 1 fought dat I could hold her, to keep or sib away, But she's gone to make some other garding shine. Her ma got tired o' waitin', maybe, lonesome, so to say, So she axed de garding King to take my yaller rose away. Dear lamb ! she's sleepin' sof'ly, widout a tear or sigh, Wid de wild flowers on her little cabin bed ; An' we's a-sittin' side ob her, poor dandy Jim an' I, An' a-wailin' an' a'wishin' we was dead. I'd a-gi'n my life for her an' Jim. Why couldn't He let her stay ? I's old an' withered, de Marster knows, but He took my rose away. I's berry lonesome, an' so is Jim — he's often ober now, An dem honeysuckle faded long ago ; When de sun shines in de cabin, or it's time to milk de cow, I kin seem to hear her foot upon de flo'. O my wild rose ! my yaller rose ! it's mighty hard to stay ; It seems -as if de Lord forgit, when He took my rose away. —Mary A. Denison. 190 SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY ME N' MY BROTHER. Jest ter lay ther in th' grass, Doin' nothin' all day long, Watchin' shadders shift'n' pass, List'nin' t' th' rob'n's song. Tell yer what, 't seems ter me, Thet's jist wher I'd like ter be, Wher th' brook goes singin' by, 'N' the cloulds skim o'er th' sky. How th' ol' frogs uster croak, Quarrel'n' with th' katydids, When night spreads 'er of' black cloak Over babies' sleepy lids ; 'N' my ol' dad uster set Smokin' whei th' dew was wet, 'ISC my mother 'd stop ter sigh, Right while sing'n' a lullaby. Uster be a turtle dove In th' orchard near th' house. How he'd coo 'n' tell his love, Jest 's cute 's any mouse. 'N' my little brother 'n' me, Mad 's any kids cud be, Uster play, 'n' roll, 'n' fight, Roun' th' lilocks ev'ry night. Till my dad 'd shake his pipe, Stretch hisself, 'n' scratch his head, Then, with one last tussl' 'n' swipe. We'd slouch t' our attic-bed, Ther t' talk, 'n' sleep, 'n' dream-. Lordy ! Lordy ! uster seem Like some ol' Arabyan night — Doves, 'n' frogs, 'n' sof moonlight. Golly ! bet I'd like ter be Back ther in thet feather bed ! Stars a-hlinkin' down 't me, Arms up underneath my head ; Mother singin' soft 'n' low, Rockin' th' cradle to 'n' fro : Sof winds stealin' in ter peep At two boy too glad ter sleep. — Ella Higginson. SINCE MOTHER DIED. How we miss the constant flutter Of her busy step and hand ; Neither pen nor tongue can utter, Only we can understand, Who were knitted to her strongest By those ties that last the longest And are with the blood allied. Oh, our lot a void seems only, And the house is lonely, lonely, Since mother died. Empty chair and empty corner, Vacant spaces everywhere, Mutely telling how we mourn her, Daily, nightly at us stare ; Picturing each household duty Of the tireless form whose beauty, Love and care we now deplore. Every smile-eucountered trial, Patient trust and self-denial She bravely bore. Weeks and mouths have slowly languished Since the grief-crowned, bitter day, But the tear-rain, wild and anguished, Tempest-like, must still have sway ! Did we in her lifetime measure What of woman's joy and pleasure She for us herself denied ? Ours the self-blame if we did not — Ours the tears that gush, though bid not, Since mother died ! In the world around or o'er ua la there love like mother-love 1 Than the love that nursed and bore ua Throbs below or burns above Richer fount, diviner blending. Holier flame, all else transcending, As if flashed from Heaven's high throne? What, without its fire undying, What are we but children crying In deserts lone ? Comes the consolation gently That, from heavenly spaces clear, Still her angel gaze intently Watches o'er our spirits here ; But the world seems bleak and dreary. Sad our lives and weak and weary. Dispossessed of friend and guide, Oh, our lot a void seems only, And our home is lonely, lonely, Since mother died. — Nathan D. Urner. OLD CHUMS. " If I die first," my old chum paused to say, " Mind, not a whimper of regret — instead Laugh and be glad, as I shall. Being dead, I shall not lodge so very far away But that our mirth shafl mingle. So the day The words comes, joy with me." "I'll try," I said, Though, even speaking, sighed and shook my head And turned with misted eyes. His roundelay Rang gaily on the stair ; and then the door Opened and — closed. A something of the clear, Hale hope, and force of wholesome faith he had Abided with me — strengthened more and more — Then— then they brought his broken body here ; And I laughed — whisperingly. And we were glad. — James Whitcomb Riley. THE SONG IN THE RAIN. After long days of golden glare How sweet the music of the rai» I And how ecstatic on the air The catbird's silvery strain ! I see him in his cloistral gown, This tuneful ermite in gray, Swaying in rapture up and down On yon althea spray ! His passionate runs and tremolos Transcend the clearest notes of art, As doth the peerless summer rose Its winter counterpart. His throat seems filled with lyric fire, And listening there thrills me through, A touch of that divine desire The elder poets knew. My soul would search the secret springs Where life's supremest meanings throng; Would set sublime celestial things To chords of earthly song. A sudden mellow change, and lo ! The impulse like a ray is gone, As from the clouds the vermiel glow At the first burst of dawn. Yet who shall say such sounds are sent Unto the spirit sense iu vaiu? Did it not hide some large intent, That bird-song in the rain ? —Clinton Scottard. SELECTED POEMS. mi HE RAN THE NIGHT EXPRESS. 1 MBTii little girl one day, Beyond the railroad bridge, With pail of lorries she had picked Along the bank's high ridge. " Where do you live, my child ?" I said, " And what may be your name?" She looked at me with 'eyes askance, And then her answer came : " The house upon the bluff is oure j They call tne Bonnie Bess ; My father is an engineer, And rune the night express." A sparkle came into her face, A dimple to her c.hiu— The father loved this little girl, And she was proud of him. "Ten-forty-nine, ou schedule time (Scarce e'er a minute late), Around the curve his engine cornea, At quite a fearful rate. " We watch the headlight thro' the gloom Break like the dawn of day — A roar, a flash, and then the train Is miles upon its way. " A lamp, in mamma's window burns, Placed there alone for him. His face lights up, for then he knows That all is well within. " Sometimes a fog o'erhangs the gorge, The light he cannot see, Then twice he whistles for mamma, And clangs the bell for me." " And you are not afraid ?" I asked, " That he may wreck the train ? That there may be a sad mishap, And he nowise to blame?" A pallor crept into her cheeks, Her red lips curled in pain ; They parted, then serenely smiled — Her heart was brave again. " (iod watches over us," she said, " And He knows what is best ; So we have but to pray and trust, And leave to Him the rest." How great that childish faith of hers ! It made my own seem weak ; I bent my head with throbbing heart, And kissed her ou the cheek. I said to her, in cheery tone : " God bless you, Bonnie Bess !