PS 3537 .H31 L5 1910 Copy 1 LITTLE PATCH O' BLUE GAZELIE STEVENS SHARP Class fS553 7 Book, AVj\ 1 5 iRfd Copyright^^_ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. A LITTLE PATCH O' BLUE AND OTHER POEMS GAZELLE STEVENS SHARP BOSTON RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS 1910 Copyright TQio by Gazelle Stevens Sharp All Rights Reserved III" The Gorham Press, Boston, U *s. a ©CI.A275319 To DIANA EUNICE JEFFERS This little volume is affectionately Dedicated. All turn them to her for sympathy, — None ever turneth in vain. A smile, a touch, words tender and strong Help lift the burden or right the wrong. Beguiling the bitter pain. Thou wise, o'er ruling Providence, From my heart thanks give I Thee, That loyal, steadfast, still she stands. With both her dear, uplifting hands Outstretched to mine and me. I dote on Milton and on Robert Burns; I love old Marryat, his tales of pelf; I live on Byron; but my heart most yearns Tovv^ard those sweet things that I have penned myself. — John Kendrick Bangs. CONTENTS Page A Little Patch O' Blue 9 What She Wanted lO Accept Thyself n A Queer Little Hen 12 Love to You All 13 Give What Thou Hast 14 For a Birthday Party 15 Go and Sin no More 16 'Twas St. Valentine s Day 18 Who'd Think 19 Selwyn 20 Take Thine Own 21 The High-Holes Nest 22 Pleasure not Pain 24 Have Me a Boy 25 Anniversary Poem 26 With a Child's Gift 27 She Knew 28 / Wish She Knew 29 Our New Possessions = . 30 His Nice Firecrackers 32 Seeds to Plant 33 Influence 34 Seventeen 35 A Lawyer to Be 36 5 CONTENTS Page My Sister and Dick 37 / Want Lou 39 They Call to Me Day and Night 40 Making Grandma Well 41 0-Dear and All-Right 42 My Motto 43 La Fleur Que TAime 44 A Reminiscence 45 Bridges 46 She Hath Done What She Could 47 In a Strange Land 48 To Olive 49 Too High 50 Was It Christmas 51 Twenty 52 He Lost It 53 A Home Dedication Song 54 // We do the Best We Know 55 Our Little Seven Year Old 56 A Birthday Wish 57 Harry Harwood 58 February Fifteenth 59 To Morda 60 The Rat's Share 61 At The Parting of the Ways 62 Come On Up 63 Birthday Musins 64 To Roma 65 6 CONTENTS Page Homesick Pills 66 Greeting from Oklahoma 67 Stay Up 70 To the Meadow-Lark 71 At Parting 72 For a Linen Shower 73 Teddy 74 Angus 75 Happy Birthday 76 It Fell 77 A Blue Jay and an English Walnut 78 Motherhood 80 Killing Bugbears 81 The Wrens Roundelay 82 A Breath of Spring 83 Try 'Em In a Good Light 84 Swing Swang 85 Button Button 86 Music 89 What I Saw This Morning 91 Handy Holders 92 Messers Baby 93 For a Reception 95 Not Wisely But Too Well 96 Autumn 97 Died at Santiago 99 The Crystal Wedding lOi Three in a Row 103 7 CONTENTS Page Our Neighbor 104 Heroes 105 Unity Circle 107 For a Handkerchief Bag 109 Unchanged I lO What Is That in Thine Hand ill Christmas Bells 113 Our World is but a School 115 Little Gertrude's Catastrophe 117 Where Are Your Flowers II9 Seeing Pretty Things I20 We Give Our Best I2l Her Secret 124 To Joela 125 Husband's Night 126 December lOth 131 // You Do Say Yes 132 Thanksgiving 133 Wild White Poppies 135 Fifty Years 136 Why Dreamest Thou 138 To Ruth 139 Yesterday 140 Misunderstood 141 We Have the Longed For Good 142 Though They Forget 143 Drops of Dew 144 8 A LITTLE PATCH O' BLUE 'Twas one o' them 'ere blusterln' days That comes in early spring, The wind was whistlin' round the house — It blew like anything, Floppin' the clothes out on the line, Shakin' the trees about, Switchin' the vines agin the wall, An' rattlin' the eaves-spout. The sky was full o' flyin' clouds — The wind it chased 'em so — I can't begin to tell you now How hard the wind did blow, Ner how them gray clouds scampered past, Like they was scart, — ner yet Jest how the hull thing made me feel — But I shan't soon forget. The wind, an' clouds, an' trees' an' all. Was makin' such a fuss, It seemed like me an' ev'rything Was mixed up in a muss. An' there wa'n't nothin' firm er still, An' nothin' I could do, Ner hold to, nuther; — then I see A little patch o' blue. 'Twas up above them flyin' clouds, Above the wind, an' me; — A purtier, bluer, stiller patch O' sky I never see. I tell you it was comfortin' An' strengthenin' to know There's somethin' common things don't move, An' ev'ry wind don't blow. WHAT SHE WANTED Curled cosily within her father's arms, Safe sheltered there from childhood's petty wrongs, A wee girl rested quite content. At length Coaxing, low whispered she: "Now sing me one of Cousin Kate's nice songs." "I cannot sing like Cousin Kate, my child," At that the little figure sat up straight. And looking in the face she loved so well, "Sing the same words," she said, "I don't care if you don't sing slim like Kate.'' 10 ACCEPT THYSELF My sister sprang to heights I could not climb, Though wearily I tried, My friend, with skill and strength, Made life sublime; I struggled at his side. Beneath my joy in them Lurked a deep pain. Turn wheresoe'er I would. What they so quickly reached, I longed to gain ; Strove eagerly, nor could. A whisper came one morn To comfort me, — A messenger divine: ''What thy friend, thy sister are, Thou needst not be: Another task is thine." I took my life once more, Strong was my heart; I cheerfully would plod, — Let them or leap or soar, — Do my own part Of the world's work for God. II A QUEER LITTLE HEN There once was a little brown hen, A dear little, queer little hen. Her work was to lay, Just one egg every day; And she did it, this good little hen. She'd fly up in a tree, and right then. Seated high on a branch, this queer hen. Her egg she would lay. Her one egg every day. This good little, queer little hen. 'Twas a strange thing to do, I must say. Lay an egg from a tree every day, And what good was the egg? — Just tell that, I beg — That fell from a tree in that way? But some people do things just as queer, I know it, I've seen it, my dear; They have a good thought. But it just comes to naught; From the wrong place they drop it, my dear. There's a lesson for you and for me. From the hen that laid eggs in a tree. If we do a right thing, If a good thought we bring. Let's not choose a wrong place, you and me. 12 LOVE TO YOU ALL Among the many sweet pictures That come at memory's call, There is one that visits me often As the twilight shadows fall. 'Tis a group of childish figures Lingering at the stairway door, Oft in merry tones repeating The same fond words o'er and o'er, "Good-night, Love to you all, kiss to you all." 'Tis strange to me now a-dreaming Of those days gone past recall. That we ever chid the darlings For their oft repeated call, Or were vexed because they loitered When the good-nights had been said, Waited, calling from the stairway Ere they scampered off to bed, "Good-night, Love to you all, kiss to you all." For now as I sit in the gloaming, Held fast in memory's thrall. My heart is with those dear ones. And I hear that good-night call. I long for the group at the fire-side, The group at the stair-way door. My soul cries out to each dear one, Here and on the other shore, "Good-night, Love to you all. Kiss to you all." 13 GIVE WHAT THOU HAST The thing you try to grasp Eludes your touch, E'en though with blessings fraught; That which you fain would be Proves far too much — Your yearnings count as naught. You see so plain the path Your feet would go, It stretches fair, afar; You strive for what is high. You crave to know. You loathe the thing you are. Germs quickened in your heart Some strong, glad hour, Are smothered e'er they bloom ; The seeds that spring to life Put forth no flower, But die from want of room. Another scales the heights, Thea stoops to seek The one thing you could give ; You will not stretch your hand — You are so weak — Shall you help others live? You have not borne much fruit — Why share your seed ? Cast thou abroad the grains. All that thou hast, each germ, More great the need Because of thy small gains. 14 Perchance, how shouldst thou know? On other soil The plant will e'er abide, Will yield an hundred fold, Repay thy toil. And bless the world beside. FOR A BIRTHDAY PARTY Please help me celebrate My birthday, it is number ten — To-morrow is the happy day And let me state That we shall be Most glad to see you then. Do not forget the date — November fourth, at half past four. We'll see that you get safely home Before 'tis late. By eight o'clock, Or, if you wish, before. 15 GO AND SIN NO MORE That this glad day which dawned so beautiful, so strong, Should soon be overcast by many a petty wrong. By unkind words, unjust, from me — the mother, wife — To tender child, to him, my husband, lover, friend. These dear ones whom I love, each better than my life — It fills my soul with grief that well nigh breaks my heart. That I who ever do so long and strive and pray To live among them, for them, strong and true each day — The grief, the shame of it, will darken all my days — That I, though wearied sore by oft recurring cares, Should be so vexed by little, willful, childish ways, And give unjust reproof in anger, not in love: Forgive me. Heavenly Father; unto Thee I call. They have forgiven me quite, my loyal loved ones all; I felt It in the clasp of clinging arms to-night. In smile. In warm embrace, in oft repeated kiss. Thou wilt, thou dost forgive, my Father, who aright With truest love and perfect wisdom judgest us. Now help me to forgive myself — excusing naught Weakly and cowardly, of wrong in deed or thought, But truly to forgive as they've forgiven me, Or as I would forgive another's grievous fault, i6 Who sinning deep and oft against mine own and me, Repented sorrowing and my forgiveness sought. And help me to take up once more my daily load And walk courageously how hard soe'er the road — Yet blossoming midst its thorns and brightened all the way By sympathy and cheer from husband, children, friends — Help me to forward press nor shrinking, doubting Wasting my life, my strength, in weakening self- distrust. And help me learn to look below the outward sin, As thou dost, to the purpose strong and pure within ; Feel underneath the everlasting arms uphold, And say to self on each new morn, in hope and faith. As the dear Christ did say to her who sinned of old; ''Neither do I condemn thee, go and sin no more." 17 'TWAS ST. VALENTINE'S DAY She came in from school, her face all aglow, My girlie with eyes so blue; She must have been well remembered, thought I, 'Twas St. Valentine's day, I knew. But she'd not been thinking of self at all, — My daughter with golden hair, — A poor little girl without many friends Was the object of her fond care. "May I take some money, my mamma dear, — I've only a little I know, — And buy for Carrie a valentine gay, So she will have one to show? "The rest, sitting near her, all had some to-day,- I'm sure that she'll not get one, Why, they hardly play with Carrie at all, I don't think she has much fun." I sent her to school, the unselfish dear. As happy as happy could be, — And quite overjoyed was I when at night The mail brought my little girl three. i8 WHO'D THINK ''Who'd think that a little spot like that" — It is hard to understand — He drawled out the words, 'twas a way he had, "Would hurt like a whole sore hand?" 'Twas a tiny boy who made this speech, He meant a wee burn on his finger; But his queer little speech, May a lesson teach, Well worth our while to remember. ''Who'd think that a little spot like that. Would hurt like a whole sore hand." 'Tis a dozen years back, yet his look and tone Still fresh in my memory stand. And his long-drawn words a lesson bring That we'll heed if we are wise. There is many a thing Besides burns, that sting Much more than we'd think, from their size. 19 SELWYN I scarcely know where to commence my rhyme, There's so much I would like to tell; How he talks so unlike the rest of us, For an 'V, or "th" using "1"; How he begs us for stories, — "the lame old ling" Suits him night and morning and noon — And how his papa just has to sing, And sing words never set to a tune. How he looks so much like a baby girl In his gown and his cap of white, With his yellow hair rippling out behind As he settles himself for the night ; And how strange it seems for a blue-eyed mite To want stories of wolves and bears, Of hunting and shooting and such wild things For which never a small girl cares. How strangers most always think him a girl — One old lady when told she was wrong. Replied, with a smile, "I called him a girl Because her hair is so long." And how, when the proofs of their pictures came And we crowded around to see, "Lat little girl is lister," he said, "And lis little girl is me." How he falls in a "fit of the desp'rate suz" — It was grandpa invented the name — Just because he cannot do as he likes — To tell it is really a shame; 20 How he "gets good" again in a trice each time And is 'iorry" this impulsive elf. His attacks are not very dangerous For the darling can cure them himself. How at dawn, bless his heart, with face all aglow. He says, cuddled down in my bed, "I am going to be good all the time now, And not cry — the way grandpa laid." O, how I hope he will realize Each beautiful earnest plan From his dimpled toes to his golden crown, How we love him, our little man. TAKE THINE OWN God hath enough for all, and yet to spare; Forth from its source th' unfailing stream doth speed Unto each one according to his need. Open thine heart, reach out, and take thy share. 21 THE HIGH-HOLE'S NEST Two old high-holes built a nest In the spring, Choosing place the}^ liked the best, Like a king. Can you guess the place they chose ? Do you know where birds like those Creep and cling? Yellowhammer is one name. For this bird, They are really just the same — In a word Yellowhammers, wake-ups, flickers, All are names for these wood-peckers, So I've heard. Find their picture in some book If you can, You can see just how they look, Little man, With queer marks of black and red On their breast and neck and head, On their wings black, in a bed Of dark tan. On one side of an old tree. This queer pair, Worked to-gether busily; With great care, Pecking, boring at their work, Neither one inclined to shirk, Always there. 22 Why, they fairly strewed the ground, Working thus, Bits of wood they dropped around, Such a muss! Henry, seeing his nice grass Littered o'er where people pass, Made a fuss. How they made the nest hole grow In that tree! Large enough for them, you know, It must be, And for all their young beside. Must be large, and deep, and wide. Deep enough the birds to hide. Don't you see? When up to the nest we stole, Soft did creep, Lifted Ruth up to the hole For a peep, She and we were quite amazed As into its depths we gazed, Broad and deep. Said I, "Why work they for days Without rest, When there are such nice, quick ways To build a nest?" "They have nothing else to do," Said the child, I caught her view; Building to one's nature true, Gives the zest. 23 PLEASURE NOT PAIN There was a time I felt as you do, dear, When little Emma died, our oldest girl, But that is past and gone this many a year; A tiny cushion made of faded silk, Stuck full of rusty pins, is all that's left Of what had once been hers, my precious one. Not long before she died, her fingers deft. Although so small, made it for me, dear child. One day Mame asked to take her sister's book. Well I recall the dear child's winning tone, What mother could resist that pleading look? And yet — to me like sacrilege it seemed; I could not bear it, since my Emma died, To see the playthings she had loved, e'en touched, Her dear hands still, by other hands beside. I kissed the upturned face, but did not speak. What could I do? Refuse the living child? Or add new anguish to the grief I bore? Ere yet I answered my wee daughter smiled. Her earnest eyes upraised to mine, and said, "If she were here again I know she'd say If I asked her to let me take her things: *Yes, little sissy, yes, of course you may.' " She'd caught her dear, dead sister's very tone. God bless the child — I knew that she was right, And from that hour I never felt the same. My grief had blinded me, all had been night. Now like a flash the scales seemed caught away. My darling Emma's treasures, one by one, I gave her little sister; they should give Not pain but pleasure, as they would have done Had their sweet owner lived to share the joy. 24 HAVE ME A BOY She sat leaning back, a small girl four years old, One chubby knee crossed for its wee mate to hold, A position, you'll say, as she'd often been told. Very much like a boy. All at once, with quick motion, she raised up her head. Her blue eyes were shining, her dimpled cheeks red ; "Say, why don't you pit some pants on me," she said, "And have me a boy?" We laughed at the queer baby question, but why ? Oft-times in our wishing, we Nature defy, Ask for just as impossible things, you and I, As her "have me a boy." -25 ANNIVERSARY POEM Sech days as this is a jinin' link Betwixt the old an' the new. There's dozens o' people that you think On to once, good friends an' true; Some on 'em settin' around you here — An' some that are over there — All them that was at your weddin', Them that danced at your infare; Them that has touched one life, or both, Ofi an' on this forty year; Some that you've knew and liked a spell. An' others that's always dear. The thoughts that has come to you both to-day Of them far off, bye-gone times Has been sort o' music in your hearts, Singin' sweet like weddin' chimes. I know it has by the way that we Have felt since we got your bid To come an' help you celebrate. If we tried we could n't get rid O' thinkin' of all the pleasant times That has come to us through you, — The visits here, the gen'rous acts You know so well how to do. — I can't begin to put into words. All the things that I'd like to say. Nor call up for you the memories That's been fillin' my heart all day; 26 But I must jest tell you it does us good To see you a settin' here, With 5/our friends an' neighbors all about, An' some of your children near. In this home where we always like to come The feelin's that in us swell Are warm an' kindly to you both. We love you ; an' wish you well ; An' we hope each year that comes along 'LI be better n the last, not wuss. An' that you'll be spared a long while yet To each other an' to us. WITH A CHILD'S GIFT This quilt made slowly, piece by piece, For you. By childish fingers lacking still In needle lore their elder's skill, A true Love off' ring is from your small niece. 27 SHE KNEW To Kindergarten swiftly was going The sweetest small four-year-old maid, About her the bright sun-light glinted, In and out 'midst her golden hair played, As she daintly tripped. Now walked, and now skipped, In a long blue coat, Hubbard-made. She looked such a wee little creature, To be seen toddling off in that way, No wonder a gentleman passing Just stopped for a moment to say: "I am much afraid, My tiny, sweet maid, You are running away this fine day." "And what did you answer him, darling?" Mamma asked the dear little tot; "I didn't say anything," she replied, "For, of course, I knew I was not." So conscious of right Was this four-year-old mite. Her bright smile was the answer he got. 28 I WISH SHE KNEW If I only were a poet I'd sing not of birds and flowers, Of fair azure skies, rare sunsets, Bubbling brooks, sequestered bowers— But I'd chant, in beauteous measure, For a maiden sweet and true, Many things I cannot tell her That I wish she knew. I would paint in words her picture As it lingers in my heart, Draw each curve of form and feature. Reproduce each dainty part. I would match in sweetest rythm, All her beauty, all her grace; I would picture smiles and dimples Playing 'bout her face. I'd not stop, in my word painting With her eyes of deepest blue. But would show with rarest touches. Her pure soul there shining through. I would tell of gentlest action, Kindest word and purest thought; Say that ever to me watching She seems without fault. I would call her modest, faithful. Earnest, too, unselfish, bright; I would paint her doing ever. In each place, the thing that's right, Just the thing you're proud to have her, Just the thing you'd like to do ; — This and more I'd try to tell her, — Oh, I wish she knew! 29 ''OUR NEW POSSESSIONS" (Annual Meeting, Unity Church, Humboldt, la.) In these days of work and worry, In these times of strife and labor, Days of research and of progress, Times of upward, forward looking, It is well to pause a moment, Our swift onward march to slacken. Turn one moment from the future. Pause a moment in the present; Take the time to wait and ponder. Take the time to count and number. All that this swift year has given. All the past twelvemonth had brought us, Not of sermons am I speaking. Though of these a goodly portion, Has the year brought to us waiting. Not of members new and welcome, Not of helpful inspiration, Not prosperity financial; This and more have others told you. Things, I speak of, not ideals, Furniture not inspiration. Listen while I name them over. Hearken, and I will recount them. All that I can think to tell you That the past twelvemonth has given, Given to us, needing, asking; Given to us, waiting, working. See the things whereof I tell you, See the new things in the parlors, In the basement, in the parsonage, In the audience room and hallway. 30 For electric lights, see fixtures For more lights to see the rest by. See the kitchen with its cupboards, See the dining-room and tables. See the water-works and fittings. The new range and lavatory. And the mirrors, look into them, See yourselves as others see you. And the chairs by tens and dozens. Choose one as your mood doth dictate, — Rocking, fancy, cane-seat, folding — Or, perchance our couch will please you, Suit you better than a chair could. Seat yourself upon it freely. Rest )^ourself upon its cushions. See the furnace in the parsonage, In the church the large new furnace. See the swinging doors new covered ; See new pictures, two madonnas; See the curtain full of mottoes. Motto-curtain for the children. See the paper in the parsonage, In the church, too, see new paper — Not enough, but some new paper. And the pews, commodious, stately. The new pews, new book-racks holding. Where new books wait for the singers, Books for all the congregation. These to us the year has given. Given to us, planning, working, Windows, too, to check the north wind, On the parsonage to protect it ; Rugs have we both new and costly, Bright to look at, soft to walk on ; 31 And o'er all the floor of pine boards See our carpet, green as moss is, Our new carpet, soft and pretty; Curtains, too, have we acquired That the light may enter gently. And in all your looking, seeing. Do not fail to see the book-case. Book-case near the north east corner, Neat and new and full of reading. And o'er all upon occasion Our new flag may wave and flutter. Is there more I have not told you. Other words I should have spoken ? These, at least, the year has brought us, These the past twelvemonth has given. Things, I speak of, not ideas. Furnishings, not inspiration. HIS NICE FIRECRACKERS He had a bunch of crackers. And punk and matches, too, But his firecrackers wouldn't go And he was getting blue. Then his papa and his mama Called them their favorite kind: "So very safe," "so nice and still," And he laughed and didn't mind. 32 SEEDS To PLANT She came to me in tears, Her small hands holding tight The fragments of a gourd once round and white, The last of her small store ; What would she do for more? With sobs she showed me where it fell and broke Upon the floor. I gathered up the seeds, Each such a tiny thing. "We'll plant them," so I told her, "in the spring. And you shall watch them grow. And sweetheart, do you know There'll be no end of nice, round gourds for you Before the snow"? The child was comforted. And went back to her play ; She'd learned the lesson well ; that very day She brought me her tin sheep; "Let's find the seeds to keep, And plant, and make more grow for me," she beg- ged, My wee Bopeep! 33 INFLUENCE (Nor knowest thou what argument, Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath leant.) — Emerson. Hied them to rural scenes, one summer's morn, A kindergarten band in strange, glad mood; A ragged, unkempt crowd of city waifs, — One fair, young girl mothered the motley brood. With rare, sweet smile. Light touch or soft caress, and gentlest mien, She flitted 'mongst her subjects — she their queen. A youth near by watched, wondering the while. As still he gazed upon the beauteous sight, The poet sprang to life within his soul. And, Pallas like, the boy became a man. Full-fledged, elate ; beyond he saw the goal, — To lend a hand. To sing glad songs of hope for saddened hearts, Heal up the wounds made by sin's poisoned darts, Give to mankind a message sweet and grand. I. Children and guide went their allotted ways; The poet, too, went his, nor saw them more ; But from that chance encounter forth there sped — Like circling waves that touch on either shore From pebble tossed Mid-ocean from some vessel outward bound — A current strong whose depths we may not sound, Nor can its course be traced, its influence lost. 34 We go our devious ways, play our small parts; Perform our homely tasks, live out our lives; What watcher sees our deeds we may not know, Nor what impulse within for mastery strives. How dare we swerve From duty's path to seek an easier way. Neglect one task, our hand an instant stay. Not knowing when it may be ours to serve. SEVENTEEN YouVe reached another mile-stone, dear, Youth's dreams hold you in thrall. Conflicting duties bid you choose. And stranger voices call. From treasures waiting to be culled The choicest haste to glean; You cannot always look at life Through eyes of ''Sweet Sixteen." 35 A LAWYER TO-BE "Will you be a lawyer like papa, dear heart, And sit in an office and write, Study big books and make speeches at court That are brave and honest and bright ? When you are a man, Will you, if you can, Be a lawyer and stand for the right?" So a fond mother questioned her little son, Who sat by her side at his play. "Yes I'll be a lawyer like papa," he said, "Only not in quite the same way; When I am a man. If I possibly can, I am going to drive a big dray." 36 MY SISTER AND DICK I want to tell you something queer; It happened in the spring one year, Just when I don't remember, dear. But long ago. 'Tis all about a poor young chick (I think the creature's name was Dick) ; It nearly made my sister sick To see his woe. Now Dick was motherless, you see, And wretched as a chick could be; Forever underfoot was he, And in the way. The other chickens ate his corn. And pestered him both night and morn, And he grew more and more forlorn Day after day. The ducks and geese put him to rout; The pigeons, too, chased him about; They even plucked his feathers out. Nor let them grow. The way they did was just a sin; No wonder Dick grew lank and thin; My sister had to take him in, They acted so. Then she disheartened quite became; And really was she much to blame? She said it was a burning shame To let him stay 37 And look so bad and suffer so, (His skin was bare, he didn't grow) ; They certainlj^ must end his woe Without dela}^ But vainly she his cause did plead, Her husband quite with her agreed, But vowTd he'd never do the deed, Oh, no, not he. The farm-hand he'd "not kill the thing." How could she ever, ever bring Herself poor Dickie's neck to wring; But it must be. Herself and Dick alone she found; At once she snatched him from the ground, And whirled him swiftly round and round By his poor head, Then flung him far into the corn. She went about her work that morn, With feelings that were most forlorn; Poor Dick was dead! She felt herself a murderer, She wished folks would not look at her, She started at the slightest stir — Could it be Dick? She passed a night of troubled sleep, Rose unrefreshed, commenced to sweep, When — yes, it was his well-known peep, There stood that chick! 38 I WANT LOU Lying wrapped jn a slumber profound, With bright dream fancies closing me round, I was roused by a low, sweet sound. 'Twas a dear voice said, From my baby boy's bed, ''Mamma da'li', I want lou." Then his dear form I clasped to my breast. To my heart close his sweet face I pressed, By his innocent love, oh, how blessed 1 Yes, it more than repaid All the trouble he made — That sweet, ''Mamma, I want lou." While my arms round my baby I kept. To my heart a deep pity there crept For the arms where no little one slept. Those homes where none say, Or at night or by day, "Mamma darling, I want you." 39 THEY CALL TO ME DAY AND NIGHT About me I see noble women, Alive to humanity's needs, Whose hearts are in touch with all nature, Whose lives overflow with good deeds ; With leisure to follow love's promptings, To help make some other's path bright; — I have only my little children Who call to me day and night. Then I think me of how many women Have never a baby to hold; Who through the swift flight of the seasons Watch no tiny blossoms unfold ; Whose homes, howsoe'er grand and costly. No dear childish faces make bright; To whom never comes the sweet music Of voices that call day and night. And I think of the sorrowing mothers Whose birds from the home nest have flown, Flitted back through the portals of heaven While they linger grieving alone; Whose homes, now so empty and quiet. Were once filled with laughter and light, No more will those sweet baby voices Respond, though they call day and night. I think, too, of others whose dear ones A fond mother's guidance have left. Estranged by new scenes and companions From her thus so sadly bereft; Though she, as of yore, yearns to greet them, No response comes her love to requite. While I — thank God, I have my children, And they call to me day and night, 40 MAKING GRANDMA WELL Her grandma was out in the orchard — 'Twas her great grandmamma you must know, Where dusky bees sipped the stored sweetness From blossoms with petals of snow. One meddlesome fellow Got caught in her hair, And stung poor old grandma; Oh, how did he dare? She reached her own room almost fainting Needing mamma's and grandmamma's aid, While dear little Faith Theodora To assist in her small way essayed. But Faith Theodora Was just barely two; At first there seemed nothing To help she could do. She stood sadly watching poor grandma, Her brown eyes o'erbrimming with tears ; One moment of helpless inaction. Then with forethought past one of her years, She took from the table, — She knew by the smell, — A bottle of camphor, To "make Bama well." Oft now it comes back in the twilight. The sweet picture our grief to beguile. Wee Faith's earnest look of compassion, And dear grandmother's answering smile. How precious the picture None ever can tell, Our tiny girl trying To make grandma well. 41 O-DEAR AND ALL-RIGHT Two sprites there are come from Elfland, Who both want the very same child, So anxious am I which will win It makes me sometimes nearly wild. She is my child you see So you all will agree What effects her also effects me. These sprites — I have called one O-Dear, All-Right for the other my name — Are found in your home, I dare say, Or others that act much the same. When called from her play I can tell by the way My child answers, which sprite 'tis holds sway. Sometimes 'tis O-Dear takes the lead And on my sweet girl gets a hold. O-Dear is the one we don't like, — He brings to us trouble untold. O-Dear makes her pout, Puts her good looks to rout, Would quite spoil her in time without doubt. I am glad when All-Right takes his turn. For he's such a dear little sprite. As unlike O-Dear as the day With its sunshine is unlike the night. I am sure in the end She'll make All-Right her friend. And O-Dear back to Elfland will send. 42 MY MOTTO Quite disheartened was I one gray morn Of a new year but just then begun, As I thought of the much I had hoped, Of the little I really had won. Then a host of resolves trouping came. Now this and now that led the van ; Some new foe seemed as oft to arise. Meeting each in its turn with a ban. To do aught that was great, grand, or good. Of small use it appeared e'en to try. Like a search-light dispelling the gloom Came this thought and it seemed to defy — With its strength and its beauty conjoined — My forebodings, their weakness to scan: No matter what anyone else does I will do as near right as I can. It still comes to me oft as I work. Bringing courage and hope in its train. Tis because I have found it of use That to share it with you I am fain. Here it is; come and take it, 'tis yours; It will do for child, woman, or man: No matter what anyone else does I will do as near right as I can. Though I find myself powerless and weak, My surroundings all greatly awry, Though the demons of doubt do their worst, Though in ruins my air-castles lie. Though friend join with foe for my hurt, All shall not my purpose unman: No matter what anyone else does, I will do as near right as I can. 43 LA FLEUR QUE J'AIME (For Gratia in her Bonnet.) I often have thought the pond lily The flower of all flowers I like best, Yet at times 'tis a frail morning glory, Or a pansy, that best bears the test; Again roses seem with their fragrance And beauty to lead all the rest. And now there's another sweet blossom That holds in my heart the first place; 'Tis quite new, you may not have seen it. The calyx is white, frilled with lace, The petals — but howe'er describe it? Let me show you instead her dear face. 44 A REMINISCENCE I saw her just once, this grand woman, In the prime of her wonderful power; 'Twas commencement at my alma mater And she stopped between trains, for an hour. She was handsomer far than her pictures, I shall never forget her sweet face. Nor the hush, and the greeting which followed, As our president led her to place. With thanks for the courtesy shown her, A smile, a swift glance toward her past. To her home, and the school of her girlhood, And a spell o'er us all she had cast. The heart of that vast sea of people Seemed beating in time with her own, As she poured forth the message she carried, Good seed by a skilful hand sown. 'Twas the day just before the amendment* Was passed, in eighteen eighty-two. Next day eager students, bound homeward, Filled the trains, and each station passed through Was greeted with songs from the platform, Full of purpose, so earnest and strong, That I venture not one man who listened To those singers that day voted wrong. In memory of Frances E. Willard, My mite I thus send on its way, To join the still widening current That she set in motion that day. *The Iowa Prohibition Amendment. 45 BRIDGES A simple structure, rude and unadorned, But strong, bestrides a sluggish stream, And makes a highway over boggy plains That else were wearisome and hazardous. Afar, ascending upward toward the blue, A miracle of architectural grace Bespans a mighty torrent, links the hills, And gives safe transport to a myriad lives. Yet who shall judge the twain, or underprize The one, since both do satisfy a need, And fill the scope marked out? So 'tis with deeds of men; they rise aloft, And dazzle by their comeliness and power, Or bend them low in some secluded spot. To shape a roadway for oncoming feet; Dissimilar are they, and yet the same. So be that each doth rightly bridge some strait. Then look ye how ye build. 46 'SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD" {For D. E. J.) She sees in the hazy distance Her girlhood's fair ideal. High and radiant there afar It lures no more but, a beacon star, Illumines her daily real. As she walks 'neath the sacred shadow Of that fair "not-to-be" She waxeth ever strong and pure, More swift to comfort, brave to endure. She sees as the sweet-souled see, Who let the chastening memory Of some loved "might-have-been" Enter their being, a healing balm, Replacing life's passion with helpful calm. And her heart becometh akin To the heart of the great All-Father, Near to each struggling child. The maid by her first young anguish torn, The weary mother, sad and worn, The youth with impulse wild. All turn them to her for sympathy, — None ever turneth in vain. A smile, a touch, words tender and strong. Help lift the burden or right the wrong, Beguiling the bitter pain. Ne'er dreams she the worth of her labor, The love cast down at her feet, Knoweth not she hath reached a higher plane Than that she once vainly longed to gain, — Though life is full and sweet. 47 Thou wise, o'erruling Providence, From my heart thanks give I Thee, That loyal, steadfast, still she stands, With both her dear uplifting hands Outstretched to mine and me. IN A STRANGE LAND O, Thou All-Father, Holding in thine hand The ponderous planet, and the frail flower-cup, Beneath me are Thine everlasting arme. E'en in a stranger land, And they will bear me up. 48 TO OLIVE Here we have met, a little band Of schoolmates who, for many a day Have joined with you with heart and hand In cheerful work and merry play. We'll miss you when no longer here, Olive dear. We'll miss your laugh, your sparkling eyes, Bright, rippling hair, gay tripping feet, Your eager questions, quick replies; We'll miss the little girl complete. 'Tis sad these happy times must end. Little friend. Though you are going far away. To find new friends, another home. New duties, too, for each glad day, You will not beneath heaven's blue dome Find truer friends than those left here, Olive dear. We pray Dame Fortune to be kind, And generous in her gifts to you. To bring you clouds all silver lined, Or send you skies forever blue; May happiness your steps attend. Little friend. Let not new friends, though good and true. Quite crowd the old from heart and mind, Whate'er the future brings to you. Still think of us you leave behind. And come back often to us here, Olive dear. 49 TOO HIGH He had his first small pocket, This little boy named Will, But to get his hand Inside it, Tried all his baby skill; For grandmamma who made it, Was out of practice quite; 'Twas many years since she'd made clothes For such a tiny mite. And so the longed-for pocket Upon his jacket small, Was quite too high, he could not get His hand inside at all. He twisted and he wriggled. He turned him round and round, He crouched upon the carpet, Then sprang up with a bound. Standing upon his tiptoes, He tried with might and main; But each attempt was futile. And all his efforts vain. Then for a time he faltered, Standing with thoughtful air; Again the wee face brightened — He climbed upon a chair. 50 WAS IT CHRISTMAS? In November with sweet, wistful look, Said a four-year-old pet, "Mama, dear, You've talked about Christmas so long. Won't you tell me just when 'twill be here?" Mama showed her the calendar gay, That hung near the little white bed: '"Twill be Christmas when both leaves are gone," Scarce pausing to think what she said. The very next day, this wee rogue. Said with lips that seemed made to be kissed, ''They are gone! Is it Christmas right now?" Showing both leaves in one chubby fist. 51 TWENTY The days whirl by in a circular dance, Swift and more swift the seasons advance, Ere one is aware a twelvemonth has sped And a new birthday rolls over his head. Then at once the past and its varying scenes To confront the new-comer memory convenes. Does it seem ''so old" to be twenty at last, With childhood forever a thing of the past ? Does the present look as you thought that it would ? Can you do as much as you felt that you could ? Did womanhood mean to you what it now means When you viewed it, a maiden but just in her teens? Now may girlhood's feverish unrest and haste. By a "healthy discontent" be replaced. May life grow rich as the years unfold. Bringing you beauties and powers untold, Making you one of the earth's fair queens. Fulfilling dreams dreamed while a maid in your teens. Now memory singeth a rollicking air. Then turns to what seemeth akin to despair The past hath its changes, its smiles and its frowns. May future years bring fewer crosses, than crowns. Its shifting scenes hold less of grays than of greens. For you, dear, no longer a maid in her teens. 52 HE LOST IT Now Shep, the family dog, was cross, A cat he couldn't endure. "He'll kill poor Tab one of these days. Of that I'm very sure." So said my neighbor, and added, too, 'Til put her into a sack, And carry her off, and lose her, so She'll never find the way back." I didn't like to interfere ; But it always seemed to me, If a poor cat must be disposed of, How much better it would be To actually end her wretched life By death in a humane way, Than leave her hunted, homeless, forlorn. To hunger and cold, a prey. When I told him so, he frankly said That there was some truth in that, But, like unto many another man. He hated to kill a cat. So Mistress Puss was securely tied In a grain sack whole and new. And away they went to the nearest woods. When what did the old cat do But in some way get out of the cart. When he'd found a splendid place To lose his cat, both it and the sack Were gone, and had left no trace. He'd lost it all right— I don't mean the cat. On the steps when he got back, She lay curled up in the sun, asleep; But he never found the sack. 53 A HOME DEDICATION SONG You ask me for a song as here we gather, A song mete for this building, fair and new, The household by its ample roof now sheltered, These our dear friends, our earnest friends and true. The song Is in our hearts, yours and mine, In our voices how It rings! In our silence still It sings, This happy, heartfelt song, mine and thine. To-gether we beheld the old-time dw^elling , Removed from its accustomed resting place. Shared we the shock, felt we the twitch of heart strings. To see this spot by stranger hands defaced ; To-gether we have watched, with pleased atten- tion, The builder's plans, day after day, unfold; To-gether have we seen this stately structure Take form upon the loved site of the old. And now we greet with pride this habitation, Welcome addition to our village fair. And with a happiness deep and abiding The pleasure of its rightful owner share. But this house Is partly ours, yours and mine. If I rightly read the heart. It was built for us In part. By these loyal friends of ours, mine and thine. 'Tis new, yet old, this beauteous dwelling place. As In past years, the trees, with spreading arms. Make their accustomed music through the night, At morn the old-time view presents new charms. 54 And may there enter here, and here abide, Associations tender, sacred, dear. That clustered round the old home left behind, Augmented by new ties, year after year. And by so much as this fair house excels The dwelling now out-grown, so much and more May life herein exceed, in joy and peace, In worth and blessedness, all life before. The prayer is in our hearts, yours and mine. That this house a home may be, A true home, from discord free, Where life daily grows more human, more di- vine. IF WE DO THE BEST WE KNOW When we do the best we know Very often time will show It is very far from well ; Yet we should not feel to blame. Suffering as from guilt or shame. If we do the best we know. We can let God do the rest, And he doeth all things best. 55 OUR LITTLE SEVEN-YEAR-OLD The true Christmas spirit had she, Our dear little seven-year-old, The only one in the house — ah me! — Who had, if the truth were told. For all of us questioned and guessed Or thought about what we would get, The while our loving plans for the rest By worry and doubt were beset. A-longing for more for this one or that, Wond'ring what the other would want. Each under "the Christmas burden" sat. Save her: not a thing seemed to daunt This maiden, who counted in piles All her tiny hoard, cent by cent, Than her face covered over with smiles, A-shopping, undaunted still, went. Went alone, too, none happier, I ween. Buying just what to her seemed the best.— The baby's cost three cents, mama's fifteen. There were five cents apiece for the rest. Then with money all spent to a cent. Her purchases labelled and tied, She composed herself with a content To most of her elders denied. "What do you want Christmas to bring?" We asked. "You have not told yet," "I want," her voice had a cheery ring, "To just wait and see what I'll get." 56 A BIRTHDAY WISH It has fallen to me to express For myself and all the rest The wish that each new year of your life May be the brightest and best. To tell you how much we love you, And appreciate what you do. With all the rest you have done for us ; We want to thank you, too, For getting all ready for our use Our teacher as we find her ; We know she couldn't be as nice Without her good mother behind her. Now please think of all the other good things, That I have not thought to say. And add them to this as our wish for you On your sixty-eighth birthday. 57 HARRY HARWOOD He IS papa's "Tootsey Wootsey", This darling little man, Who fills the house with sunshine If ever a baby can. But that is only one name, — He is mama's ''Honey Boy", He is grandma's ''Darling Baby, ' And his grandpa's "Jimmie Joy." He is his Uncle John's "Kid", If what he says is true; And he's Aunt Allie's "Sweetheart," I wish he were mine, too. His Aunty Jeffer's "Sweet Boy," Is this darling little elf, And Uncle Wayne, his "Petie Pet", He will tell you so himself. He says he is Grace's "Darling", And Ruthie's "Little Cousin" Were every one so winsome, sweet, I'd like a good round dozen. To all of those who've given names. To this tiny two-years mite. Will he tell the one they call him. And always tell it right. But just a string of pet names. As they fall from his baby lips, Would not make us love the blessing. To his rosy finger tips. No words of mine can tell you What makes him a constant joy. If I could I would most gladly Just show you the darling boy. 58 FEBRUARY FIFTEENTH It looks, in sooth, a day most inauspicious. Yet twice have oped its potrals bare To give to earth and me of heaven a foretaste, Two sisters dear my love to share. Henceforth for aye, despite its untoward seeming, Deep in my heart I hold it fair. And since once and again that selfsame dayspring. E'en though in semblance grim and drear, With parted doors has brought from out its treas- ures Gifts unto me priceless, most dear. All days that come, with what they hold in keeping For mine and me, will I not fear. 59 TO MORDA May you have many birthdays, sister mine, With happy months between, And may prosperity upon you shine. Dame Fortune toward you lean. And may the years, as swift they come and go, Bring ever in their wake Much of the best that life has, to bestow On those who will but take. And when you, year by year, old age have gained- Nay, dearest, do not frown, — To girlhood true, to womanhood unstained. Be it the fitting crown. 60 THE RAT'S SHARE 'Twas the dearest wee pie-pumpkin That a good, kind neighbor gave To our girlie for Thanksgiving. What more could a baby crave ? But w^hen we went to get it To cut up and stew for pies, A dreadful thing had happened it; We could scarce believe our eyes. There upon an empty barrel The yellow beauty sat With a gaping hole in one plump side, — The work of a greedy rat. He had gnawed and nibbled and eaten Every bit excepting the peel. For such an act of trespass He should have been made to squeal. Our girlie was nigh heart-broken, But soon forgot her woe A-watching under mama's hands The Thanksgiving goodies grow. And when the longed for day arrived And the aunties and cousins came, In spite of what that old rat did She was thankful just the same. For there were lots of nice things. And many such dear folks, too. That she couldn't begrudge him one pumpkin,- A raw one — not she. Could you? 6i AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS We stand beside the parting of the ways, The road our feet must tread we dimly see, Outstretched before, it lies, an unknown maze, Its winding course baffles our eager gaze. Ready, yet half reluctant, linger we One moment at the parting of the ways. One moment stand beside the parting ways. But one, the next we onward press perforce. And find, with satisfaction and amaze. The way no more obscure, bedimmed by haze, But, step by step, upon our forward course, As hitherto, the glimmering sunlight plays. 62 COME ON UP Pausing there upon the stairway With her children by my side, Tender memories stole o'er me, A resistless, surging tide. I could almost see her standing Just outside her bedroom door, Calling to me bright, informal. As she had so oft before: "Come on up!" Fast they came, those memory pictures, Forward from departed years, Till my heart glowed with affection, And my eyes were filled with tears. It is ever thus I see her, Our beloved pastor's wife. Calling to us, by the power Of a pure, unselfish life: "Come — on — up !" Still we feel her gentle presence. Even tho' the years have flown. Since she moved among us daily And we called her all our own. Now we almost see her beckon To us from the other shore. Calling softly, eager, earnest. There, but just within the door, "Come — on— up !" 63 BIRTHDAY MUSIN'S Seems to me as if the birthdays Keep a-crowdin' on so thick, I can't hardly keep up with 'em ; An' it makes me a kind o' sick, Sometimes, when I get to thinkin', — 'Pears like there haint much to show Fer 'em — all the busy, hurryin' Years o' mine that come and go. There's so much that I intended. Reckoned I could do for sure, That I couldn't — 't makes the little I have done look mighty poor. Things that I intended doin' Fer hirn an' the children, too; There's no end to what I haint done That I had sot out to do. But I hain't a-goin' to worry, Spoilin' all the children's fun, Makin' him feel bad, an' me, too. Jest for things that haint been done. Even if the birthdays do crowd. It don't pay to feel too mean, On account o' the poor showin' Fer the years that's in between. I've been thinkin' lots about it, — How it don't help none to fret; — Why, I might be doin' somethin' That 'd count, the while I set Broodin' over last year's troubles. P'raps I sot too big a stent; If 't can't be done before a birthday This time, let it go beyent. 64 TO ROMA Many a time through the busy hours Of these crowded days do I roam, In thought, from the task in hand, to you In your beautiful, childless home. I see you sit through the live-long day, Your dear hands never still, — As stitch by stitch, with motions swift, You fashion with wondrous skill, One after another — still they grow Small garments neat and fair. And mine the brood of little ones Those dainty clothes to wear. And mine the tired hands relieved, Mine the heavy burden lightened, Mme, too, the weary mind and heart By your thoughtful kindness brightened. Bless you, my sister, bless you, dear. For what your hands have wrought. For your outreaching sympathy. Your loving, helpful thought. And may each thrust of the needle bright React like a precious seed That shall grow for aye t' enrich your life, A generous toiler's meed. 6s HOMESICK PILLS Some bonbons? Oh, no, these aint bonbons. They're pills in this box, — great, big pills. I 'spose that you think 'twas the doctor That gave 'em to me to cure chills. Or something like that; but it wasn't. She gave 'em to me, mamma did. Just when we was starting for auntie's. You peek, while I lift up the lid. We're going to auntie's 'thout mamma; My auntie lives ever so far. An' mamma, she thought that, just maybe A-riding so long like we are, I might get a new kind o' sickness — A kind that makes children 'most cry An' not want to go off to auntie's, After all, — little girls big as I. They're mostly for me, all this boxful, 'Cept I can give sister a few, An' any one else I think needs 'em. Now p'r'aps I w^ill give one to you. You just suck it slow, without crying, Until it is gone, don't you see? An' then you feel better, or mebbe You'll have to take more, — five or three. We've only took one, just to try 'em, — Sister she needed one more than I, For, when the train started this morning, She act'ally looked like she'd cry. We took white, but there's all sorts of colors; Some's pink, an' some's brown, an' some's red. They taste most like peppermint candy; But they are homesick pills, mamma said. 66 GREETING FROM OKLAHOMA 'Tis a year ago, my sisters, One swift year of changing seasons, Since we gathered with each other, Planning for a coming parting. You with words of loving greeting, Messages of loyal friendship, Brave, sweet words of cheer and comfort. With your "God speeds" and your farewells, For me, looking toward the future. For me looking, scarcely seeing. Looking forward to the future. Half with hope and half with shrinking. Looking backward, loving, longing, Backward with sweet recollections Of the years we've been together, Lived and loved and worked together. How I loved you, oh my sisters, How I love you still and miss you; How through all this busy twelvemonth Your dear faces flit before me. How your voices seem to echo, Your good wishes cheer and gladden. How your love sustains and strengthens. That is why I send my greeting, Speak to you and try to tell you Something of my feeling for you, For you, my loved Ladies' Circle, And the church we are a part of, The dear Church for which we labor. Tell you that through all this twelvemonth Since the time we met for parting, I have felt the inspiration, Felt the upward, forward impulse, I received before I left you. 67 'TIs a part of what I carried With me to this sunny Southland. Part and parcel of my being, Are the truths I gleaned while with you, Shared with you while I lived with you, And still share, though distant from you. For the character we strive for, Rules of action that we stand for. For "Our Faith" is ours forever. Other scenes have shared my seeing. Other duties claim my doing, Strange, sweet flowers, and balmy breezes, Birds and fruits, and grain fields waving. Stranger neighbors, kindly faces. Claim my thoughts and share my action. Fill my heart and keep my hands full. But who once has been among you. One who ever shared your labors, Shared your love and faith and service, Ever feels herself one of you; Ever thrills with all your gladness. Glows with pride at your successes, Mourns with you whene'er you sorrow, Yearns to comfort you in trouble. Help, when pressing duties crowd you. That is why I send this greeting. That is why I share your welcome To the dear new friend and help mate Whom you meet to greet and honor; Feel with you the hope and gladness. Inspiration for the future That has come w^ith each dear pastor, Joy, and hope, and comfort mingled, Welcoming the pastor's family. 68 They will fill with life the parsonage, Add new worth and beauty to it, Bring new charms, and added meaning, To augment the old-time memories Clustering round it, clinging to it. Filling it with cheer and blessing. That is why I greet the baby. Who has come to claim your fealty, Share with other pastor's babies All your love and pride and hoping. Blessings on the pastor's baby! May you love them true and faithful As you ever loved the others, Love and serve them, kindly, loyal. May they love you kind and loyal As the others ever loved you, Love and serve you true and faithful. More I cannot wish or hope for, More would be too much to ask for. And may Heaven's benediction Visit you, be with you, ever: Keep you pure, aspiring, faithful. Keep you loyal, loving, helpful. This my word of hearty welcome. This my word of loving greeting. 69 STAY UP Jogging churchward one beautiful morning Though in danger of being quite late, Old "Maud" after each interruption Settled back to her family-horse gait. At last Baby Gail, quite disgusted With Maud's lagging gait, gravely said, "Get up, Maud, do get up and stay up," Emphatically shaking her head. I laughed when I heard the quaint saying. But I thought to myself, that's the way With some folks, who, like "Maud" seldom "get there". Just because they "get up" but don't stay. 70 TO THE MEADOW-LARK Where'er thou findest rest for thy brown feet, On weed, or post, or loity, naked limb, Upward thou liftest gleaming breast and throat, While rings, exultant, thy sweet morning hymn. Who findeth thee must aye, perforce, look up. Thy very posture seems to bid me stand; Thy note, intrepid, thrills my being through. Dispensing strength renewed to failing hand. Full many a joyous strain makes glad my heart. Thy message clear and sweet doth lead them all. Forth send it yet again, dear, dauntless one, My very soul leaps upward at thy call. 71 AT PARTING Amid the pain of parting, Comes this sweet thought with its cheer, There's nothing else but distance In our separation, dear. We're so sure of one another That we cannot even fear That anything but distance Could separate us, dear. Any other separation Would be harder far than this — With naught but paltry miles betw^een: We parted w4th a kiss. So though my heart aches for you, And I long to see you, dear, 'Tis but distance separates us. And you still are very near. 72 FOR A LINEN SHOWER Midst a shower of spotless linen Fair and strong, firm, snowy white. Near full many a beauteous pattern Fine and pleasing to the sight, Is this bit of checkered towelling; It your efforts will requite. Will, with just the least assistance, Keep your glass and silver bright. And within your sunny kitchen, Shining with reflected light. Tucked away in some lone corner It will be contented quite. 73 "TEDDY" A slum Kindergarten there entered, Of our beloved nation, the pride. They arose to a child, wee street Arabs; "Pres'dent RoosVelt, good morning," they cried. What was there in those little faces To call up his childhood again, Or bring thoughts of his own happy home group To this manly leader of men? With a smile in response to their greeting, A courteous bend of his head, To those eager, expectant, slum children, "Some folks call me 'Teddy' ", he said. All honor to him who is able While doing a man's noble part To keep still in touch with the children, And be himself "Teddy" at heart. 74 ANGUS There clings to my heart, lo, this many a day, The memory dear of my boy's manly way, When needing assistance to further his play. ''Will you help me, my mamma?" so oft would he say "Pretty soon. When you come to a stop?" And no matter how long was the waiting He never grew restless or sad ; Busy, happy, till I was quite ready To help him, my dear little lad. O, help me, my Father, do not say me nay. Help now, while the sky o'er my head is all gray, While hushed is the music of his noisy play, And there's naught I can do for him, day after day, My own boy — Though I've come to a stop. For no matter how^ long the lone waiting I would never be gloomy or sad. But would follow close on in the footsteps Of my own patient, brave, little lad. 75 HAPPY BIRTHDAY How can it be aught but happy, When, for many a day before, My sweet babies and their father Whisper secrets o'er and o'er; When, with all its dear surprises. The glad day is ushered in By a chorus of loved voices? Oh, the merry, welcome din! ''Happy birthday, happy birthday!" O'er and o'er my loved ones say, "Happy birthday, happy birthday!" Sings my heart the livelong day. And while all my dearest dear ones Join to share its joys with me. Every birthday my life brings me, Will a happy birthday be. 76 IT FELL Now Katie — dear good soul is she — But in some way of late, The food she bakes, she says herself, "Is scarcely fit to ate." So to the kitchen I repaired To make a cake for tea, And as I deftly moved about My work, I felt — ah me! — That Katie looking on — poor girl ! Could never fail to see The striking difference there was, — So evident to me — Betw^een her way of doing things And mine, — and then beside, The final outcome of my skill — Alas for human pride ! In time I oped the oven door. I could scarce believe my eyes. For spite of all my obvious skill My cake had failed to rise. I sat me down and tried to think. Just fancy my chagrin When I remembered I'd not put The baking powder in. It now is very plain to me, Without a shade of doubt, That pride will fall — and cake not rise With the baking powder out. I've done that foolish thing but twice. Strange that the second time Should be just yester morning, while Composing this small rhyme. 77 A BLUE JAY AND AN ENGLISH WALNUT Now listen, dearie, while I tell A little story, that befell A walnut, when It fell pell-mell Beside a jay. The blue jay spied the walnut round, A-lyIng there upon the ground; He seemed to scarce know what he'd found, As there it lay. He viewed the nut this way and that. He tapped it with his beak, — "tat-tat". Oh, how he wished that it was flat. Or even thinner. He lost no time in vain regret. To work the pretty creature set. For he must haste If he would get That nut for dinner. He turned the tempting thing about; If only he were large and stout He'd crush the brittle shell, no doubt, With one swift stroke. He pecked upon the unyielding shell, Again, again; each stroke must tell. He certainly was doing well. Though 'twas no joke. He gave the nut another whack ; How long before the thing would crack ? How long withstand this fierce attack ? Just see it roll! Now surely It was growing weak — How cute he turns his head to peek ! There is a break — he thrust his beak Within the hole. 78 He flew with it upon the shed, Unto the highest ridge he sped, The nut was larger than his head, And looked so queer. He hit the ridge-pole with a whack. Presumably the nut to crack; He did not break it, but, alack! He lost it, dear. It rolled; he after it did walk. With stately dignity did stalk In silence, did not even squawk, To see it roll. Quite to the eaves the nut did spin, But which, think you, the race did win ? The jay flew off, his beak within That self -same hole. 79 MOTHERHOOD I passed before the window where she sat, A mother young and fair, The bloom of health on cheek and snowy brow, The sunlight in her hair. She heard my step, looked out and smiled, — her smile, But one of many charms, — Then dropped her eyes once more to the wee form Cradled within her arms. They linger in my heart these many days, — The bright, sweet smile I won. The nameless something in the look bestowed Upon her infant son. A smile, a glance, no more; but they revealed To me, as naught else could. Transcending every other human tie, Apart stands motherhood. 80 KILLING BUGBEARS A dear, cheery, practical sister and I Were discussing domestic affairs. She spoke of one thing that I liked very much, What she called it was ''killing bugbears". Whene'er things arose, as we all know they will, That filled her with dismay and dread. Attacking them singly she quickly dispatched them, And soon the last bugbear was dead. For bugbears, you know, are a very strange species. Not like unto aught else alive. On treatment that surely would craze us poor mor- tals The frailest of bugbears will thrive. The more they are disliked, neglected, shunned, dreaded, So much more attention they claim. Bugbears that haunt you and those that I dread Are like each to each but in name. Yet all without doubt will succumb to her treat- ment If taken in time in her way, And e'en if allowed to grow old and appalling, Still follow her method, I pray. For the moment you make an attempt to approach one. So soon it begins to grow small. And should you but fearlessly tackle the creature, Ten to one it is not there at all. 8i But e'en if it is, make the onslaught, ne'er falter- 'Tis strange how the creatures will act, — No matter how bold or forbidding its aspect A bugbear will yield if attacked. I'm sure she was wise, this dear, practical sister To promptly dispatch her bugbears, As others will find who but follow her leading In planning their household affairs. THE WREN'S ROUNDELAY I sought the garden for its stores of food. And hastening down the path with weary tread Scarce saw the robin's nest and fledgling brood. Nor paused to scent the apple blooms o'erhead. I filled my tired arms; the backward way I traced with lagging step and burdened heart, My household cares upon me heavy lay; Too hard, too joyless far, my weary part. A little wren alight before the door, Of wee box house that held its half-built nest, Had paused upon the threshold to outpour Its very soul in song. The busy quest For feather, twig or straw, had given way A little space to glad outburst of praise. I, hearing, caught the mood; that roundelay. So joyous, clear, sang in my heart for days. 82 A BREATH OF SPRING She lay on her couch, ill, a-weary Of weakness, and exile, and pain ; Within were but thoughts, sad, despondent, Without fell the cold, cheerless rain. There seemed nothing left but heart hunger. The longing for health, home, her own — The postman's quick step on the pavement, Rang out through the wind's dreary moan. Some flowers, and a dear, friendly letter From a neighbor, just over the way From the home that but now seemed so distant, He brought, and that drear, lonely day. Erstwhile filled with naught except waiting. Was robbed of its darkness and dread. "I send you a bit of my birthdaj^ — Yellow roses", the letter had said. The beauty, the fragrance, the greeting. They came like a breath of the spring; Anon tender memories throng her, Keeping time while the glad rain-drops sing. 83 TRY *EM IN A GOOD LIGHT Do you mind that there biggest oil paintin' Hangin' north of our sittin' room door? Well, that picture it once taught me somethin', That I never had thought of before. You would scarcely believe that I made it, But I alius loved pictures, you see. An' I used to drav\^ some when a school girl An' it sort o' come handy to me. So one winter my work wasn't heavy, An' I thought that I'd just try my hand At paintin' — I took a few lessons — Not many — an' you'll understand That I never sot out for an artist, I jest copied — I tell you it aint Very hard if you choose out good patterns With a teacher to help mix your paint. That big sheep picture — Jonathan chose it, An' both of us liked it real well — Was a chromo, but pretty an' nat'ral — He used to herd sheep an' ken tell. If you never have tried you can't reckon What a difference seein' it right. Can make in the look of a paintin' — Havin' it in the very best light. An' I've thought, havin' actually sensed it That that picture must have a good light, That p'rhaps 'twould make other things better- Takin' more pains to look at 'em right. There's some people an' things that'll look bad Any which way you sight 'em — but then If you can't get 'em in a real good light Try 'em in jest the best light you ken. 84 SWING, SWANG As I walked along the street The other day, An English sparrow fleet, From o'er the way, Flew and caught a dangling string where it hung. But the string was fastened, so the sparrow swung Back and forward, like a bell by sexton rung On Sabbath day. It did not get the string. It is true, But it had a lovely swing — Then it flew. There are strings to pick up almost any day, But plump sparrows do not often swing that way; Or at least I never see them ; do you, pray ? Tell me true! 8s BUTTON, BUTTON "Button, button, who's got the button?" What is this you are asking me, pray? Those familar words Like a sweet refrain From my childhood days, Again and again, Have sung in my heart all day. ''Who's got the button?" 'Tis past belief That so simple a query as this, Like to fairies of old. Should have the strange power With its magical spell. E'en for one short hour. Each vestage of age to dismiss. Yet in spite of my years — how many or few, Matters not to be counted to-night — With clasped hands extended I'm one in a row, Of wee, happy children, The while to and fro Before us with eyes dancing bright, Another child passes and says to each one, "Hold fast all I give you, hold fast" — To judge from grown-up children Seen all about, Our children in playing. Might leave that part out, The need of such teaching is past. 86 "Who's got the button? The game goes on, And, 'What shall I do to him, pray, For accusing you wrongfully — What is your choice?" Bethink you how often Does some friendly voice Propound such a question to-day? I share with the rest the thrill of suspense, I feel once again the delight. Once more vainly try, In no way to show — The while that I secretly Wish all to know — That my hands hide the button so bright. I even remember my dress — 'twas blue berege — See myself in its soft folds bedecked, With a mull apron white Worn over the blue To keep my bare arms From the night air and dew, For my gown was short-sleeved and low-necked. "When a man I will put away childish things" — Mind, I'm not finding fault with Paul — But a man may try, And a woman, too. And when we think We are well nigh through We'll find ourselves still in their thrall. 87 For there are some things that will not "stay put' As a child once expressed it, the dear, Of these, surely memory Claims the first place; For anon something comes. With a bright, well-known face. We had thought past and gone many a year. "Button, button," these magical words. Sing themselves through my heart, a refrain From my childhood days; The melody sweet Seems to carry me backward. With foot falls fleet, And make me a child again. 88 MUSIC When the mystic fays of Elfland Hovered round me at my birth, Eeach bestowing, or withholding, Aught of use to me on earth. Whatsoe'er of good or evil By them on me then was shed. She that held the gift of music Paused not at my cradle bed. Do you pity me, my sisters, For the harmony kept back? Do you deem my life all silent. Drear and lonely for the lack? Judge that naught can recompense me. Nothing my sad lot appease, Since my fingers ne'er stray lightly, Lovingly o'er ivory keys? Know you not that compensation Comes to them from childhood blind? Think you that to others smitten Mother Nature is less kind? It may be that her still voices Speak to me in clearer tone, Give to me a sweeter message. Lacking music of my own. Peradventure there's an anthem In the whispering summer trees, In the twittering of wee birdlings, In the sighing autumn breeze. That you hear not, trained to hearken For the organ's sounding tone, Songs that sing themselves in silence Caught by such as I alone. 89 And perchance because my babies Hear no sweet-voiced lullaby, I can compensate in kindness, Born of my deep sympathy. And may be that Mother Nature, With a parent's loving tact. Dulls my senses that I never Realize the whole I've lacked. It may be — but why continue In this strain? I but surmise — And, despite my protestations, I see pity in your eyes. Yet I know that o'er life's pathway As I daily pass along, Oft my heart is full of music, Though my lips send forth no song. 90 WHAT I SAW THIS MORNING Two old robins alight near the hammock — One redbreast atilt on each post, And a dear, dainty pair of wee phebes, Chirping soft in the ash, As, flew by like a flash, Gay young blue jays that seemed quite a host. As if not yet enough for one morning, Near the doorway, — what do you suppose? Right there on my new Russian rose-bush — O, so dainty and bright! — It had bloomed in the night — Was a perfectly beautiful rose. As a matter of course I must smell it; Bending low o'er the bloom, what a start Did it give me to find a wee creature — Very green, very snug, — Was it fly, bee or bug? — Buzzing there in the flower's golden heart. By how much the day's burden was lightened There is never a one of us knows, How the day to its ending was brightened By a bird's gleaming wing. By that tiny green thing In the heart of my red, red rose. 91 HANDY HOLDERS If round your waist this belt you place with care, With its two holders always dangling there, You need not use your kitchen apron fair When you in haste unto the stove repair; Nor wildly hunt for holders here and there — And oftentimes not find one an5rwhere, Until you reach a state well nigh dispair. You'll find these truly a convenient pair; For this I trust you kindly will forbear To censure me, the giver, that I dare Send something neither costly, nor yet fair. Of your glad Christmas time as my small share. 92 "MESSER'S BABY" 'Twas *'once on a time", as the story books say, That good angels brought a wee man-child to stay With our stern professor and his cheery wife. Among those who rejoiced in the new little life Were a small gray-eyed girl and a golden haired boy. Who found much enhanced their sum total of joy By ''Messer's baby." Later on to these two a wee sister there came, Without any teeth and not even a name, But little and sweet and dimpled and red From her tiny toes to her small, round head. The rogues — do you doubt it? — were nothing loth To trade this dear little newcomer of? For Messer's Baby. 'Tor he is so cute and noisy and bright, And he has teeth and is real big and white. You just ought to go there with us some day," So the children said," and see him play. He crows and he hollers when he sees us, Wish sister could laugh 'n make a great fuss, Like Messer's Baby. "Sometimes he gets cross — just a little, you know, And cries or else draws down his mouth — just so; His mamma she tells us, 'Bring baby here.' Then she says to him, smiling, 'Here's mamma, dear,' And you just ought to hear him squeal and laugh. Oh, he is so cute. We cant' tell you half 'Bout Messr's Baby. 93 "Why, he is almost big enough to walk. The first thing you know he'll begin to talk. Do you know that his papa is not cross at all?" Say the prattlers, tr>'ing their fear to recall Of the man they had thought made to punish bad boys, But who laughs and romps and picks up scattered toys For Messer's Baby. Once when ver>^ sick was the dear little boy, To this tiny pair life seemed chary of joy. They went about silent with never a song Or frolicsome game, their small faces long. But when he was better a boisterous shout Proclaimed the glad news and how they — without doubt — Love Messer's Baby. 94 FOR A RECEPTION An hour like this does link together close The present and the past. With instant joys, beloved memories Crowd on us thick and fast. Anon we look deep into friendly eyes , E'en from our childhood dear, Or clasp in ours hands that have freed from thorns Our pathway year by year. Then turn about to meet and greet new friends, Whose lives now touch on ours, Heart ache and tears close mingled are with smiles, Tonight, thorns mid our flowers. New duties beckon these to fields remote. Our work still here we find; A part of our life's brightness goes with them, They leave of theirs behind. But let us haste to fill the breach they make, A loyal, loving band, About our untried pastor, as we wish Staunch stranger friends to stand Beside our dear ones wheresoe'er they bide. May brooding love and care Keep them and us henceforth. With God, we know, There is no here nor there. 95 NOT WISELY BUT TOO WELL There's not a thing In all the earth But Its excess Is bad. No one of us likes to be told, No one Is ever glad That she's too short, too thin, too nice, Too strict, too kind, too sweet, Too gay, too loving, or too good, Too pious, or too neat. But for some time I've plainly seen. What now I boldly tell, That many a woman does her work "Not wisely but too well". There, do not shake Indignant heads. Don't say, "Oh, no, Indeed!" But weigh the matter seriously, And to my claim give heed. You know your individual case Far better than do I. You do all wisely, naught too well? Flatly my charge deny? And so the coat does not fit you? First, please, the garment don To be quite sure there's no mistake, Then you may pass It on. 96 AUTUMN The wooded hillside blooms in rainbow tints, Well rounded stacks on every hand are seen, On red and gold the shimmering sunbeam glints. (We're using, dear, far too much kerosene.) The heat and cold alternate in an hour, The west wind sighs, somber each passing cloud. The time is short for every tender flower. E'en now dead leaves their failing roots en- shroud. The slanting sunbeams have not power to rout The growing chill, which slowly gathers strength. (Do you can pears with spices, or without? And do you think Sue's gown the proper length?) Each bush and tree now wears its gayest hue, The wild bird to his winter quarters hastes, The chilly nights are marked by heavy dew. (The little boys must have some warmer waists.) The frisky squirrel through these shortening days To fill his house with nuts has bravely toiled, Wee insects, too, have wrought in wonderous ways. (What did you say? That marmalade is spoiled?) Tall, wayside flowers cast abroad their seeds. Bold, saucy blackbirds flutter by in flocks, Or, chattering, settle on the roadside weeds. (Whom can I get to knit Tom's winter socks?) The hillside grasses to each other nod, A-down bare slopes a tiny streamlet trickles, Reflecting asters and fair golden-rod. (Those melon rinds are much too thin for pickles.) We hear the mourning dove's sad cry no more, (I surely thought I had more cauliflower. Have you repaired the outside cellar door? We should be cleaning house this very hour!) 97 The scai'let woodbine clings athwart the wall. (Somebody took all our late grapes last night. Your overcoat hangs in the upper hall.) Cold dew drops glisten in the clear moon light. An empty nest clings desolate and lone Upon the bough where late bird lovers lurked. The night wind through the swaying trees makes moan. (I am afraid my raspberry jam has worked.) All nature feels the ravages of time, A bird belated shivers in the breeze, The while his mates have sought a milder clime. (What was that, darling? Did the baby sneeze?) One last sweet spray of living mignonette I found near where the garden footpaths cross, (Those hens are eating our tomatoes yet, I hope they'll leave me some for chili sauce.) The shortening days, nights lengthening apace, A gaudy sumach flaunting on the hill. Through thinning leaves the bare twig's dainty grace. Brown stubble fields that thrifty plowmen till, The dead leaves dropping slowly one by one. The ripening corn, the dusky bees low humming. All, all betoken summer's reign is done. (Why will the iceman still persist in coming?) 98 "DIED AT SANTIAGO" Just one of our large daily papers, Addressed in a well known hand, With a paragraph marked, — and my memory To a glowing flame is fanned. "Twenty-four years old," the paper said; It seems 'twas but y ester morn They brought the news to the college That a man-child had been born. I can see him, our loved professor, — His father — with white brow bared, His handsome face aglow with new joy And pride, by each student shared. "He was strong and tall, full six feet four," A most magnificent height, — But "dead and buried at Santiago." Can it be that I read aright? My heart how it aches for his mother! O, the cruel fever scourge! Can nothing stay its deadly course. Nor still the piteous dirge Attending the direful carnage Of that far of¥ wave-kissed shore. E'en drowning the fierce din of battle, And mufl[ling the cannon's roar? I have looked at his sweet baby picture With its white gown and silken sash, And smiled at the memories clustering. That rise, but to fall, at the flash Of the telegraph's terrible message. Is there no other, better way To preserve a great nation's honor, The oppressor's hand to stay? 99 "His brother," — there now is one only, Alone, with a youth's ardent might, To bear burdens that two should have carried. Heavenly Father, is war ever right? O, when will man, made in God's image, Inhabit this fair earth in peace. Stand up in the power of his birthright, And say war shall evermore cease? ICX) THE CRYSTAL WEDDING The years they come, the years they go, Now grave, now gay, tardy or swift, Now bright with joy, now dark with woe, Like scenes upon a stage that shift. One decade past in rapid flight We pause midway the second ten. With these our friends, whose guests we are, And scan the years with loving ken. Each anniversary through the years Is the dispelling of a dream; So sang a poet of the past, And true in part his song doth seem, For wedded life oftimes begins In hopes on fairy facies staid; Young love is fed on rosy dreams, In glowing clouds is life arrayed. What have they brought, these fifteen years, Of good or ill, of loss or gain? What have they brought, these changing years, Of happiness or cruel pain? Each half-obliterated scene As slowly, tenderly we trace, We pause beside an open grave. We look in vain for some loved face; We sigh o'er youth's fair idols wrecked. O'er longed for heights yet unattained; We linger yearingly with good We saw, yea, that we might have gained. Freighted with dust of buried hopes. With plans that failed, each year that glides Into the past; nay, let them go. Let the dream fade the real abides. lOI The present with its wealth untold Of all the best that life can bring, Husband and wife, bound each to each; True friends that but the closer cling, Because of aught of wrong or ill That changing fortune may bestow; That heaven on earth, a happy home Where gladsome children live and grow; Days filled from dusky dawn till eve With useful toil and helpful care, And spite of duties manifold In the world's hopes and needs a share. Let dreams depart, enough remains, To them, to us; the present hour With duties rife; on either hand The chance to use our every power; Occasion ripe for earnest strife, For labor for the common weal, For work of mind, and hand and voice ; And may the future set its seal Of sanction on the work performed, Its impress still on life and heart, And oft the circling seasons bring. Of this glad eve the counterpart. 1 02 THREE IN A ROW They sat — tit, tat, toe, — Three birds in a row. And what were the three, think you? You never can guess? Well, I will confess That I did not expect you to. For whoever heard Of a humming bird Perched low on a twig with two others, In broad daylight, All quite plain in sight. Three tiny, young green-and-gold brothers? Upon a small tree, On one twig, sat the three. In our flower garden only last summer. Where I frequently spy A gay dragon-fly. Or a moth, but not often a hummer. And if one does come^ It flits by with its hum , Or darts in and out, here and there. Now making a dash. Now of? like a flash. As if made but to move light as air. They quite took my breath, Those three, still as death, I scarcely could move from surprise. I am telling to you. Something perfectly true. If I can believe my own eyes; 103 Though it really did seem, Very much like a dream, That glimpse of those three fluffy things. At rest on a shrub, Each dear little chub, With tiny, bright, motionless wings. OUR NEIGHBOR He had a kind, informal way Of dropping in as he went by. To ask how we had passed the night, Or just to know the reason why His friend had not attended post; To share with us a bit of news; To see ''our little man's" new pets, To help dispel a comrade's blues. No wonder that we miss him now, When he no longer passes by. No more dispenses friendly news. Or gives his ready sympathy. No wonder that our eyes grow dim; No wonder that we long to bear A portion of the grief and loss His sorrowing wife and children share. 'Twere passing strange did we not feel An added impulse toward some deed Of kindliness unto a friend, Of sympathy to those in need; More readily stretch forth a hand; More quickly hear the helpless cry — In memory of our neighbor, friend, Who oft dropped in when going by. 104 HEROES O' course I admire your generals an' sech, Pres'dents, statesmen, an' admirals, too. All them that jest knows the best way how to fetch A country in danger safe through ; That knows how to fight, when there's fightin' on hand. That's courageous, far-seein', an' brave, That's nuther a-feared on the sea or the land, An' aint even scart o' the grave. O' course they are great men an' heroes, all right, T' admire an' look up to, — an' yet, My feelin's goes out more to-wards them that fight In the ranks, side by side, an' don't get Much share in the glory, an' honor, an' fame, No matter how brave er how true. My feelin's goes out to-wards them you don't name, I call some of them heroes, too. An 'then, besides them there is others that strives, Here an' there, agin all sorts o' wrong. The world through; you know 'em, — them brave folks whose lives From beginnin' to endin' are strong, Unselfish, an' cheerful, an' gentle an' pure; Them that fights the gant wolf from the door Day in an' day out, — God knows what they en- dure — That are patient and stanch to the core. Them that does what they have to do, year after year, Uncomplainin', an' hopeful, an' strong, Kep' up from within, without ever a cheer From the crowd, nary trumpet or song, 105 No excitement ner nothin' that most on us needs — Or has got in our heads that we do — To encourage and help spur us on to good deeds, I call such as them heroes, too. It's comparative easy to keep in the line When the crowd is a-marchin' our way. When in soul-stirrin' strains a drum and fife jine, And we're longin' to be in the fray. But heroes that counts most are them, seems to me. That has got enough courage to fight All alone, agin odds, where there's no one to see. An' keep on — jest because they are right. 1 06 UNITY CIRCLE A minister's daughter am I, In the church was I born and reared, Each phase of its life and work To me has become endeared. I e'en like the church itself From doorstep to tapering spire ; I like the minister, and the flock, The organ and the choir. I like the Ladies' Circle, And I like the name it bears, The Unity which here exists That time nor change impairs. And I like to know that we Are a part of a goodly throng Of other loyal women Who are helping the work along. I like our president, bless her! We feel a new lease of life With her skilful lead augmented By our dear, new, pastor's wife. I like the way that we meet — From house to house, here and there; I like our socials and suppers, I like our annual fair; I like the nickle collections. And I like the annual dues; I like to have the women Bring work, just what they choose, To be perfectly free to sew, To embroider, to mend or knit, Darn stockings — or anything else, Or restfuUy, quietly sit. 107 I like the items of news, The business and all that, I like the talks, and readings, I like — without gossip — the chat. I like e'en the talk about cakes. Baked beans, salads, pickles and meat. Chicken-pie, jelly, Boston-brown-bread, Or anything else good to eat. I sometimes think that I like This circle the very best. Of any part of the church Tho' well do I like all the rest. And I like not only the circle, But the links which form the chain. I like to feel we are bound By ties that will remain. That will aye to us be helpful, Be forever a sacred bond, A forward, an upward impulse, An influence reaching beyond Just what we are doing now, That will help us remember we stand For all that is highest and best. I like to be one of this band. io8 FOR A HANDKERCHIEF BAG Down into this bag Your handkerchiefs go ; Not those freshly ironed — Just soiled ones, you know. 'Tis quite empty now? You really think so? It does appear empty, In that you are right, But there are some things, Not perceived by the sight. Despite its appearance The bag is full quite. You may peer within And find nothing to view, But 'tis full to the top And filled just for you. With Christmas good wishes, And love fond and true. 109 UNCHANGED It is easy to say we love new friends, but words can never trace out all the fibers that knit us to the old. George Eliot. You say all things change with the years ; In much I to others defer, But in this you are surely at fault, The old friends are just as they were. As in the dear days of my youth, — How the retrospect makes my eyes blur, — They answer my call, one by one. Old friends who are just as they were. Respond with an influence sweet, As the odor of spices and myrrh. I have only to cover my eyes To see them all just as they were. Then prate ye of change and unrest, And in proof thereof yourself bestir, My heart, with a thrill, yet insists My old friends are just as they were. All else may be changed by the years, As into the past swift they whir, All else save old friends, true and dear, The old friends are just as they were. no WHAT IS THAT IN THINE HAND? I've been reading the story of Moses Called of God his slave brethren to lead From their bondage to freedom; from darkness To light; from Egypt's fell greed To a promised land, flowing with plenty, The Lord's gift unto Abraham's seed. And I read how he, questioning, waited, Reluctant to take trust so great. Would his brethren believe the Lord called him? And could he, slow of speech, e'er create Needed courage to shatter their fetters, Powder to raise slaves to man's high estate? The story goes on how Jehovah Once again urged him boldly to stand, And, secure in God's promised assistance. To go forth and possess the fair land. Moses wavered; again the Lord answered And said: "What is that in thine hand?" What is that in thine hand? Still God asketh — E'en as he questioned Moses of yore. The command unto us to go forward, Using that which we have, nothing more, Is imperative now and will ever Unto promised lands open the door. We, too, sore dismayed, oft like Moses, Weakly waver, and needlessly blight Other's lives and our own, while we question What are we, and dare such boldly fight In life's battles, 'gainst error and falsehood, For charity, freedom and right? Ill Wouldst thou choose for thyself thine own duties, Other talents, new tools, wider fields Than those thou hast, ere thou wilt labor? Who the rod his hand holds bravely wields In the place where he standeth, unto him Life freely her rich blessings yields. What is that in thine hand? The old question. What is that in thine hand, brother mine? Does it matter what tool thy hand holdeth So be that, God-given, 'tis thine? And thy task, be it noble or lowly. Was set thee; make thou it divine. What is that in thine hand ? The same question Re-repeats itself throughout all time. And the answer comes up from the peoples Of all lands, every nation, each clime. Till the varied response from God's children Heavenward blends in an anthem sublime. Then let us go forward, undaunted. As Moses of old with his rod. Each using that which his hand holdeth — Some soaring, the while others plod — Each doing that which his hand findeth, Co-workers together with God. For we have been called of Jehovah To help free mankind from sin's thrall. If, perchance, not to lead, then to follow; In life's field there is work mete for all. And now, as of old, down the ages. Still humanity's need is God's call. 112 CHRISTMAS BELLS The bells that usher the Christmas in Me a double message bring; And as I list to the glad refrain, My thoughts in unison sing. They ring not only for that far day When the blessed Christ was born, But tell that my own sweet mother's eyes Oped to earth one Christmas morn. The Christmas bells, with their two-fold chime, Thrill me with peace from above. Commingling the sweet Christ spirit, And the beautiful mother love. My heart expands with new joy and hope, While generous thoughts upspring; I fain would clasp the world in my arms, To each soul some treasure bring. I long for a Fortunatus purse With its wealth of shining gold. Or that my fingers possessed the skill Of wee fairy folk of old, That I might give to the dear ones all, In my home nest and far away. The things they would choose above all else, This beautiful Christmas day. Scarce gold enough enters my slender purse To eke out life's demands, And my daily task is oftentimes, O'er much for my tired hands. But scant supply, nor unceasing toil. Can fetter the loving thought, Or check the flight of the longing heart. With tenderest wishes fraught. 113 In spirit I leap o'er all barriers That stand 'twixt mine own and me, And deal out to all with a lavish hand, Rich treasures from land and sea; And I wish, with a yearning, heart-felt prayer, That the best of the warmth and cheer Of this joyous, blissful Christmas time, Keep my dear ones all the year ! J14 OUR WORLD IS BUT A SCHOOL Why are so many things in life So very hard to bear? Why does so much each day arise To sorely vex Deeply perplex, And claim our constant care? Why so much that we long to know, But cannot understand? Questions of deep moment that rise To harrass us, Embarrass us, Problems on every hand? While I thus mused in weary frame My daughter came from school With many a plaint of tasks assigned That hurried her, And worried her, Of hard, perplexing rule. I stopped her murmurs with a kiss, Smiled at her troubled glance: "If all the work they give at school Was old to you. Easy to do, How would you then advance? *'You need hard tasks to try your powers, Your utmost skill to prove; Some lesson new for every day, 'Tis better so, 'Tis thus you grow, Thus do you onward move." 115 We're children of a larger growth, Our world is but a school; The answer to her childish plaint — Of reason why, Of purpose high In each perplexing rule — Gave also answer to my heart. And stilled its deep unrest. The very things that hardest seem Are wisely sent, With kind intent, To help us in our quest. For we grow only as we strive; By effort power's obtained. From each attempt to overcome Is gathered strength. Until at length. The longed-for heights are gained. u6 LITTLE GERTRUDE'S CATASTROPHE Now listen, my dears, and hear me tell, Of a strange accident that befell A blue-eyed girlie I know full well; What wouldn't she give to undo it! The way it happened was in this wise; You'll surely say 'twas a great surprise. Enough to make you open your eyes, Had you been there to view it. Mamma was setting the table for tea; Of course, wee Gertrude wanted to be Close to her mamma, so as to see What she was getting for supper. So she brought her very best picture book. And to a side table a high stool took, Where, perched on the top, all ready to look, She settled herself to watch her. 'Twas an old table, the fall-leaf kind. The dear little girl — none sweeter you'll find — At the head of this table, fixed quite to her mind. Sat resting her elbow upon it. The table was full as table could be, Six lamps — two lighted so you could see — A dish of apple sauce ready for tea, A plate of dough-nuts beside it; There was some butter-milk, too, in a pan, A nice healthful drink for child or man. And apples — find better fruit if you can — Some other things, too, I think. Brother came in to show what he'd found. And Gertrude, turning at the sound, Leaned hard on the table, which with a bound, Tipped over before she could wink. 117 You would have thought brother'd go into fits, Mamma, too, nearly came losing her wits, Seeing her best dish broken in bits, And plenty of other things, too. Surely you never saw such a mix! Not a whole lamp to be found out of six. Hardly a thing in the lot you could fix. What in the world could they do? Such a muss there never was seen before, Broken glass, butter-milk spilt on the floor, Dough-nuts and apples and many things more, Swimming in kerosene oil. One of the lighted lamps went out quite. The other was burning with a dim light. Mamma put it out, — I'm quite sure I'm right, — And then commenced her toil. But she did not even mind the work, So thankful was she that no one was hurt, As she hurried about to clean up the dirt, And finish the supper, too. Brother kept rushing from side to side; Gertrude stood watching, her blue eyes wide; "I didn't know I would do it," she sighed, ''I'm sure I didn't mean to." ii8 WHERE ARE YOUR FLOWERS? A seed was dropped by childish hands In garden path; a hopeless place For growth, for even life, it seemed. How could it dream of strength and grace? Yet in this unpropitious spot It kept a sturdy hold on life, Up through the crust pushed a green head, Nor shrank back from the coming strife. Though often it was trampled down By foot of heedless passer by, As oft it bravely raised itself To greet again the friendly sky. Battered and bruised its form became, Scanty and pale its foliage, Yet nothing from without had power The inner purpose to assuage. I stood before the dauntless vine At autumn time, held spell-bound there With admiration and amaze — It had produced a blossom fair. I bowed before that plant ashamed, Recounting o'er my half used powers. Where were my victories, hardly gained Against such odds? Where were my flowers? I left the spot with firmer tread; Life had new meaning from that hour. And much that I thenceforth attained Was mine because of that fair flower. 119 SEEING PRETTY THINGS My mother had a happy way . Of seeing every pretty thing. She always saw the sunset's glow, The shadows floating cloudlets fling; A bud, a shell, a bit of moss, A dainty spray of cypress vine; Against the azure of the sky Where slender, leafless twigs entwine. Saw tiny rainbows span the spheres Of shining dew on leaf and blade; A fragile insect's gauzy wing, The shifting play of light and shade In sky and cloud, on bluff and plain; A dove's smooth breast, the sumach's glow, The "little wheel's" made in the pool By sparkling raindrops falling slow. Midst closely nibbled meadow grass She spied a daisy still uncropped; She saw a fern, a pebble bright, A feather by some song bird dropped ; A flower in unaccustomed place; The touch of color on the hill From autumn leaves by frost lips kissed. Beside the way a trickling rill. The old, sweet childhood days are gone. My mother, now a memory From out the past — the dear, dead past; Yet o'er and o'er comes back to me With all its power for happiness. The wealth of cheer and peace it brings, The influence of her blessed gift Of always seeing pretty things. 1 20 WE GIVE OUR BEST Such days as these do link together close The present and the past. With instant joys, beloved memories Crowd on us thick and fast. Anon we look deep into friendly eyes E'en from our childhood dear, Or clasp in ours hands that have cleared from thorns Our pathway, year by year, Then turn about to meet and greet new friends Whose lives but touch on ours. Smues, laughter, repartee we share Of social life the flowers. Again we gladly gather, one and all, Our friend and honored guest To welcome here, the while we proffer her Of all we have the best. Though our loved, common landscapes, Our simple pastimes all. Our boat-rides, and our parties. Might on the senses pall. Of one who comes upon them From out the sunset land. Where winds are perfume freighted. The scenery most grand. She loves our homely pleasures; Our bids to drive, or sup. Hold such a wealth of welcome, It many a lack makes up 121 To her who comes among us Back to her girlhood's home, Whose heart has never wandered, Howe'er her feet may roam. A trip out to Mojeska's lovely ranch, Is quite beyond our reach Nor can we even hope to spend the day A-fishing at Long Beach. But we have artists here along some lines, And love them, too, right well. And there are fish of various kinds to catch. At home, so I've heard tell. We don't boast of our climate overmuch. We've shared two months so hot They'd make most any climate mild and warm Spread through a year. Think not? To Catalina Island No boat of glass we float. It matters not, a good steam launch A great success we vote. We can't see "Lucky" Baldwin's ranch All hands in a tallyho, But we may go to Bonnie Brae — There's Oestrich's bus, you know. We have no lofty mountains With summits bleak and chill To offer, but we have instead Our dear old "Johnson's Hill." No dock of large proportions. The longest ever known, Have we, but there's our mill-dam. Its massive logs moss-grown. 122 Round "the loop" we'd fain go riding To the Soldier's home, some day. We'll go past Lane's to Glen Farm And come home the other way. Our "Lover's Lane" is cherished By many a happy pair. What think you any clime can show That will with it compare? We boast of no "Old Baldy" Or snow capped peaks like that, But point with pride to old bald heads, — Each covered by a hat. Some prate of deadly centipedes, Tarantulas and fleas, Of scorpions and rattlesnakes. We've naught to match with these. Then there are surfs and billows, The tides and other things, — All forms of living water. We have our mineral springs. In place of grand old ocean, Wild waves and rock-bound coast We have fair "Lake Nakomis" Our new-made pride and boast. These days indeed do link together close The present and the past. Upon the future, too, an added glow Of color oft they cast. And so we cherish all these gala days; Links they of one bright chain Which binds us each to each, and one to all, By ties that shall remain. 123 There's brightness In the golden sunset land, And sunshine here we find; A part of ours will go away with her, She'll leave of hers behind. HER SECRET From each dimpled arm was the small sleeve rolled, As perched on a chair by the table, With curls tucked back and eyes very bright. Sat a wee girl who tried, all she's able. To help mama make Sister's birthday cake, Quite happy to share a real secret. When at last it was done, this wonderful cake. And placed on a shelf in the cupboard, Demurely she sat by the window and watched All dressed in her best mother-hubbard. As sister drew near. Said this girlie so queer ; 'Tm going to tell Mary my secret." "But a secret is something that we don't tell; It would not be one if you told it." We said to this embryo woman so full Of her secret, she scarcely could hold it. 'Til tell this," she said. With a shake of her head, "And have something else for a secret." 124 TO JOELA Just four years old to-day — Four sunny, happy years, Filled full of childish play. Of mingled smiles and tears. May your life bring joy With few griefs to annoy, — May your smiles outnumber your tears! Oh, joyous, blissful space, When the pain from a tangled curl, Or a doll with a broken face. Are the griefs of our little girl. May your life be bright It's sorrows yet light As the years hurry by apace! Four busy, gladsome years. With a glimpse of womanly ways, Your sweet *'help" e'en now cheers, Through the crowded, hurrying days. Ever do your small part. Prompted by that kind heart, And the future will bring you no fears! As the years to eternity whirl, I shall ever fervently pray, 'Bless and keep the darling girl. Who is four years old to-day." From your gray eyes, sweet, To your dear dimpled feet, We love you, our own little girl! 125 "HUSBAND'S NIGHT*' You have asked of me a message, Asked of me a word of greeting As to-gether we assemble, Meet to-gether with our husbands For an hour of social pleasure, Hour of feasting and rejoicing, Hour of toasts and songs and laughter, Hearty fellowship and good cheer. Are there things that I can tell you, Any words for me to utter, That will give you joy or pleasure. Add a little to this meetings? Gladly would I search and find them, Gladly would I choose and sort them. Speak to you the best and fairest Words that can be found for speaking. For I long to do your bidding. Bring to you some gift or treasure In return for all your kindness. Hospitality and kindness. Me a stranger, a new comer Taken to you hearts and hearth-stones, Made to feel myself one of you. Welcomed, entertained, and feasted. With my lips I utter "Thank you" From my very heart I thank you. Do you husband's doubt my meaning. Wonder that I cared to join them. That I deemed it worth the effort, To meet with these dear club women? 126 Do you smile that I feel honored, Smile that I am pleased and honored To be counted in the club roll, Still be counted in the club roll? Gladly share I the devotion, To this club and all its workings, Share its uplift, education. Worry, work and inspiration, That are shared by all its members. It is long ago that Paul wrote For a wife to ask her husband All the things she fain would hear of, All the things she finds she knows not, Stay at home and ask her husband. Now the husbands are from home more, Now the husbands they are busier; If we stay at home to ask them Oft they are not there to answer ; Or, perchance, they have not read it, Have not read the thing we ask them, Or have read it and forgotten, Or they have not time to tell us. Or they think it does not matter, Will not pay for time spent on it. And the women, too, are different. Have more things they fain would hear of, And they find more things they know not, Ask more questions, seek more knowledge. Surely our way is far better. Surely Paul himself would think so, Better far for us to study, Better far to choose our reading. Share it, too, with other women. Search and sift and think to-gether; 127 Use the best and leave the other; Share the best things with our husbands, As they share with us their knowledge, Give us what they have to offer, That they think worth while to offer. So we still shall grow to-gether, Each augment, and help the other, Still have time to do our duties, We more oft at home, they elsewhere. Do you understand, these women, These your wives, these noble women, When they hurry through their labors. Snatching here and there a moment Through the day for books and lessons, For the lessons or the duties Of the coming club-day meeting? Do you wonder at their efforts, At their loyalty, devotion, Wonder that they try to study. Try to grapple with large problems? 'Tis because you are not women, Are not members in good standing, Never tried 'gainst odds of all kinds To conduct a business meeting; Tried to read with children playing. Study with your children crying. Never felt the thrill of victory As you grasped some knotty question Amid household cares and labors; Shared its uplift with the others; Left your toil and cares behind you, Shut and locked the door upon them. To be met and conquered later. 128 You have missed much that you are not, Never were and never can be, Working members in good standing, Of a women's club, my brothers. Anything that's worth the having Certainly is worth some effort. Anything that costs an effort Valued is and prized and treasured. And these tastes of books and music, Views of other times and places, Glances into public welfare, All are prized and used and treasured As they are not by the idle, By the women who have leisure, Who have leisure, but who have not Duties that press hard upon them To be sorted, readjusted. Shifted, left, or hurried over To make time for other duties. We are better wives and mothers For this club and for its lessons, We are better friends and neighbors For our meetings with each other; We are better cooks and house-wives — Can you doubt it from this evening? We are stronger, braver, happier, Readier to cope with evil. You are better men and neighbors. Better business men and husbands, More successful, more progressive. That you do not have to teach us All the things we find we know not. Every man of you is happier, 129 Going to his place of business, Laboring and earning money, Doing each his manly duties Following each a man's vocation. We are happier, too, and wiser, Learning what we can without you. Learning with you and without you, And still finding things we know not. We are better for our meetings, And you, too, are better for them, Better in that we are better, Happier in that we are happier, And although you are not women. Are not members in good standing. Yet our club is better for you, Better for your help and interest, For your aid, co-operation, For your kindliness and patience. That is why we've met to-gether. Why we planned to dine to-gether, Planned the toasts and songs and laughter; That we may go on to-gether, Hand in hand go on to-gether, Loyal women, loyal husbands, Faithful friends, devoted neighbors, Hand in hand go on to-gether Working for the common welfare, WelfaTre of our homes and households, Of our town, our homes, our children. We shall all be better for it. For this meeting here to-gether, We, the Women's Club of Marshall, You our husbands and co-workers, Helpmates, though you are not women, Are not members in good-standing. 130 DECEMBER loTH Small need have I declare, my sister, why That this day standeth forth more dear and fair, Than others. Winter's harshness hath not power To drive away its charm, nor yet oncoming Mirth and cheer t' outshine it; slight need to tell Of past delights, of girlhood's dreams and fears Shared each with each, to draw us closer still, And still^ more close to-gether. Small need me- thinks To speak me of the love that doth but grow With growth of time, and gathers strength apace. Yet I delight to think me of those days, Those mutual joys and pains that bound us fast. And fain would I show forth in some dear way Th' affection welling up and reaching out As to encompass you with tenderness. Like to encircling arms thrown round about Your form to shield and hold you, Oh my sister! 131 IF YOU DO SAY YES She'd come to see the baby At a small playmate's house, And all the time she sat there Just as still as any mouse. Her aunty who was with her Thought her behaviour strange. She had talked so much about it, What could have worked the change? "How do you like the baby? Just touch its tiny head. Shall I ask if we may take it home To keep?" the aunty said. "O, no," said the wee maiden, And shook back a stray curl. Her aunty could not understand This riddle of a girl. ''I thought you'd want the baby, Your surely told me so," Said Aunty, "When I asked you How came you to say no?" What do you think she answered, I am sure you cannot guess: "They never let you have one Even if you do say yes." 132 THANKSGIVING We praise them brave old Pilgrims Who could give thanks 'n pray — Hungry, half froz, 'n' homesick, That first Thanksgivin' day; But with all our modern fixin's, More'n likely we uns sigh 'Cause our chicken ain't a turkey, An' there ain't two kinds of pie. Them Pilgrims crossed the ocean, Sailin' many a weary mile, For blessin's you an' me have had The hull endurin' while. Encounterin' many a hardship Uncomplainin'ly, they sought Things we don't half appreciate, Because it's what we've got. I know" all folks ain't that away, That lots be it ain't so queer. For, someway things way ofE somewheres Looks brighter'n things that's near. We're sech far sighted creeters, 'Pears we get a clearer view O' things away beyent our reach, Than o' what we're closest to. 'S if we had two kinds o' glasses, An' we used the far ones most — Real bright uns to see off with. But blue uns to look clost. I reckon, though, if somethin' 'D show^ all sides to us. That we'd be mighty thankful That our lot wa'n't no wus. 133 "Jest count your blessin's," people says — We haint got time to do it; There's sich an everlastin' lot We never could git through it. I don't mean folks ain't grateful, And I aint a-finding fault, But we've got so many blessin's We don't sense 'em like we'd ought. But from this on I 'low to have More thankfulness in mine, An' look through glasses that're bright,- Or less help to make things shine, — Not find fault with m.y chicken, Nor want two kinds o' pie. An' keep countin' of my blessin's. An' countin' till I die. 134 WILD WHITE POPPIES Dear, dainty blossoms, Bursting on my sight Along the road side Like a gleam of light, Sk)rward in beauty Lifting petals white. How did you guess it, Pale, sweet poppy band, That homesick, troubled. In a stranger land, I needed you, dears? Did you understand? Why else your greeting. Silently bestowed Upon me, lonely. Passing, o'er the road? Your fragile flower cups Lifting up my load? For that I loved you. Blessed your subtle skill; Your pure completeness Set my soul a-thrill. Each veined petal Charms, delights me still. 135 FIFTY YEARS *Tis fifty years ago to-day, just fifty years, That close a mother clasped you to her breast, The while your father gazed upon his first-born there Within her arms, wee birdling in its nest. And now again, methinks, they cast a downward look From Heaven's parted gates, o'er joyed to find You, with the fulness of completed manhood crowned. Your stalwart form by dimpled arms entwined. Just fifty years, — 'tis half a century, no less — When looking forward, long, but short when past — Fifty swift years of life already left behind. Yes, fifty years, each briefer than the last. Endless to childish fancy one whole day appeared, From morn to eve, from sunset until dawn, Full time, in sooth, t' accomplish all one would, but now — The new year dawns apace, and lo 'tis gone. Just fifty years to-day, it is, since first 5^our life. Became a part of that onmoving stream Of human life, that flows for good or ill, joy, pain, Now stern reality, now golden dream ; And count it not, dear heart, cause for regret alone, If oft your life has been o'er hard and drear; Its darkest hour, nay doubt not, compensation hath In God's own way, for every blinding tear. Oft times when crowd our happy children round your knees. Or lift to you sweet faces to be kissed, There comes a pang of sorrow, tempering my joy. Thinking of all that your sad childhood missed ; 136 A sorrow not unmixed with gratitude and pride, That where a smaller soul had garnered pain, Austerity, and lasting bitterness, you reaped But strength and tenderness, your loss, our gain. For fifty years your life, its weakness and its strength, Has mingled with the nation's throbbing life; Erstwhile with comrades brave 'gainst common foe you stood, And oft, with courage none the less, in strife Of truth with falsehood, right with wrong, error with light; Though the field be but crowded thoroughfare, Home, office, busy mart, each smallest seed there dropped Will yield fruition mete, sometime, somewhere. Another fifty years — nay, that is over long. To hope for life to yield its best for thee; For just so much, no more, of fifty let me wish, As will perfect thy full maturity; Just years enough, dear one, to make thy life com- plete, Thy cherished hopes and plans to culminate. Each month of every twelve laden with good, the days Fleet-footed servants who thy bidding wait. 37 WHY DREAMEST THOU? Why sighest thou for wider fields, oh friend? Why dreamest thou of noble work, and great, When at thy very door lies untilled ground, And untouched tasks thy tardy hands await? Lo, at thy side, brushing against thy robe. Stand those who cry aloud to Heaven for thee To come and do the things thou dreamest of. Ask not for work, but that thou mayest see. Then will there be no room for vagrant dreams Of high, strange labor beckoning from afar. Thy heart, thy hands will be so full of these The dear, new duties calling where you are. If that thy life were but attuned to His Who made thee with thy work encircled round, Then couldst thou hear a voice within thee say The place thou standest on is holy ground. Thou wouldst, like Moses at the burning bush, Put off thy shoes, tread reverently, and see Surrounding, common objects glow and burn, Illumined, glorified, awaiting thee. 138 TO RUTH When first you came to us, dear little daughter, A tiny, dimpled, rosy mite, Almost too small to safely kiss or fondle, A helpless, newborn, stranger wight. You seemed to us a most entrancing creature, In form and feature perfect quite. And when you older grew, and cooed and gurgled, Became each day more fair and sweet, You were so white and pure, so cheerful, loving, So quick and bright, so dainty neat. That all a baby's many charms and graces We found in your wee self complete. Oh how we loved you then, our dainty darling. And longed, from dangers manifold, To shelter you adown life's fitful journey. I wonder do you need be told. We love you just as well, perchance e'en better, Now, dearie, when you're twelve years old. 139 YESTERDAY I was sittin' by the window, A-mendin' yesterday; A chilly wind was blowin' hard, An' everything looked gray. It kind o' made me think o' things That was a-goin' bad — Seemed like I had a harder time Than other w^immen had. Outside I see a little bird On our old maple tree, A-settin' on the highest twig As chipper as could be. It seemed to sing with all its might Perched up on that bare limb; O' course I don't know what it sung But 'peared like 'twas a hymn. I set an' watched it quite a spell It looked so brave an' strong, Liftin' its head agin the sky, A-pourin' out its song. Someway — I can't just tell you how — It sort o' lifted me To see that bird a-settin' there A-singin' in that tree. 140 MISUNDERSTOOD As Harvey went to mow the lawn One summer day, He found upon the dewy grass A young blue- jay. He thought at once of prowling cat, And dropped above the bird his hat. Then took it in his hand, whereat, In direful way, The thankless fledging fought and squirmed, And, loud and shrill, Such cries as only blue-jays make It uttered, till The parents hastened to its aid. By Harvey's size nowise dismayed, Straightway the doughty birds essayed, With claw and bill. To drive him vanquished from the field, And save their young. They pecked his unprotected head Until it stung; Loud to the frightened bird they called. In nowise by their rage appalled, Tho much regretting he was bald, The bird he flung Upon the grass; picked up his hat And came to me. To tell how they misjudged a friend. And let me see His bleeding head. The while he smiled At their fierce onslaught, useless, wild ; Of course they wished to save their child. But so did he. 141 I'm glad he rubbed his head and laughed, My husband good, And did not swear and hate those birds, As some men would. I'm glad they heard their baby's cries, And fought the giant spite his size, And yet, I wish they had been wise. And understood. WE HAVE THE LONGED FOR GOOD Oftimes we may not touch that which we long to grasp; We need not then waste all our life in grief; nay learn To see, through eyes by sorrow taught truth to discern, We have the longed-for good, have that for which we yearn; 'Tis ours, more true than if its outw^ard form we clasp, In the ideal which our hearts do hold; The beauty seen by which our life we mold Is ours, howe'er adverse the wheel of fortune turn. 142 THOUGH THEY FORGET Our husbands, ever brave and strong, Our lover-husbands, leal and true, Who stalwart stand 'twixt us and wrong. Nor reck the cost of what they do For us they love — who love them yet — They will forget, they will forget. Not plighted troth, nor lover's word. Not tender phrase, nor deed most kind, Not duty's voice, though scarce 'tis heard, Not faith to us they behind ; But oft by business cares beset The things we send for they forget. Ofttimes to urgent last requests They give no heed from morn to noon, And oft they bring unbidden guests At times the most inopportune; The things on which our hearts are set, Are oft the things that they forget. The anniversaries year by year Of wedding days, unheeded go — These days we hold most sacred, dear; Yet in our heart of hearts we know, That spite of all they may forget They love us yet, they love us yet. And tho' oft to our grief we find Our letters pocketed, unsent, Tho' to our cherished projects blind They wound us most where least 'tis meant, Yea, tho' our birthdays they forget, We love them yet, we love them yet. 143 DROPS OF DEW "Ilka tiny blade o' grass Has its ain puir drap o' dew". This pristine proverb with its wording quaint, Hath found a place within my heart of hearts, A sense of rest and comfort it imparts, A sweet refreshing, lest my spirit faint. To every tiny blade of grass that lives Comes needed moisture; nor perchance from spring. Or shower, or rippling streams that dance and sing; Oft one pure drop of dew the blessing gives. For some life's streams like teeming rivers wind; Deluged with ceaseless bounties, some there be; And unto every one, yea, unto me, Some pure, sweet drops of good their way shall find. Fain would I lift my inmost soul to greet. And hold them close, like dear, expected guest, These tiny drops by which my life is blest. And made to grow strong, purer and more sweet. 144 One copy del. to Cat. Div. '^- i(^ 19 ir. iiiir"* 018 391 855 '2 #1