b'Gift to Thee \n\n\n\n. [ENRY POTTS \n\n\n\n\n\nClass i^L Z> b_ji \n\n\n\nBook. \n\n\n\nV> \n\n\n\niSl \n\n\n\nGopyrightN\xc2\xb0_ \n\n\n\nCOPYRIGHT DEPOSIT \n\n\n\nMy Gift To Thee \n\nPresent Time Verses \n\n\n\n\'By \nJAMES HENRY POTTS \n\n\n\n% \n\n\n\nCINCINNATI: JENNINGS AND GRAHAM \nNEW YORK: EATON AND MAINS \n\n\n\nCopyright, 1910, \nBy Jennings and Graham \n\n\n\n.77^ x \n\n\n\n)CI.A2?1. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nDedication \n\nTo those who grant new friends a place; \n\nTo warmth of soul incline; \nWho can a bit of humor trace \n\nIn any sober line; \nTo whom heart-throbs make mute appeal ; \n\nWho know a real life-throe; \nWhose blood does not at mirth congeal, \n\nNor pleasure all forego; \nWho see the bright and sunny side \n\nOf what they feel and learn, \nAnd to despondent mental tide \n\nCan give a happy turn ; \nWho care for right, and cherish truth, \n\nAnd love the things that are; \nWhose sympathies retain their youth, \n\nThough life advances far; \nTo such I dedicate these lines, \n\nAbiding their decree; \nThe verdict of congenial minds \n\nIs good enough for me. \nDetroit, Mich. \n\n\n\nContents \n\n\n\nPart L present Cime \xc2\xa9ersea \n\nMy Gift to Thee, ------- 15 \n\nJust For an Hour, ------ j^ \n\nThe Call to Improvement, - - - - 17 \n\n"Only A Millionaire," ----- 19 \n\nThe Professional Pull, ------ 20 \n\nThe Newspaper, ------- 21 \n\nThe Editor, --------22 \n\nThe Office Seeker, ------ 23 \n\nArt Thou The Man ? 25 \n\nGold Mine Stock, 26 \n\nPlaying the Market, ------ 27 \n\nThe King of Fruits, ------ 29 \n\nThe Sealed Dungeon, - * " - - "30 \n\nOur Thinning Ranks, ------ 33 \n\nThe Grand Canyon, ------ 47 \n\nThe Common Chord, ------ 49 \n\nThe Land We Love, ------ 51 \n\nA Creature of Contradictions, - - - - 52 \n\nThe Supreme Word, . - - - ~ ~ 53 \n\nThis Bad, Bad World, 54 \n\nEvolution, -------- 56 \n\nThe Day For Sorrow, 57 \n\n5 \n\n\n\nThe Glorious Sunshine, - - - - - - 58 \n\nBay View, " - - " - 59 \n\nPoetic Locomotion, -------60 \n\nThe Trolley, ------- ^j \n\nThe Auto, 62 \n\nJJart IL UTtfoenite Sfmffto \n\nThe Polliwog, -------65 \n\nThe Quarry, ------- 55 \n\nThe Partners, -------66 \n\n"If I Had Money,\' \' ------ 67 \n\nChristmas, Then and Now, - - - - - 68 \n\nNature\'s Own Beverage, ----- 73 \n\nOnly, 74 \n\nContent With Little, ------ 74 \n\n"Dem Melons," 75 \n\nThe Meanest Thing in the World, - 76 \n\nTwo Neighbors, ------- 77 \n\nWhat Am I ? 78 \n\nAt Wit\'s End, 79 \n\nAt Wisdom\'s Beginning, ----- gQ \n\nA Mighty Cable, ------- 81 \n\nOpportunity, - - - - - - - 81 \n\n"My \'ittle Pickaninnie," 82 \n\nLet It Go, 83 \n\nFight it Out, --------34 \n\n6 \n\n\n\n\' Thirteen,\' \' ------- 85 \n\nA Business Secret, - - - - - - 86 \n\nThe Flying Fish, ------- 87 \n\n"GitUpandGit," ------ 87 \n\nHow to Grow Old, ------ 88 \n\nHow to Stay Young, 89 \n\nBumpy Bump, ------- 90 \n\nDuty and Beauty, 91 \n\nAn Unconcealed Weapon, ----- 92 \n\nA Siren Voice, ------- 93 \n\nMy Little Mission, ------ 94 \n\nPart IIL ^tutoental T>ittiz* \n\n"Cut it Short,\' \' ------- 97 \n\nOverloaded, - \xe2\x80\xa2 - - - - - 98 \n\nThe Catholic School, ------ 100 \n\nBathing Superfluous, - - - - - 101 \n\nThe Little Grayback, - - - \xe2\x96\xa0 - - 103 \n\nCritics and the Patriarchs, - - " - 104 \n\nThe Fly Trap, ------- 106 \n\nThe Preacher and the Robber, - - - - 107 \n\nOld Sambo, - - - - - - ~ -111 \n\nUnchangeable Identity, - - - - - 112 \n\nThe Irishman\'s View of Immersion, - - - - 114 \n\nIn a Bishop\'s Bed, - - - - - 116 \n\nAn Attachment, 117 \n\n7 \n\n\n\nNo Stuttering Women, - - - ~ " 118 \n\nHe, Not I, 120 \n\n"See The Point?" ------ 121 \n\nA Shining Duty, ------ 122 \n\nMy Birthday, 123 \n\nMy First Flame, - \xe2\x96\xa0 ~ ~ " " 124 \n\nRifts in the Clouds, ------ 125 \n\nAsking My Consent, - - - - ~ \' 126 \n\nThe Happiest Three, ------ 127 \n\nThe Twinkling Eye, - - -. - - 128 \n\nJ)art IV* Sentimental E&pt&m \n\nNature\'s Tears, - - - ~ - \' - - 131 \n\nDedication of a Guest Book, \xe2\x80\xa2 - - - 131 \nMy Relatives, - - - - - - -132 \n\nHis Spot of Sunshine, ----- 133 \n\nTrue Friends Are Best, - - - ~ - 134 \n\nIn a Lady\'s Album, ------ 135 \n\nNoisy Stillness, ------- 135 \n\nGems From An Old Casket, - - - - - 136 \n\nThose Far Off Days, ------ 138 \n\nA Love Secret, ------- 139 \n\n"Do You Love Me?" - 141 \n\nOld Letters, ------- 142 \n\nHappiness, -------- 143 \n\n8 \n\n\n\nTwo Hearts, 144 \n\nAdvice, - - - - - > - - - - 145 \n\nGratitude, ------- 14^ \n\nA Test of Friendship, ------ 145 \n\nBenevolence, ------- 147 \n\nFrugality, - - - - - - - -148 \n\nHonor, - 149 \n\nJealousy, -------- 150 \n\nNature Our Teacher, ----- 152 \n\nDanger in Ridicule, ------ 153 \n\nThe Highest State, ------ 154 \n\nGive Me The Truth, ------ 155 \n\n"Dat\'s Enuff," ------ 157 \n\nNo License, No, ------- 158 \n\nA Straight Path, ------ 159 \n\nTwo Line Sermons, - - . " " " " 160 \n\nPart V* Emotional fliecea \n\nThe Universal Religion, ----- 155 \n\nWhat is Life? ------- 155 \n\nDestroy Not My Faith, - - * 167 \n\nSoul Rest, 168 \n\nA Faithful Monitor, ------ 159 \n\nWork Before Wages, ----- 170 \n\nThe Sweetest Song, - - - - - -171 \n\n9 \n\n\n\nThe Heavenly Song, - . - " - - - 172 \n\nWeighty Words, ------ 173 \n\nThe Century Dawn, " \' " . " " " " 174 \n\nAlone With Thee, - - - - - - 175 \n\nOur Years, - " ~ ~ " - ~ ~ 176 \n\nThanksgiving Hymn, ------ 177 \n\nThe Risen Lord, ------- 178 \n\nThe Scarlet and White, ----- 179 \n\nAn Insatiate Thief, ------ igQ \n\nThe Highest Honor, - - - - - ~ 181 \n\nThe Best Goodness, ------ 182 \n\nThine Forever, ------- 183 \n\n"l Can Not Depart Alone," - 184 \n\nWhat Money Can Not Buy, - 185 \n\nThe White Tie, ------- 186 \n\nThe Penitent\'s Prayer, ----- 188 \n\nThe Dying Pilgrim\'s Plea, ----- 189 \n\nThe Laymen\'s Movement, ----- 1% \n\nJJatt VL JJeraonal Characterisations \n\nA Cheery Ministry, ------ 193 \n\nOur Ruth, - - 194 \n\nTim Tom, 195 \n\nElna, A Detroit Idyl, 196 \n\nAlonsa, An American Carol, - - - - 198 \n\nEthel D., \xe2\x99\xa6 - 200 \n\n10 \n\n\n\nThose Johnson Girls, ------ 202 \n\nEsther Earl, - 203 \n\nHenry White, ------- 204 \n\nMaggie O., - - - - - - - 205 \n\nDOLLA KONANTZ, ------- 207 \n\nMabel B., 208 \n\nFrances E., 209 \n\nCordelia A.-, - - - - - - - - 213 \n\nMy Little World, - - - - - -215 \n\nJames Riston, ------- 216 \n\n"Kittie," - - - - - - - - 218 \n\nTo Alice, - 220 \n\nA Father\'s Pity, ------- 221 \n\nOscar Ferdinand, ------ 223 \n\nArthur Ninde, 225 \n\nAfter One Year, ------ 226 \n\nAfter Two Years, ------- 227 \n\nAfter Fifteen Years, ----- 228 \n\nEasy and Not Easy, 230 \n\n"Dropping Out of Sight/ \' - 232 \n\nThe Lost Hearing, ------ 234 \n\n\n\n11 \n\n\n\nList of Illustrations \n\n\n\nFacing Page \n\nGolden Fruit, - " - 28 \n\nThe Sealed Dungeon, - - - - - - 30 \n\nFriends of the Juveniles, ----- 64 \n\nA Pleasant Look, -------66 \n\nThe Ladened Christmas Tree, - 72 \n\n"I\'se Had a Lushus Bite," -. - - - 74 \n\n"My \'ittle Pickaninnie," ----- 82 \n\nThe Flying Fish, -------86 \n\nOld Sambo, - -110 \n\n"A Noisy Stillness," - - - - - - 134 \n\nAlice, 220 \n\n\n\n12 \n\n\n\nPart I \nPresent Time Verses \n\n\n\nNo grudge have I against the PAST; \n\nNo accusation bringing; \nBut in the NOW, while it may last, \n\nMust I do all my singing. \n\n\n\nMy Gift to Thee \n\nI can not give thee gold; \nNot mine to give; \nThe precious dust eludes my searchful view; \nOr, if I find, it \'scapes my fingers through; \n\nI -can not give thee gold. \n\nNor can I give thee peace; \nFor God alone \nCan calm the tumult of thy wakened breast, \nAnd soothe the warring elements to rest; \n\nI can not give thee peace. \n\nBut I can give thee love, \nIn measure full; \nMy very soul in love goes out to thine, \nIn glad fulfillment of the law divine, \n\nAn honest, tender love. \n\nI also give good will; \nI wish thee well; \nTo see thee prosper and rich blessing gain ; \nThy noblest wish and plan and hope attain; \nI give thee right good will. \n15 \n\n\n\nAnd I would give thee more, \nIf more in need; \nAssist thee in thy progress through life\'s school ; \nExemplify to thee the Golden Rule; \n\nAnd thus would give thee more. \n\nQ\xc2\xa3rt t&* t\xc2\xa3r* \n\nJust for an Hour \n\nO, write me a word that will brighten my thought \n\nJust for an hour; \nA word with emotional sunshine fraught, \n\nLadened with power; \nA word of enlightenment, cheeriness, truth, \n\nFitting my heart; \nA word of compassion, or stricture forsooth, \n\nHelp to impart! \n\nI want to be comforted, solaced, and soothed, \n\nJust for an hour. \nI ask that my pathway be lighted and smoothed \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFragrant with flower. \nOpe to my vision the landscapes of gray, \n\nClear and serene; \n16 \n\n\n\nGlimpses of mountains and hills far away, \nGolden their sheen. \n\nLet me abandon myself to the best, \n\nJust for an hour; \nBlessings that fall at my Maker\'s behest; \n\nSunshine or shower. \nO to be restful, contented, and still, \n\nFanned from above ; \nLiving and being and doing Thy will, \n\nFather of love! \n\n<^" t&* t&* \n\nThe Call to Improvement \n\nIf you can not invent, improve; \n\nMake better the clumsy and old; \nGet out of the limiting groove; \n\nMake finer the beaten gold. \n\nAdd vigor to that which is strong; \n\nGive nerve to the helpless and weak; \nCut short what is uselessly long; \n\nSome word of encouragement speak. \n2 17 \n\n\n\nGet into the swim of advance, \n\nJump out of the pool of decay; \n\nThere \'s pleasure for you to enhance ; \nThere \'s trouble for you to allay. \n\nIf you can not invent, improve; \n\nThe cloudy and dense make clear; \nGo, quicken the sluggish move, \n\nAnd quiet the foolish fear. \n\nWake up to the call of the hour; \n\nGo forth to the work of to-day; \nTake hold of the lever of power; \n\nLearn quick to strike hard and obey. \n\nThere \'s structure for you to complete ; \n\nThere ? s station for you to attain ; \nThere\'s struggle for you to meet; \n\nThere \'s triumph for you to gain. \n\nIf you can not invent, improve; \n\nAdd something to human weal; \nSome habit of wrong reprove; \n\nSome fashion of ill conceal. \n18 \n\n\n\nIf you do not improve, you fail; \n\nYou surely will retrograde; \nAnd ever you will bewail \n\nThe ruinous error made. \n\nt\xc2\xa3r* l2r* t&* \n\n"Only a Millionaire" \n\nA millionaire\'s not rich to-day; \n\nHis fortune is but fair; \nOf rich men such as he they say, \n\n"He \'s only a millionaire." \n\nTo be a rich man with the rich, \nAnd dwell in Golden Park, \n\nYour aim must take a higher pitch, \nUp toward the billion mark. \n\nA million in one dividend, \n\nIs nothing very rare; \n"Pin money" given wife to spend, \n\nBy multi-millionaire. \n\nHence as in riches, small or vast, \n\nI ne\'er can have a share ; \nYou may, while my few hundred last, \n\nJust call me thousandaire. \n19 \n\n\n\nThe Professional Pull \n\nA doctor, like wine, is the better for age; \n\nA preacher, like bread, must be new. \nA welcome is given the medical sage; \n\nThe clerical gets the adieu. \n\nHow strange that the cure of a physical ill, \n\nRequires the ripeness of years; \nWhile sickness of spirit is hopeless until \n\nA youth in the pulpit appears. \n\nPhysicians work on to the end of their days, \n\nBut clergymen sooner retire; \nThe salary wanes as the preacher decays; \n\nThe fees of the doctor rise higher. \n\nNo wonder the ranks of the healers are full; \n\nNo wonder young parsons diminish; \n9 T is money that gives one profession its pull ; \n\nWhile want gives the other its finish. \n\n\n\n20 \n\n\n\nThe Newspaper 11 \'* \n\nSwift-winged and dauntless, and ladened with thought, \nIncessant and countless, and everywhere bought; \nA friend of the friendless, and friendliest friend, \nWhose mission is endless till missions shall end. \n\nIn gray of the morning, in dusk of the eve, \nRough elements scorning, its wings the air cleave; \nTo cottage and palace its message it brings; \nIn freedom from malice to progress it clings. \n\nUnscathed by the lightnings, uncrushed by the storms, \nIgnoring the frightenings, it makes up its forms; \nWhen war-clouds are rising it flies with the light, \nAll danger despising to herald the fight. \n\nUnfettered by compacts, unhampered by creeds, \nIt watches the impacts and judges by deeds. \nBy tyranny never from high purpose hurled, \nIt chronicles ever the news of the world. \n\n*The foregoing lines originally appeared in the Detroit Free \nPress. A few other pieces in this volume were first published in the \nChristian Advocates of New York, Chicago, Cincinnati, and Detroit. \nA few others rnay be found in " Michigan Poets and Poetry/\' Some of \nthe temperance verses were composed for the author\'s book, " Black \nand White," and certain others for "Sunshine All the Year," but the \nmain body of rhythm now before the reader appears in print for the \nfirst time. \n\n21 \n\n\n\nThe Editor \n\nBrain-worn and burdened the editor sits; \nLetters of inquiry puzzling his wits; \nMissives of rancor stinging his soul; \nStop-paper orders pervading the whole. \nArticles able his judgment await; \nFrivolous messages enter his pate; \nLong-drawn reports, as shallow as long; \nUrgent insistence to rectify wrong. \n\nHere comes the printer, coatless and lone, \nCalling for "copy" in serious tone; \nHere a subscriber to talk for awhile, \nDutiless hours of his to beguile. \nRestless his manner, this knight of the quill; \nLonging for moments disturbless and still; \nLittered his sanctum, forbidding and dim; \nErrandless callers are waiting on him. \n\nThere goes the editor; day\'s work is done; \nHomeward his hying, setting the sun ; \nGreetings await him: children and wife \nSweeten the charm of an editor\'s life. \n\n22 \n\n\n\nSoothing and strengthening rest Is his pay; \nGone is the weakening waste of the day. \nDreamless his slumber, the dawn finds him new, \nWriting and fighting as editors do. \n\nt\xc2\xa3r* 1\xc2\xa3r* f&* \n\nThe Office Seeker \n\nHe wants the earth, the moon thrown in, \n\nThe stars as stepping-stones; \nHe would take heaven, except that sin \n\nInfests his marrow-bones. \n\nHe claims each salaried place by right, \n\nIn township, county, State; \nHe \'keeps within his longing sight \n\nAll stations of the great. \n\nHe joins the Church, perhaps, and there \n\nSelf-seeking is his aim; \nAdvancement is his only prayer; \n\nTo plot, his endless game. \n23 \n\n\n\nHe has the "big-head," has it bad, \n\nYet wears a smallish hat; \nThe "hurt look" makes his face seem sad, \n\nImploring, and all that. \n\nPoor fellow ! Watch his shifting schemes ! \n\nSee how they merge and blend! \nThough freighted with a thousand themes, \n\nThey have a common end. \n\nThat end is office for himself; \n\nNo vacancy he brooks; \nHe wants the honor and the pelf, \n\nOr else more "hurt" his looks. \n\nHe holds some office all his life, \n\nAnd office seeks in death; \nFor votes his last requests are rife; \n\n"Your vote" \xe2\x80\x94 his dying breath. \n\nAnd were it possible to note \n\nHis maiden spirit speech, \nYou \'d find him asking for each vote \n\nAnd office within reach. \n24 \n\n\n\nArt Thou the Man? \n\nA man who would vote, \n\nFor a two-dollar note, \nTo sustain a political wrong, \n\nWould do any mean thing \n\nWhich a penny would bring, \nAnd throw himself into it strong. \n\nA man who \'d retreat, \n\nBecause of defeat, \nAt the polls in the work of reform, \n\nWould fly from the foe \n\nAnd his country forego \nIn the battle\'s terrible storm. \n\nA man who would faint, \n\nOr utter complaint, \nBecause right triumphs not in a day, \n\nWould leave a good cause, \n\nRepeal righteous laws, \nAnd allow sin and evil full sway. \n\nA man who would shirk \nFrom duty and work, \nBecause of the finger of scorn, \n25 \n\n\n\nLike Peter of old, \nWould fly from the fold \nAnd leave his own Master forlorn. \n\nA man who would choose, \n\nAnd never refuse, \nOf two needless evils the less,* \n\nWould probably quite \n\nSurrender the right, \nIf Satan should urgently press. \n\nt^" f2^ t&* \n\nGold Mine Stock \n\nA thousand shares in mine of gold, \nSecured at less than par, I hold; \nA thousand shares at less than par, \nSecure within my coffers are. \n\nIn golden Goldville\'s mine of gold \nIs placed the cash for stock I hold; \n\'Tis paper stock, I frankly own, \nBut golden ink is o\'er it thrown. \n\n\n\n* Of two evils choose neither. \n\n26 \n\n\n\nA mine of gold, and golden stock, \xe2\x80\x94 \nI bought it cheap, a solid block; \nA block of stock I mean, not gold, \nA thousand solid shares I hold. \n\n"Not worth a cent!" "What *s that you say? \nWho dares with my fond hope to play?" \n"A thousand shares not worth a cent, \nIs what I said, and what I meant. \n\n"These gold mine stocks, to tell it straight, \nAre rarely worth their paper\'s weight; \nThe stock for buyer\'s folly stands; \nThe gold is in promoter\'s hands." \n\nPlaying the Market \n\nJim Sucker thinking he could land \n\nA fortune in a minute, \nHe took the market top in hand \n\nAnd soon began to spin it. \n\n\n\nHe bought a block of copper stock, \n\nThe tip of broker taking; \nFor quick advance he watched his chance, \n\nBig profit to be raking. \n\nBy gamblers\' game the profit came, \n\nBut Sucker did not win it; \nThe market flop upset his top, \n\nHis fortune being in it. \nAnd so with frown he sat him down \n\nTo think his folly over, \nAnd wisely said, by shake of head, \n\n"I \'11 be no more a rover." \n\nAnd all the same the market game, \n\nAs sure as you begin it, \nWill neatly sup your fortune up \n\nIn just about a minute. \nBy laying low the gamblers know \n\nJust how to trap a "sucker;" \nThen hoarsely laugh while drinks they quaff, \n\nTo see his wrinkles pucker. \n\n\n\n28 \n\n\n\nThe King of Fruits \n\nAn orange for me, an orange for you, \nOranges all the season through; \nThe boughs are bent with golden fruit, \nAnd blossoms scent the air to boot: \n\nOranges, oranges! pick the best; \n\nEnough remain for all the rest. \n\nNow seek the shade and eat your fill; \nGo in, go in, with jolly will; \nRemove the rind, or leave it whole, \nNo matter so you reach the goal. \n\nCut in! squeeze out! the juice is there \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAn element beyond compare. \n\nOranges, oranges, everywhere! \n\nSwift grown, quick sold, and shipped with care> \n\nThe king of fruits, and fruit of kings, \n\nIt flies the world on market wings. \nOranges, oranges! Give me four, \xe2\x80\x94 \nYou may retire, and close the door. \n\n\n\n29 \n\n\n\nThe Sealed Dungeon* \n\nMysterious freak of tyrant mind! \n\nSatanic work of human kind ! \n\nA battlement of brick and stone, \n\nEnclosing helpless woman, lone; \n\nA dark, uncanny, living tomb; \n\nA wierd, unprecedented doom; \n\nA crime prodigious, mystic, dire; \n\nA fate unmatched by sword or fire. \n\nNo annals of the earth contain \n\nA hint of like appealing pain. \n\nWhat fright! what grief! what horror there \n\nWithin that dungeon of despair! \n\nMy shuddering soul shrinks back in awe, \n\nAnd calls for penalty of law \n\nOn e\'en the relics left by time, \n\nAs proofs of that infernal crime. \n\n*Note.\xe2\x80\x94 In the wall of the old Spanish fort at Pensacola, Florida, \nwas discovered a dungeon containing the skeleton of a woman. The \ndoor to the dungeon had been bricked up, and then carefully plastered \nover to correspond with the surrounding wall, apparently for the pur- \npose of concealing a crime. The engraving, made from a photograph, \nshows the opening in the wall made by the discoverers of the dungeon \na few years ago. The dungeon is a dismal looking place. \n\nIt is a remarkable fact that in nearly every one of the Old Spanish \nforts on this continent a dungeon has been found, and the history of \nthese dark recesses, could it be written, would no doubt go far toward \nrevealing the principal cause of Spain\'s decline. Dungeons and de- \ncadence go together, \n\n30 \n\n\n\nH \n33 \n\n> \n\no \n\no \nc \n\no \n\no \n\n\n\n\nBring back their ghosts, and lay them low \n\nBy one annihilating blow! \n\nNo fire of hell has yet been built \n\nFor purging such inhuman guilt. \n\nHark ! the echo of a groan, \n\nThe waning trace of fainter moan! \n\nIt dies upon the distant air, \n\nThe semblance of a woman\'s prayer. \n\nFrom out that dungeon sealed it came; \n\nIt asks for help in pity\'s name; \n\nFor water, food; for light, for breath; \n\nRelief from such a lingering death: \n\nIt rises now \xe2\x80\x94 a startling cry \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs from a spirit passing by; \n\nA call for justice, loud and clear, \n\nAs if from an immortal sphere: \n\n\'T is an avenging angel\'s lay ; \n\nA Nemesis of judgment day. \n\nWill Justice sleep? Aye, sleep for long, \nBut not for aye. Her arm is strong. \nEach barbarous deed but serves to speak \nThe surer vengeance she will wreak \n\n31 \n\n\n\nOn men or nations steeped In crime \nAnd hardened by the lapse of time. \nJustice may sleep, but not for aye; \nShe wakens on reprisal day. \n\nList! the deep-toned thunder\'s roar \n\nIntoning from a farther shore h \n\nIt rises to a louder crash \n\nAmid the gleaming lightning\'s flash; \n\nAn angry shot, a bursting shell, \n\nA loosening of the powers of hell: \n\nThe air is rent; the sea is stirred; \n\nThe day of wrath, so long deferred, \n\nBegins its dawn, lets loose its play \n\nIn battle on Manila Bay. \n\nThe ships go down! The lives go out! \n\nBeginning of a Demon\'s route. \n\nThe earth itself in tremor shakes; \n\nIts inner fire again outbreaks, \n\nOn Cuba\'s shot-rent, blood-stained sand, \n\nAs near to Pensacola\'s strand \n\nAs could the tyrant\'s ghost remain: \n\nHe dies! and broken is his chain. \n\nAnd now, for aye, the dungeon sealed \nHath opened on a wrath revealed. \nS2 \n\n\n\nOur Thinning Ranks \n\n(Dedicated to Union Survivors of the great Civil War) \n\nHark! A Morris Island gun* \n\nBooms out beneath the Southern sun: \n\nAn overt act; a proud defy \n\nTo kinsmen \'neath the Northern sky; \n\nA proclamation winged by fire \n\nThat slavery shall not expire; \n\nA hint that, though Rebellion frown, \n\nThe North shall sit supinely down ; \n\nAn ultimatum hurled with hate, \n\nImperiling the Nation\'s fate; \n\nA vow that, though the blood may flow, \n\nThe South shall be allowed to go. \n\n"What meaneth this?" the North inquires, \nEre the report of gun expires. \n\n\n\n*The first shot on Fort Sumter was fired by an old Virginian \nnamed Edward Ruffln, with long white hair hanging down over his \nshoulders. He was very proud of the act, and often boasted of it. He \nsurvived the war, but lost all his property and became so insanely em- \nbittered that, at the close of hostilities, June 17, 1865, at the home of his \nson, near Danville, Va., he committed suicide by blowing off the top of \nhis head with a gun. He left a note in his pocket saying, u I can not \nsurvive the liberty of my country." The wretched man was then \nalmost eighty years of age. \n\n3 33 \n\n\n\n"Davis answers rough and curt, \n\nWith mortar, Paixhan, and petard, \n\n\'Sumter is ours, and nobody hurt; \n\nWe tender Abe our Beau-regard.\' "* \n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n"Old Abe" receives the stinging note \n\nAnd sends a call for troops afloat: \n\n"Come forth, militia, far and near, \n\nIn prime and ready fighting gear; \n\nFor South Carolina, Georgia too, \n\nAnd sister States, have proved untrue \n\nTo this Republic\'s gracious .laws, \n\nAnd have proclaimed Secession\'s cause!" \n\nThey come, as loyal hearts and true \n\nAs ever donned the Union blue; \n\nThey come from desk and forge and farm, \n\nResponding to the stern alarm; \n\nThey come with energy and zeal, \n\nTo elevate their country\'s weal. \n\nBig Bethel halts their hurrying feet; \nTheir boyish eyes the carnage greet; \n\n*TMs sarcastic answer in verse was actually sent by a Mr. \nHooper, Secretary of the Montgomery Secession Convention, in reply \nto a question sent by the agent of the Associated Press at Washington, \n" What is the feeling there ? " \n\n34 \n\n\n\nBrained by a cruel Minie ball, \n\nJohn Greble is the first to fall; \n\nThen Winthrop goes, and fourteen more, \n\nAll dead, with wounded thirty-four. \n\nThe trembling wires flash the news, \n\nAnd startled Northmen voice their views: \n\n"Let treason perish!" is the cry; \n\n"Let freedom live, though millions die!" \n\nMore soldiers rally to the front, \n\nAll nerved for warfare\'s dreadful brunt. \n\nNor wait they long; their foes are there \n\nFor their tenets to do and dare; \n\nThe doctrine of "State rights" their creed, \n\nProvincial heresy gone to seed.* \n\n\xe2\x99\xa6During the entire nineteenth century, notably after the year \n1830, the South had been imbibing and inculcating the doctrine of \nState Supremacy and Sovereignty, even to the extent of asserting the \nright of the State to construe the National Constitution for itself, and \nto declare at will the Tariff Acts of Congress to be null and void. The \nexponents of this doctrine took every occasion to give standing and \nforce to their views, frequently opposing, or even defying, the laws \nmade by the Federal Government. Finally the right of a State to \nsecede from the Union on any pretext or for any purpose was boldly \nproclaimed, the Secessionists holding that each State was " free and \nindependent," and could do as it pleased. But the North held differ- \nently. It denied the right of any State to secede at will, or to nullify \nan Act of the National Government. It strenuously asserted that the \nConstitution of the United States had been adopted and ratified in \nevery State by a convention of its people, and that if the right to repeal \nand rescind these acts of adoption and ratification existed at all, it \nmust be exercised by the people of a State in convention assembled, \n\n35 \n\n\n\nBut mark you well; the heretic, \n\nWhen once confirmed, is strong and quick \n\nHis cherished doctrines to defend; \n\nHe holds them to the bitter end. \n\nNo deadlier foes than heretics \n\nLong steeped in vicious politics; \n\nThey fight sincere; they fear not death, \n\nNor yield until they yield their breath. \n\nAnd such are they whose weapons flash, \n\nIn eager heat with ours to clash; \n\nThey meet us on Rich Mountain height, \n\nBut yield not, though they lose the fight; \n\nThey wait Bull Run. Alack the hour \n\nThat calls in play their fighting power! \n\nThree thousand boys in Union blue \n\nAre strewn upon the red plateau; \n\nMcDowell breaks, McClellan flies, \n\nAnd Freedom\'s beauteous goddess sighs. \n\nBut naught can conquer Uncle Sam \nWhile Honest Abe says, "His I am!" \n\nand not by State officials or by political leaders. The North also \ninsisted that the real motive of the Secessionists was the perpetuation \nand extension of slavery* and hence denominated the war as the \n" Slaveholders\' Rebellion." In the very nature of the case these diver- \ngent views could be settled only by an appeal to arms, and this was \ndone. \n\n36 \n\n\n\nHe gives to Rosecrans a star, \n\nMcClellan stock sends up to par, \n\nAs shrill he calls the country o\'er, \n\n"Come forth, three hundred thousand more !" \n\nThey come, the strong, the brave, the great, \nFrom Plymouth Rock to Golden Gate: \nFarragut, Sickles, Banks, Dupont, \nHalleck, Howard, Dodge, Fremont; \nThe captains of a gallant host, \nEach plumed and ready at his post. \n\nAt Wilson\'s Creek a Lyon bold \n\nWith Sigel eeeks the field to hold. \n\nBrave Lyon falls; his troopers yield, \n\nAnd the insurgents hold the field. \n\nThe hour is dark, but volunteers \n\nRush forth amid the Nation\'s cheers. \n\nA battle here, a skirmish there, \n\nA blasted hope, a wailing prayer, \n\nSore griefs, deep sighs, and floods of tears \n\nProclaim rebellion\'s sorrowing years. \n\nA race from servitude is freed; \nTask-masters curse the luckless mede; \n\nm \n\n\n\nThey curse and vow a vengeance sore \nOn abolition heads galore, \nWhile good old Abraham opes the door \nAnd calls six hundred thousand more. \nHe calls, and freemen swarm the land, \nWhile taking freedmen by the hand; \nBlack regiments go forth to fight, \nAnd angry chivalry gropes in night. \n\nThe months roll on; more troops march in, \nAnd swift ensues the battles\' din. \nFort Henry falls; then Donelson, \nAnd Grant looms on the horizon. \nSherman is with him; battles rage, \nAnd Union chiefs flock on the stage: \nThomas, McCook, and Crittenden, \nMcPherson, Negley, Sheridan, \nSchofield, Sedgwick, Prentiss, Blair, \nGranger, Dahlgren, Canby rare, \nKilpatrick, Sumner, there they go; \nWallace, Logan, "Fighting Joe," \nCuster, counting fighting fun, \nWho never lost a flag or gun. \n\n38 \n\n\n\nOho ! What \'s this in Hampton Roads, \n\nWhich dire destruction now forebodes? \n\nA giant craft with iron sides \n\nIn proud disdain the harbor rides. \n\nGive way ! Let gunboats clear the track I \n\nThis monster is the Merrimac. \n\nBut wait! A Yankee stirs his brain \nAnd takes on an inventive train. \nHe turns a cheese-box upside down, \nA tiny floating raft to crown, \nPlants hell in germ beneath the wave, \nAnd ventures forth his land to save. \n\nA shot, a crash, an ugly tear, \nA skip, a dodge, now here, now there; \nThe little cheese-box whirls around, \nEscapes the broadsides safe and sound, \nDeals deadly blows straight in the neck, \nAnd leaves the Merrimac a wreck. \nFor Worden praise, and also for \nBoth Ericsson and his Monitor. \n\nNow turn your eyes Arkansas way, \nSee Curtis win the Pea Ridge fray; \n39 \n\n\n\nThen on to Island Number Ten, \n\nWith Foote the commodore, and men; \n\nThence southward with the mortar-boats \n\nUntil the starry ensign floats \n\nO\'er old Fort Pillow\'s blazing walls, \n\nAnd helpless Memphis also falls. \n\nNow Butler captures New Orleans, \n\nAnd furious vixens vent their spleens. \n\nThe "Father of Waters" soon is cleared, \n\nAnd conquering "Yanks" at last are feared. \n\nNow Murfreesboro stirs the land, \nWhile Vicksburg yields to Grant\'s demand ; \nThe second Bull Run, under Pope, \nAdds little to the Union hope; \nFrom Williamsburg to Malvern Hill \nThe desperate fights small purpose fill; \nContending legions rise and fall; \nStupendous killing crowneth all. \nMen call such action "civil war;" \nDeath must himself the name abhor. \n\nNow come Antietam, Fredericksburg, \nChancellorsville, and Gettysburg; \n40 \n\n\n\nOn War\'s eternal roll of fame \nThese names are writ in living flame. \nHere giant struggles reach their height; \nArmed men can know no fiercer fight; \nThe hellish charges, charge-proof mounds; \nThe bloody angles, corpse-heaped grounds; \nThe deathless ardor, uncurbed will; \nThe shattered armies, fighting still; \nEach nervy onset sharply fans \nThe prowess of Americans; \nHere Stoneman, Cutler, Slocum, Meade, \nTheir laurels win by noble deed; \nHere Reynolds brave and Whipple die, \nWhile Hancock, Rodman wounded lie; \nVirginia\'s army, riddled through, \nHastens homeward, sick and blue; \n"Stonewall" Jackson breathes his last; \nRebellion\'s brightest day has passed. \n\nOn goes the fight, both East and West, \nBy river side, on mountain crest; \nTen thousands fall, to rise no more, \nYet other thousands swift outpour, \n41 \n\n\n\nAnd firm and strong the battle lines \nAre held amid the Southern pines; \nThe men who die, but will not yield, \nAre still in evidence on the field. \n\nNow Resaca in Georgia falls, \nWhile Jackson\'s fate the world appalls ; \nWinchester by the sword is riven, \nWith Earty in confusion driven; \nCorinth records a sorry day \nFor the retreating men in gray; \nChickamauga drenched with blood; \nShiloh soaked with gory flood; \nMissionary\'s Ridge in flame;* \nAll speak the deadly iron game; \nLookout Mountain, wrapped in cloud, \nForetokens a Confederate shroud; \nAtlanta won, leaves Sherman free \nFor his astounding march to sea. \n\n"The silent man" now counts the cost; \nHe never yet a battle lost; \nTo end the war is his incline; \nTo fight it out along that line; \n42 \n\n\n\nTo fight it out, without delay, \n\nUnto the latest summer day. \n\nAnd fight he does; his iron grip \n\nComporteth -with his silent lip ; \n\nHe fights the Wilderness campaign, \n\nEndures the Spottsylvania strain ; \n\nIgnores Cold Harbor\'s second rout, \n\nApproves the Five Forks brilliant bout; \n\nDispatches Wilson on his raid, \n\nMobile\'s seizure thus to aid; \n\nTips Sheridan\'s effective moves ; \n\nAdvances through the shot-hewn grooves ; \n\nCuts Richmond\'s sources of supply ; \n\nBlows Petersburg into the sky; \n\nTears Lee\'s defending lines apart; \n\nStrikes terror to Secession\'s heart; \n\nSends Davis flying to the woods, \n\nWith rattled Cabinet and goods, \n\nWhere, caught in woman\'s guise, ill-starred, \n\nOur Pritchard pays him "beau-regard."* \n\n*At the time of his arrest near Irwinsville, Ga., Jefferson Davis \nhad on a woman\'s shawl and a waterproof cloak, and these articles, to- \ngether with the spurs by which he was detected, are now in the archives \nof the National Government at Washington, D. C. Corporal George \nMunger, Oo. O., Fourth Michigan Cavalry, Colonel B. F. Pritchard \ncommanding, was immediately present and assisted in his capture. \n\n43 \n\n\n\nNow silence reigns; the guns are still, \nAnd Grant meets Lee on yonder hill; \nThe Nation, glad at war\'s surcease, \nApproves the generous terms of peace. \nBrave men who fought on either side, \nDeep wading through the crimson tide, \nHeave one deep sigh, and all is o\'er, \nThe Blue and Gray contend no more. \n\nNo more the Blue and Gray contend, \nYet, who their hurts can e\'er amend? \nThree hundred thousand loyal sons \nHave lost their lives. Disloyal ones \nAs many more. And with the slain, \nFour hundred thousand breathe in pain. \nA million able-bodied men, \nOn gory field, in prison pen, \nIn hospital, or crippled state, \nAll meet at length a soldier\'s fate; \nAnd this because, \'neath Southern sun, \nThat Charleston Harbor venomed gun \nHissed forth its challenge, hot and clear, \nTo men who held the Union dear. \n44 \n\n\n\nBut pause ! A shot of pistol dread ! \nGreat Abraham Lincoln bows his head! \nThe rarest wine of life is spilled! \nThe Nation\'s cup of grief is filled! \nThe kindest, safest, best of men \nHas passed the bounds of mortal ken. \nA fiendish plot! A madman\'s deed, \nTo make the hearts of freemen bleed. \n"Virginia is avenged!" he cries, \nAs swift the vile assassin flies. \nBut Corbett\'s gun ends Booth\'s career, \nWhile round the martyred Lincoln\'s bier \nThe loyal millions, stunned with grief, \nLament in tears their well-loved chief. \nWell may the South her sorrow lend; \nShe, too, has lost her truest friend.* \n\nAnd we were there; and, we are here, \nSurvivors of survivors dear; \n\n* Within the few days that intervened between the surrender of \nGeneral Lee at Appomattox and the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, one \nin his close confidence prophesied that his plans of reconstruction \nwould "win over the South\'s good will and affection, and astonish the \nworld." And in giving his plans effect, there could be no question that \nGeneral Grant would have aided him, because he had already set an ex- \nample of magnanimity by the liberal terms of surrender given to Lee\'s \narmy, and during the few last hours of his life he expressed the wish \nthat there might be enduring peace betwixt the South and North. \n\n45 \n\n\n\nA million strong we left the strife, \n\nReturned again to civil life; \n\nWe \'ve struggled on through hopes and fears \n\nFor lo! these four and forty years; \n\nAnd now a lingering scattered few, \n\nWe soon must bid the world adieu. \n\nWe 5 re falling fast. The reaper grim \n\nKnows how the keenest eye to dim; \n\nKnows how to muffle every ear, \n\nThe fullest pulse to slowly sear; \n\nAnd, though the health have ne\'er a fault, \n\nKnows how the strongest step to halt. \n\nYet still our pulses thrill with life \nIn memory of that fearful strife; \nOur eyes are dim, but quick to see \nOur glorious banner floating free; \nOur ears are dull, }^et on them fall \nThe echoes of the bugle call; \nOur sentiments remain the same: \nWe still detest Secession\'s name; \nOur principles are bright and strong: \nWe love the right and hate the wrong; \n\n46 \n\n\n\nWere Sumter fired on again, \nOur blood would stir the same as when \nWe grasped the rifle and the blade, \nTo make grim war our ruthless trade; \nWe love the Union, cherish truth, \nThe same as in our dashing youth. \n\nOur foes are friends. Most of them sleep \nIn warless slumber long and deep; \nAnd when the trump shall bid them rise, \nThere \'11 dawn on their enlightened eyes \nThis truth: Whatever be the cost, \n\nA WICKED CAUSE IS BETTER LOST ! \n\nt2r* \xc2\xab^* <\xc2\xa3* \n\nThe Grand Canyon \n\nArizona! Arid zone! \nNature\'s niche with grandeur sown! \nEvolution\'s wildest freak! \nEarthly wonder most unique! \n\nSee that yawning Canyon Grand! \nSee its sunken mountains stand! \n\n47 \n\n\n\nSee its mighty river roll! \n\nFeel its depth within your soul! \n\nO\'er the gulf your vision cast; \nGauge the distance, blue and vast; \nSearch the depths, so calm and clear; \nQuell your doubtings, curb your fear. \n\nNote the towering pictured walls, \nOn which dazzling sunlight falls; \nRed and purple, azure gray; \nTinted rock and painted clay. \n\nStudy those fantastic forms \nChiseled out by Titan storms; \nAncient capitols and domes, \nPhantom ships, and mystic homes. \n\nStand in awe at chasm brink! \nWierd-like inspiration drink! \nThink of God and boundless space! \nBow the knee and veil the face! \n\n"Here \'s the end !" my spirit cries ; \nOther scenes may greet my eyes; \nBut till heaven its sights unfold, \nCanyon Grand first place shall hold. \n48 \n\n\n\nThe Common Chord \n\nOn the placid Rappahannock, in the strifes of \'sixty- \nthree, \n\nWhen the fight-scarred Federal forces coped with those \nof General Lee; \n\nJust at eve the armies halted, one on either side the stream, \n\nHalted ere to-morrow\'s battle, for the soldiers\' sleep \nand dream. \n\nDreams there are which know no slumber, dreams of \n\nhome and kindred dear; \nReveries and fond reflections, images of loved ones near ; \nFriend and foe alike are dreaming, dreaming in the \n\nwaking state, \nWhether in the pending battle life or death shall be \n\ntheir fate. \n\nAs the shades of twilight deepen, in the Rappahannock \n\nvales, \nMartial music breaks the stillness of the thickly-tented \n\ndales ; \nUnion bands play "Yankee Doodle," the Confederate \n\n"Dixie" sound; \nEach responding to the other o\'er the close-contested \n\nground. \n4 49 \n\n\n\nNow \'t is "Maryland, My Maryland," on the homesick \n\nSouthern side; \n"Hail, Columbia," play the Northmen; each the other\'s \n\nsongs deride; \n"Pretty Maid of Sunny Southland" chant the bands \n\nfrom Southern posts; \n"Just Before the Battle, Mother," answer back the \n\nNorthern hosts. \n\nListen, now! for low and softly from a band far up \n\nthe crest \nComes a strain that stirs emotion in the stoutest soldier \n\nbreast ; \n? T is the melody familiar, "Home, Sweet Home," afloat \n\nthe air; \nCommon chord for "Yank" and "Johnnie," resting on \n\ntheir armor there. \n\nResting, singing low and softly, led by bands in blue \n\nand gray, \nTenderly the stern combatants sink to sleep or kneel to \n\npray; \nAnd the music, toned by manhood, swells to heaven\'s \n\nwarless dome, \nAs it leaves the lips of soldiers longing for the joys \n\nof home. 50 \n\n\n\nThe Land We Love \n\nThou favored, prospered, honored land, \nWith riches strewn by lavish hand; \nThe refuge of the world\'s oppressed, \nHome-seekers\' shrine and pilgrims\' rest! \n\nThou youthful Nation, strong and great, \nWith sound ideas of Church and State! \nThy plans and principles control \nMan\'s uplift toward a higher goal. \n\nThou realm of liberty and light! \n\nTo rectify the tyrant\'s blight, \n\nGod called thee, from His radiant throne, \n\nTo make His highest concepts known; \n\nTo shine in justice, mercy too; \nTo keep right thought and life in view; \nThe cause of truth and w r orth to serve, \nAnd give to progress quickened nerve. \n\nStand forth, acclaimed United States! \nWith open, guarded, golden gates; \nThy starry flag is still the sign \nOf freedom\'s far-extending line. \n51 \n\n\n\nA Creature of Contradictions \n\nA man may be modest, and yet may be mean; \nMay even be mirthful, and yet vent his spleen; \nHe may stir the Four Hundred with Chesterfield air, \nAnd yet in his dealings be grossly unfair: \nHow strange is man! \n\nA man may be tidy, and yet be unclean; \nHis filth may be mammoth, and still be unseen; \nWhile nicely concealing his foulness of soul, \nA thousand indecencies through him may roll: \nHow low is man! \n\nA man may be homely, and handsome besides; \nFor beauty of heart over ugliness rides: \nMay have an exterior rough as the sea, \nYet stay in a temper as calm as can be: \nHow fine is man! \n\nA man may accumulate little of wealth; \nMay suffer through life for the want of good health; \nYet riches of spirit in him may be found, \nAnd he may to life\'s end be most morally sound: \nHow grand is man! \n52 \n\n\n\nThe Supreme Word \n\nWhat is the largest word in mortal speech? \n\nWhat is the noblest thought in human reach? \n\nIs it "position," "fortune," "fame," or "power?" \n\nIs it "the pleasure of the passing hour?" \n\nIs it "long life," "sweet death," or "home," or "heaven?" \n\nIs it "the prestige to a monarch given?" \n\nI turn from these, though good, and high, and great, \n\nAnd find in service man\'s supreme estate. \n\nSimply to serve, to help, befriend, and aid; \n\nThis is the path to royal honors laid; \n\nThis is earth\'s bliss \xe2\x80\x94 a bliss without alloy; \n\nThis is the title clear to heaven\'s joy; \n\nThis is the Christ-work, strong and pure and best \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n"Ye did it," or "Ye did it not," the test. \n\nNaught else for man hath such uplifting might; \n\nNaught else consoles in death\'s on-coming night. \n\nServe on! serve well! serve much! and serve just now! \nYour heart, your head, your knee, in service bow! \nServe God ! serve men ! Do what to hand appears ; \nThis is the wine which throne-bound spirit cheers; \n\n53 \n\n\n\nThis is the substance of Life\'s savings fund; \nThis is the gold immortals take beyond. \nFor faith and love and hope in earthly call, \nService stands forth the crown and proof of all. \n\nffirf t2^ t&^* \n\nThis Bad, Bad World \n\n"The world is growing worse," they say, \n"And men more wicked every day." \nBut somehow I can scarce believe \nThat we should take alarm, or grieve. \n\nIf men are worse than men of yore; \nOf war and slavery why not more? \nIf there is more malevolence, \nWhy isn\'t ignorance more dense? \n\nWho builds the hospitals and schools, \nIf there is growth of knaves and fools? \nAnd why do Churches multiply, \nIf only rogues increase, say I? \n\n54 \n\n\n\nOf old \'t was said in sacred lays, \nThe wicked live not half their days. \nYet human life is lengthening out, \nAnd fell disease is put to rout. \n\nWhat makes this wickedness increase? \nHas God enlarged the devil\'s lease? \nHas God grown bad, or short of arm? \nHas virtue lost its regnant charm? \n\nHow bad will all the world become? \nHow soon will goodness be undone? \nWhen will hope die, and heaven close? \nAnd hell engulf the last of woes? \n\nI hear a sound; it travels far, \nThe rattle of the trolley car. \nI hear a song; it rises high \nAnd echoes in the distant sky. \n\nI hear a call: "Send us your aid! \nOur city is in ashes laid." \nAnd progress wins. The gospel goes. \nWhile charity the world o\'erflows. \n55 \n\n\n\nEvolution \n\nSome hold this world divinely made; \n\nSome think it all evolved; \nProofs for each view wise men have weighed, \n\nYet not the problem solved. \n\nBut one thing sure occurs to me \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis fine old world is here; \nIt came somehow, we can agree, \n\nNo proof could be more clear. \n\nA man \'s a man, and not an ape, \nE\'en though from ape he sprang; \n\nSome process gave him human shape \xe2\x80\x94 \nUnlike the monkey gang. \n\nIf there \'s no Will, and no Design, \n\nBut only trend, or chance, \nThen let \'s be glad for Trend benign, \n\nOur manhood to advance. \n\nIf evolution raised us up \n\nFrom molecule or worm, \nThen evolution takes the cup \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt found the raising germ. \n56 \n\n\n\nThey talk about "descent," but I \nPrefer the word "ascend;" \n\nLet "fit" survive, and fitter try- \nAscending to the end. \n\nO\'er Law and Force and sovereign Power \n\nWiseacres will dispute; \nThey like the game, and never cower, \n\nThough felled by proofs astute. \n\nO\'er "origin" they hold a spree \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSpontaneous life bespeak; \nThe life that is is good for me; \n\nWhy new beginnings seek? \n\nSurviving life is "fit," they say; \n\nThen let my life survive; \nNo life I \'11 seek from lifeless clay, \n\nBut just evolve and thrive. \n\ni&* i&^ $w^ \n\nThe Day For Sorrow \n\nNo day without gladness, \n\nNo day without sorrow; \nYesterday had its sadness, \nLet \'s sorrow to-morrow. \n\n57 \n\n\n\nThe Glorious Sunshine \n\nThe sunshine kisses every cheek \nAnd paints each lovely flower; \n\nIt gleams in strength when winds are bleak, \nAnd brighter after shower. \n\nIt knows no rank of creed or birth, \n\nOf saintliness or badness; \nBut pours its splendor on the earth, \n\nWith constancy and gladness. \n\nIt\'s just as full for us to-day, \n\nAs for the ancient fathers; \nAbout such things as times and dates \n\nIt never even bothers. \n\nO glorious sunshine, free and fair! \n_ In thy bright beams, unfailing, \nWe bask until we cleave the air, \nEternal oceans sailing. \n\n\n\n58 \n\n\n\nBay View \n\nAmong the charming grove retreats, \n\nWhere classic Culture lends her care; \nWhere Praise her litany repeats, \n\nAnd Reverence lifts her voice in prayer, \xe2\x80\x94 \nI know of one serene and bright, \n\nA peerless gem on Nature\'s breast, \nWhere cooling breezes fan the night, \n\nAnd gentle voices lull to rest. \nA terraced frontage, tier on tier, \n\nThe distant hills and dales look o\'er, \nWhile varying landscapes cluster near \n\nAnd sparkling waters lave the shore; \nWhere fiery steeds on tracks of steel \n\nThe throttle bar and brake obey, \nAnd merry laughter, peal on peal, \n\nAwakes the echoes round the bay. \nIn shady nook, on sunlit hill, \n\nThe summer mansions greet the eye, \nWhile orators and songsters thrill \n\nThe hearts of those who gather nigh. \nNew thought for each, sweet strains for all, \n\nAbiding pleasure, constant zest; \nA cheery life in home and hall, \n\nAnd everything with gladness blest. \n59 \n\n\n\nPoetic Locomotion \n\nThere is poetry in riding; the speeding auto car \nMoves like the flow of rhythm, without a fault or jar; \nBut poetry in walking has never been affirmed; \nThis everlasting plodding a prosy thing is termed. \n\nThere is poetry in sailing, in sailing far away, \nOn ever-rolling billows, in blue and green and gray; \nBut walking is not sailing, as every man has found \nWhose feet are ever moving, yet never leave the ground. \n\nThere is poetry in flying ; who would n\'t take a waft \nWith skillful aviator aboard a modern craft? \nBut poetry in walking is not so quick discerned; \nPedestrians are stalking as first the art they learned. \n\nYet though these flying movements have their poetic \n\ncharms, \nI envy not their rhythm, nor covet their alarms; \nJust let me walk as need be, from fear and danger free, \nAnd I \'11 be very happy till wings are given me. \n\n\n\n60 \n\n\n\nThe Trolley \n\nHigh-mettled steed of the wire-girt ring; \nTireless flyer of featherless wing; \nPushing or pulling thy burden along, \nRapidly, orderly, evenly, strong; \nGracing the city with incoming guest, \nCheering the suburb with outgoing zest; \nHaunting the highways at other times lone, \nGiving to rural life urbanly tone. \n\nMerciful helper of poverty vast, \nMerciless crusher of money-made caste; \nKnowing no titles, ignoring all claims, \nCarrying multitudes reckless of aims; \nMaster of traffic and servant of toil, \nYoking the merchants with tillers of soil; \nKeeping us moving, affording us rest, \nHitched to the chariot of progress the best. \n\nUp in the early morn, shaming the sun; \nFilling with pleasure the night-hour run; \nFlashing the torches along the steel track, \nBending to seasons with marvelous knack; \n\n61 \n\n\n\nBreasting the storm-king\'s iciest zone, \nNeighing to summer, with heat and cyclone; \nAlways and everywhere keenly alert, \nGroomed by the skill of electric expert. \nHere \'s to the trolley-steed, friend of us all, \nFeeding on atmosphere, clouds for his stall; \nAsking no favors of animate life, \nPledging his service through time-lasting strife, \nMeasuring strength with the monarch of steam, \nReady and quick as the flash of sunbeam; \nNearing ideals each laboring day, \nHolding his value forever and aye. \n\nt^* JF* 4&r* \n\nThe Auto \n\nA distant stir, a rush of air, \nA moment\'s whir, a glance, a stare, \nA polished sheen, a brilliant gleam, \nA greeting keen, a dash supreme, \nA sight, a scent, a fading view, \nA vision spent, \xe2\x80\x94 alone are you. \n\n\n\n62 \n\n\n\nPart II \nJuvenile Jingles \n\n\n\nThe poetry of morning hours \nThe happy world is filling, \n\nFor then the sheen is on the flowers \nAnd birds their glad notes trilling. \n\n\n\n5 \no \n\nin \nC \n\nH \n\nC \n< \n\nr \n\n\n\n\nThe Polliwog \n\nA cunning little polliwog lived in a swale; \nHis only way to travel was to wiggle his tail; \nHe had n\'t any hands, and he had n\'t any feet, \nBut when he went a-swimming he could n\'t well be beat. \nOne day he ate his dinner and swam around the swale, \nAnd found his legs were growing longer than his tail; \nIt made him feel so happy he jumped upon a log, \nAnd always ever after was a big bullfrog. \n\nJr* t2^* t2r* \n\nThe Quarry \n\nThis life is a quarry, and ours the skill \nTo cut from that quarry whatever we will; \nTo mold and to chisel a character high, \nAnd fit it at last for a niche in the sky. \n\n\n\n65 \n\n\n\nThe Partners \n\nA kitten and a doggie sailed \nIn loving, peaceful partner-ship; \n\nThey never at each other railed, \nNor let a cross expression slip. \n\nThey would not scratch, nor growl, nor bite, \nNor pull each other\'s fur nor hair; \n\nThey never had a single fight, \n\nNor pain of ugly wound to bear. \n\nTheir vessel was a basket old, \n\nAnd each was captain, fore and aft; \n\nEach was a mate and pilot bold, \n\nAnd neither ever cursed or laughed. \n\nThey simply used their common sense, \nAnd always wore a pleasant look; \n\nAnd now they have their recompense \xe2\x80\x94 \nUpheld as models in a book. \n\n\n\n66 \n\n\n\n\nA PLEASANT LOOK \n\n\n\n"If I Had Money" \n\n"If I had money" I would build \n\nA business structure vast, \nWith shelf and counter treasure-filled, \n\nAnd salesmen selling fast. \n\n"If I had money" I \'d erect \nA dwelling fine and strong, \n\nWith lawns and gardens flower-decked, \nAnd music all day long. \n\n"If I had money" I would give \n\nTo every worthy cause; \nThe sick, the poor, the lone should live \n\nAt ease without a pause. \n\nAnd since I have some cash in fact, \nWith more I hope to earn, \n\nI will begin the giving act, \nLest I may never learn. \n\n\n\n67 \n\n\n\nChristmas, Then and Now* \n\nIn early Christian centuries \n\nOur blessed Lord\'s nativity \n\nWas by our fathers first observed. \n\nAnd how the modern world has swerved \n\nFrom Christmas customs then in vogue, \n\nFor now the harsh, blood-thirsty rogue, \n\nIn desperate work and fiercer play, \n\nNo longer rules this natal day. \n\nWhile Diocletian ruled the East, \nGood Christians met in solemn feast, \nWithin their church this day to keep \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo praise and pray, to sing and weep. \n\nThe fiercest persecutions raged. \n\nThe foes of Christ were all engaged \n\nTo crush His Church and curse His name, \n\nAnd all His followers put to shame. \n\n* \n\n*The observance of Christmas can not be traced back farther than \nthe second or third century. History shows that during the persecu- \ntions under the Roman emperors, the followers of Christ were in the \nhabit of celebrating the nativity of their Lord. Thus Cave cites from \nBaronius the following sad story of one of the earliest of these observ- \nances: M While the persecution raged under Diocletian, who then kept \nhis court at Nicomedia, the tyrant, finding multitudes of Christians, \nyoung and old, met together to celebrate Christ\'s nativity, commanded \nthe church door to be shut, and fire put to it, which reduced them and \nthe church to ashes." \n\n68 \n\n\n\nSo to this church these demons went, \nAs if from hell they had been sent. \nThey gathered round, a surging crowd, \nWith threatenings fierce and curses loud. \n\nThey fastened all the windows down, \nSecured the doors, and then to drown \nThe trembling cries and prayers within, \nThey raised a wild, appalling din; \nWhile on the windward side they piled \nThe fagots high, with tar defiled. \n\nThe ready heap they set on fire, \nAnd louder yelled as slowly higher \nAround the house of God the smoke, \nWith glaring flames, like heavy cloak \nWith crimson lined, rose thickly up. \n"We 11 make you drink the bitter cup \nOf death by fire!" they madly screamed \nTo those within, who strangely seemed \nTo be above their cruel power, \nThough doomed to death that fearful hour. \n\nFor while these rough, incarnate fiends \nSought vent to hatred in such means \n69 \n\n\n\nOf cruel torture, there arose \nFrom hearts resigned to human woes, \nWithin that flame-enwrapped retreat, \nHigh upwards to the mercy seat, \nA thousand sweet, forgiving prayers \nIn their behalf, that from the snares \nOf Satan these their murderers might \nBe rescued, and from heathen night. \n\nAnd thus \'mid cursing jeers without, \nAnd prayer within, and happy shout, \nThis temple raised to God on high \nWas burned in the third century; \nAnd hundreds of God\'s happy saints, \nWithout retractions or complaints, \nWithin its walls resigned their breath \xe2\x80\x94 \nRejoicing in a martyr\'s death \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd while their bodies melted down, \nTheir spirits rose to wear the crown; \nAnd all because on Christmas day \nThey met within their church to pray. \n\nLo, what a change ! From out the world \nAll persecution has been hurled, \n70 \n\n\n\nAnd fearless Christians now convene \nTo celebrate in chosen scene \nThis happy day. In temples grand, \nAnd homes and halls in every land, \nIn peace and praise and merry glee, \nThey gather round the Christmas tree, \nWhose branches bend with heavy weight \nOf tokens small and tokens great, \nWhile round about a multitude \nOf young and old expectant brood. \n\nThe light that flashes on it high \nReflects in many a beaming eye; \nThe sweets which hang upon its boughs \nWill soon fill up the watering mouths. \nThe toys, from ape to rocking-horse, \nThe boys will certainly endorse. \nThe rings and pins and bracelets fair \nThe charming maidens soon will wear; \nWhile in their gloves and wrappers warm, \nYoung men will laugh through many a storm. \nFor quilt or coat or fur or dress \nThe old their thanks will oft express; \nFor furniture and silverware \nGood wives will banish many a care; \n71 \n\n\n\nFor solid, odd, or useful gift \n\nThe men will feel an added thrift. \n\nO ho ! what splendid sight is this, \n\nFor prancing boy and pretty miss; \n\nTo see the candy hanging high, \n\nThe girl lifts up the baby nigh. \n\nAt sight of boat with flags and sails, \n\nOne boy \'s on tip-toe \xe2\x80\x94 language fails. \n\nThe next boy holds his hands behind \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFew gifts his own he thinks to find. \n\nWith watch or locket in her hand, \n\nOne thoughtful miss is seen to stand; \n\nAs something never seen before, \n\nTwo tiny cherubs talk it o\'er. \n\nThat girl who sees the costly doll, \n\nTo have it hers would give her all. \n\nA brother dear is at her side \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA jumping- jack he has espied. \n\nAnd so, a hundred children round, \n\nWith eager expectation crowned, \n\nAwait Old Santa\'s word and will, \n\nWhose coming soon their hearts will thrill; \n\nThen what a happy band there \'11 be \n\nAround the lardened Christmas tree. \n\n72 \n\n\n\n\nTHE LADENED CHRISTMAS TREE \n\n\n\nNature\'s Own Beverage \n\nCold water for me, \n\nAbundant and free, \nAssuaging my thirst where\'er I may be; \n\nIn woodland or vale, \n\nBy roadside or trail, \nCold water a friend that shall nevermore fail. \n\nCold water for you, \n\nNone better to view, \nA solace approved by the wise and the true; \n\nNo ill from its use, \n\nNo call for abuse, \nFor turning to other there is no excuse. \n\nCold water I bring, \n\nClear and pure from the spring, \nAs healthful as air, good enough for a king; \n\nFrom a sparkling tide, \n\nBy the cool hillside, \nThis cup of refreshing I bring you with pride. \n\n\n\n73 \n\n\n\nOnly \n\nOnly a bit of yellow stain; \n\nOnly a little cigarette; \nOnly a youth\'s disordered brain; \n\nOnly a life-wreck to regret. \n\nOnly a little "coffin-nail;" \n\nOnly a habit \'neath contempt; \n\nOnly a face encoffined, pale; \nOnly a home from joy exempt. \n\n<^" l2r* t&* \n\nContent With Little \n\nWhen nature hath but little need, \n\nA little is enough; \nWhen man hath gained enough with speed, \n\nContentment is the stuff. \n\n\n\n74 \n\n\n\n\n\n\nin \nW \n\nX \n> \n\n\n\nr \nG \n\na \n\nG \nm \n\nto \n\nI\xe2\x80\x94* \n\nH \n\n\n\n\nDem Melons \n\nI knows just whar dcm melons are; \n\nDem melons ripe and fine; \nDey grows up in de patches dar, \n\nJust o\'er Mas\' Linkum\'s line. \n\nI \'se watched them growin\' all de year ; \n\nI \'se prayed for sun and rain ; \nI \'se seen dem in de moonlight clear, \n\nFrom Massa Linkum\'s lane. \n\nI \'se hoed among \'em f roo de day ; \n\nI \'se watched \'em in de night ; \nAnd in de co\'ner by de way \n\nI \'se had a lushus bite. \n\nDem melons is de bes\' what grows ; \n\nI wish dey \'d alias grow ; \nFor den, as Massa Linkum knows, \n\nI \'d in his patches hoe. \n\n\n\n75 \n\n\n\nThe Meanest Thing in the World \n\nIn life I have traveled o\'er many a mile, \n\nBy railroad, by steamboat, on horseback, on foot; \n\nThe big world I \'ve seen in its pomp and its style, \nAnd endured the stern hardships of warfare to boot. \n\nOf monarchs hard-hearted, like Nero, I \'ve read, \nDelighting to revel in frolics of blood; \n\nOf barbarous minions mutilating the dead \n\nAnd drenching fair lands with a warm, crimson flood. \n\nThe traitor I \'ve known, so detested by all ; \n\nThe pimp and the harlot, to decency blind; \nThe dirty old miser, with wealth in his hall, \n\nYet selfish and stupid, despised by mankind. \n\nScolding wives I have known, vicious, ugly, and keen; \n\nHusbands lost to compassion and dripping with \nshame ; \nFretful, peevish old maids, queerly tempered and mean, \n\nAnd husky old bachelors, morally lame. \n\n76 \n\n\n\nOver smokers and chewers men make great ado; \n\nThe habit is filthy, offensive, condemned; \nSo also the drinker, the sot is so low \n\nThat paint him in language I do not pretend. \n\nBut of all the world\'s foibles, its weakness, and sin, \nI pause at a temper eclipsing the whole ; \n\nIt causes more trouble, creates a worse din, \nThan all other habits which darken the soul. \n\nTake heed to the demon which now I indict! \n\nBeware of its spirit, lest long you regret; \nThe meanest of mean things, the farthest from right, \n\nIs temper that will not forgive nor forget. \n\nJP 1&* t\xc2\xa3r* \n\n\n\nTwo Neighbors \n\nA STUUDY man, Pluck was his name, \nIn strenuous tasks was always found; \n\nHe climbed the steps of noble fame, \n\nAnd left his neighbor, Luck, uncrowned. \n\n\n\n77 \n\n\n\nWhat Am I? \n\nNo man hath ever seen me, yet fan I every cheek ; \n\nNo man can breathe without me, however strong or weak ; \n\nNo man hath ever heard me, though all may hear my \n\nsound ; \nNo man can e\'er control me, nor trace my mystic round. \n\nI go where\'er it please me, and come again at will; \nI move with rapid motion, or gently, slow, and still; \nI never have been weary, though active day and night; \nI \'m sometimes rather dreary, and often men affright. \n\nI glory in the forest, and love to sway the trees ; \nAt home upon the prairie, I make men seek their lees; \nUpon the mighty ocean I have unstinted sway, \nAnd on the lofty mountain I find a place to play. \n\nThe places where I go not, as down beneath the deep, \nAre places men may know not, though many there may \n\nsleep. \nI stay with men in pleasure; I stay with them in pain; \nI cling to mortals ever till they rest beneath the main. \n\n\n\n78 \n\n\n\nAt Wit\'s End \n\n"I know not what to do," he said, \n\n"I know not what to do; \nI \'ve stirred my brain, and wracked my head, \n\nAnd pumped my judgment too; \nBut how to turn, or what to do, \n\nIn this perplexing plight; \nTo act, yet not my action rue, \n\nIs what gets me to-night. \n\n"I know not what to do," she said, \n\n"I know not what to do; \nTo this queer point I have been led, \n\nVexatious tangles through; \nBut how to turn, or what to do, \n\nSurpasses my decree; \nWould I could see the future through \n\nAnd know the best for me." \n\n"We know not what to do," they say; \n\n"We know not what to do ;" \nThis life brings puzzles every day, \n\nAnd visions dim to view ; \n\n79 \n\n\n\nWe \'re all alike in one respect \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA nonplused, baffled crew, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWe reach the points where we reflect \n\nAnd "know not what to do." \n\nl\xc2\xa3r* f&* t\xc2\xa3r* \n\nAt Wisdom\'s Beginning \n\n"I \'l:l do my very best," he said, \n\n"In puzzling places here; \nThe best I know, and go ahead \n\nIn my assigned career. \nShould doubts extreme at length impede \n\nMy onward, upward swing, \nI \'11 try to settle them with speed \n\nAnd take more rapid wing." \n\n"I \'11 do my very best," she said, \n\n"Though come to me what may; \nThe best I can, at every tread, \n\nAnd onward urge my way; \nTo exercise a judgment quick, \n\nTo keep in working frame, \nAt every task to closely stick, \n\nShall be my constant aim," \n80 \n\n\n\nAnd here is where the wise begin \n\nTo live the wisest life; \nThe life that \'s sure the prize to win, \n\nNo matter what the strife: \nThey write upon their banner bright \n\nThis motto brave and blest \xe2\x80\x94 \n"In every peril, every plight, \n\nI \'11 do my very best." \n\nQgr* 1&* tlr* \n\nA Mighty Cable \n\nHabit is a cable; \n\nOur words and actions make it; \nIts strands we ? re daily weaving ; \n\nAt length we can not break it. \n\nOpportunity \n\nOur golden opportunity \n\nIs in the bright to-day; \nThe future may not come to us, \n\nThe past has sped away. \n81 \n\n\n\n"My \'ittle Pickaninnie" \n\nI is happy as a clam, sah; happy as de singin\' la\'k; \nHappie\' dan de bo-ideal when he goes his gi\'l to spa\'k ; \nFor my hea\'t is light as fedders, yes^ as light as a balloon, \n\'Cause my \'ittle pickaninnie nebber \'11 see dat bad saloon. \n\nI feels st\'onger dan Gib\'alta\' and de hills ob ole Quebec, \n\'Cause I know dose whisky selle\'s nebber can my" cabin \n\nwreck ; \nDey will nebber get my chill\'en; my ole man will now \n\nbe free, \nAnd dis \'ittle pickaninnie will an angel allays be. \n\nI is rich as Creasus\' kingdom, and as Rockefella\'s, too; \nAnd jes\' like de kings and princes I can almost allays do ; \nFor my man will keep a diggin\', sober, ebe\'y day de same, \nAnd my \'ittle pickaninnie \'11 hab some money to his name. \n\nSafe and rich and strong and happy, \xe2\x80\x94 can I ebbe\' ask \n\nfor more? \nDis is like de berry heb\'en ober on dat golden shore ; \nAnd if dey \'11 keep out de licke\'s I will allays bless de \n\nLawd, \nAnd my \'ittle pickaninnie \'11 be de angels\' best rewawd. \n\n82 \n\n\n\n. \'/T \n\n\n\n\nMY \'ITTLE PICKANINNIE\' \n\n\n\nLet It Go \n\nIf you make a sad mistake \xe2\x80\x94 \nOne that gives you keen heartache \nTo correct it courage take, \nThen, for own and others\' sake, \nLet it go! Let it go! \n\nIf involved in trouble sore, \nThat which stirs you to the core, \nPut it down, or pass it o\'er; \nHolding trouble makes it more, \xe2\x80\x94 \nLet it go! Let it go! \n\nShould there come a grievous loss, \nTurning gold to utter dross, \nBear it as you would a cross \nOr away the burden toss; \nLet it go! Let it go! \n\nIf surprised by a rebuff, \nCurt and surly, mean and rough, \nClass it with life\'s worthless stuff; \nCall it bluster, buncombe, bluff; \nLet it go! Let it go! \n83 \n\n\n\nShould your work with failure meet, \nNever let it cause retreat; \nWiser effort quick repeat, \nWring success from your defeat; \nMake it go! Make it go! \n\nt\xc2\xa3& t2/* tr* \n\nFight It Out \n\nf Fear is not cured by fleeing, but facing and fighting." \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 Life Line \nIf you have a milky liver \n\nAnd at bugbears quake and quiver, \nDon\'t forget that, while you shiver, \nCraven fear is no pluck-giver: \nDash right in and fight it out. \n\nIf there 5 s no escape from trouble, \nThough precaution you redouble, \nAll your moral force undouble; \nTreat the trouble as a bubble: \nFace the issue ; fight it out. \n\nIf you meet an ugly fighter, \nTight the place, and growing tighter; \n84 \n\n\n\nFear won\'t make the outlook brighter, \nNor the monster\'s fist much lighter: \nGird your loins, and fight it out. \n\nIf in mortal dread of dying, \nAlways scared, and ever sighing, \nSick of pills and potions trying; \nThen, on God\'s good help relying, \nBrave the ailment; fight it out. \n\nl2r* t\xc2\xa3r* tfi^ \n\n"Thirteen" \n\n"Unlucky," they say, is the number "thirteen," \n\nAs if figures could influence fate. \nWhat experts are the gods, as observers how keen, \n\nIf ill-luck always turns upon date! \n\nEvery month to our race its "thirteen" tosses out; \n\nNot a man from "thirteen" can escape; \nWhy is n\'t each life by this fact put to rout, \n\nAnd each door-knob surmounted by crape? \n\nOne-thirtieth of men on the "thirteenth" are born? \nDame Nature the figures defies; \n85 \n\n\n\nWhy do n\'t these "thirteenths," in a spirit forlorn, \nIn proof of ill-fortune arise? \n\nIf luck is a factor in "thirteen" affairs, \n\nOr "thirteen" a factor in luck, \nWhy has n\'t the world, in its war upon cares, \n\nCast out this big bogy w T ith pluck? \n\nTo this bugbear "thirteen," in the silliest ways, \nIn terror through life you may stoop; \n\nBut you surely will find at the end of your days \nYou have been but a victim and dupe. \n\nFor this number "thirteen" is as good as the rest ; \n\nBelieve it; you never will rue; \nFor it never brought ill to the worst or the best,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd this is a sensible view. \n\nl2r* l2F* ifi^ \n\nA Business Secret \n\nIn business learn this secret art \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe key to shekel-taking; \n\nIn all success the major part \nIs due to friendship-making. \n86 \n\n\n\n\nTHE FLYING FISH \n\n\n\nThe Flying Fish \n\nThe flying fish, upon my word, \nIs rarer than a swimming bird. \n\nA duck, a gull, a swan afloat, \nIs nothing over which to gloat. \n\nBut \'t is a most surprising thing \nTo see a real fish take w T ing. \n\nA splash, a flash, a streak of light, \nA speed quite like an arrow\'s flight; \n\nAnd while the gaping tourist cheers, \nThe fin-wing creature disappears. \n\nt2F* t&* i&* \n\n\'Git Up and Git" \n\nA homely adage, sure enough, \nIn its English, feeble stuff; \nBut remember, Church or State, \nUp and getting make men great. \n\n87 \n\n\n\nHow To Grow Old \n\nThere is no trick in growing old; \n\n\'Tis natural, like teething; \nRetaining on your life a hold, \n\nYou simply keep a-breathing. \n\nThen, later on, when strength is full \nAnd business cares are seething, \n\nYou on your life renew your pull \nAnd persevere in breathing. \n\nAnd when at last you make your will, \nYour chattels all bequeathing, \n\nYour grip on life retaining still, \nYou keep your lungs a-heaving. \n\n\'Tis all in breathing, don\'t you see? \n\nMortality defying, \nEach person lives, as all agree, \n\nTill breathing stops in dying. \n\n\n\n88 \n\n\n\nHow To Stay Young \n\nLet me state a wholesome truth: \nPerfect health is constant youth; \nSwift decay advances age; \nDoldrums o\'er diseases rage. \n\nKeep your health, if nothing more! \nHold vitality in store! \nDo the things which quicken zeal! \nShun excesses; ills conceal! \n\nFoster strength by genial task ! \nBreathe fresh air; in sunshine bask! \nMove along discovery lines; \nNewness rouses and refines ! \n\nKeep your face in pleasant pose! \nTurn from troubles; bury woes! \nNever be afraid to laugh! \nNever stoop to vulgar chaff! \n\nDo n\'t expect to gain too much \nLucre, pleasure, fame, and such! \nBe content with what you need! \nBanish gluttony and greed! \n89 \n\n\n\nIn your calling do your best! \nRegulate your toil and rest! \nStrive in virtue to excel! \nYouth stays long when treated well. \n\nt\xc2\xa3r* Vr* t&* \n\nBumpy Bump \n\nBumpy Bump was his name, and his life was a fright, \nFor he lived in a stew, thinking nothing was right ; \nOr if nothing was wrong it was simply because \nBumpy Bump could not state or discover the flaws. \n\nBumpy Bump was a frowner on everything bright; \nNothing gay could he brook, and he sought no delight ; \nHe would govern the world by most rigorous laws, \nAnd compel every man to espouse his own cause. \n\nBumpy Bump was alert and quite ready to fight \nAny half-hearted friend or opponent at sight; \nEvery view not his own would unloose his big jaws, \nAnd his wrath would pour forth without ever a pause. \n\n90 \n\n\n\nBumpy Bump held his faith with a grip that was tight, \nAnd he spurned doctrines new with the breath of his \n\nmight ; \nHe had never a use for new-fangled gew-gaws, \nNor for popular whims, nor for ringing applause. \n\nAll the hoary old creeds Bumpy Bump could recite; \nAll the dogmas and proofs he could quickly indite; \nAny hymns that were new were as worthless as straws, \nAnd for all sorts of games he had only haw-haws. \n\nBumpy Bump at the last reached a solitude quite, \nFor no mortal in charity pitied his plight; \nEvery one had been bled by the teeth of his saws, \nAnd all stood aloof from the clutch of his paws. \n\nt\xc2\xa3T* tfi^ 1r* \n\nDuty and Beauty \n\nLine of duty \xe2\x80\x94 never swerved; \nLine of beauty \xe2\x80\x94 always curved; \nFollow duty through and through, \nBeauty line will follow you. \n\n91 \n\n\n\nAn Unconcealed Weapon \n\nWould you a keen-edged weapon bear, \nAnd use it too the while? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA weapon always right in place, \n\nA weapon never in disgrace, \n\nThat well becomes an honest face? \xe2\x80\x94 \nThen wear a genial smile. \n\nWould you to conquest oft attain, \n\nAnd live in victor\'s style; \nYet ne\'er inflict one bit of pain, \nAlthough you see ten thousand slain? \nThen wield that weapon of domain \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA heartfelt, genial smile. \n\nWould you as conquering hero win \n\nOvations by the mile? \nThen kindness steep your spirit in; \nThe deeds of brother-love begin, \nAnd from your forehead to your chin \n\nTake on the genial smile. \n\n\n\n92 \n\n\n\nA Siren Voice \n\n"What do they say?" said he; \n"What do they say to thee? \nWhat do they say in the club o\'er the way ? \nWhat do they say of me?" \n\n"What do they say or think? \nHow do they squint or wink? \nDoes any one smile at my latest style? \nWhat are their words in ink?" \n\n"What do they say?" said he; \n"How far do they agree? \nWhat is my fate in their estimate? \nWhat will their verdict be?" \n\nThus ever the siren quest \nIs ringing from East to West; \n"What do they say of my doings to-day? \nWhat do they think is best?" \n\nContempt for opinion\'s slave! \nDisdain for the sneering knave! \nLet the siren go to her chamber of woe! \nStand forth in the big world, brave! \n93 \n\n\n\nMy Little Mission \n\nI can not be a sun complete, but I can be a ray, \nAnd shine in some poor fellow\'s heart, benighted and \n\nastray ; \nI can not chase away the gloom from continent and sea, \nBut I can show a brother lone how dear he is to me. \n\nI can not lift from lake and stream the vapor-forming \n\nrain, \nAnd pour it forth in gentle showers upon the thirsty \n\nplain ; \nBut I can lift the lighter mists from sorrow-stricken \n\neyes, \nAnd point the drooping spirit up to mercy\'s bending \n\nskies. \n\nI can not gild the mountain tops with luster shining far, \nBut I can cause a human eye to sparkle like a star; \nBy gentle word and loving deed I can dispense good \n\ncheer, \nAnd thus create a little world of sunshine round me here. \n\n\n\n94 \n\n\n\nPart III \nIncidental Ditties \n\n\n\nThe things that happen by the way, \nFrom current life outcropping, \n\nOft bring the risables in play, \nDespondency estopping. \n\n\n\n"Cut It Short" \n\nA gentleman sat in a barber\'s high chair, \nThe barber was cutting the gentleman\'s hair; \nWas cutting and talking, as barbers will do, \nIn fact he was talking a real streak of blue. \n\nA newspaper lay on the gentleman\'s knee, \n\nFor trying to gather the late news was he; \n\nBut the barber\'s glib tongue kept rattling right on \n\nTill much of the gentleman\'s patience was gone. \n\n"Will you please cut it short?" the gentleman said; \nHe meaning the tale, but the barber instead \nSupposed it an order to shorten the hair, \nAnd rapidly clipped at the hirsute so fair. \n\nHe rapidly clipped, and kept talking the while, \nKept talking in genuine barberous style \nTill, growing indignant, the gentleman said, \n"O, do cut it short, for it hurteth my head !" \n\nSo shorter and shorter the crop of hair grew, \nBut longer and longer the tale, till there flew \nQuick and hot from the lips of the gentleman bored, \n"Cut it short, or I \'11 leave !" and quite true to the word, \n7 97 \n\n\n\nThe barber he cut, and kept cutting some more, \nWhile talking and talking as ever before; \nKept cutting and talking, a clippity-clip, \nTill the customer\'s scalp was as bare as his lip. \n\nAnd so when the gentleman left the high chair \nHe was plus a long tale, but was minus a hair; \nAnd never thereafter did he try to read \nWhile barbers were cutting his hair with such speed. \n\nOverloaded \n\nA bungle-headed, beardless youth \n\nTook down his father\'s gun; \nInto it put a mammoth charge, \nAnd thought he \'d have some fun. \nNot satisfied with loading once, \n\nSo high did he aspire, \nHe crowded down a second charge, \nThen was afraid to fire. \nAnd so he kept on loading up, \nTo complicate the puzzle, \n98 \n\n\n\nUntil the added charges filled \nThe musket to the muzzle. \n\nJust then his grandmamma came in \n\nAnd asked him what he \'d done ; \nSaid he, "I Ve got it loaded up," \xe2\x80\x94 \nThen took his hat and run. \nThe old and brave, good-natured dame \n\nReproved the running wight, \nThen seized the gun, the hammer raised, \nAnd pointed toward the light. \n\nShe pulled the trigger with a jerk, \n\nThen took a mighty bound; \nThe gun had knocked her off her feet \nAnd hurled her to the ground. \nAt that the lad came running back, \nThe roar had turned him round; \nHe saw the woman struggling up, \nAnd groaning with a wound. \n\n"Lie still, old grannie," said the lad, \n\n"You \'ve only shot off one ; \n\nWhen you have fired eleven more \n\nYou\'ll have an empty gun." \n\n99 \n\n\n\nMoral. \n\nBeware of guns which others load, \n\nFor often you will find \nA dozen loads instead of one, \n\nTo make sure work behind. \n\n<^" ttgr^ l2r* \n\nThe Catholic School \n\nI *ve traveled east and traveled west ; \n\n1 5 ve gone the country o\'er ; \nI ? ve seen the worst and sought the best, \n\nAs others have before; \nBut one thing plain in all my search, \n\nI note that as a rule, \nWherever you find a Catholic church \n\nYou \'11 find a Catholic school. \n\nThe priest is priest, and teacher too; \n\nHe hears the old confess, \nAnd sees the young instructed through \n\nTheir years of tenderness; \nHe plants the cross and swings the birch, \n\nFor Rome is never a fool; \n100 \n\n\n\nShe knows the way to build the Church \nIs through the Catholic school. \n\nLet Protestants much wisdom learn \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe wisdom tried by age \xe2\x80\x94 \nNor foolishly the lesson spurn, \n\nNor nullify by rage; \nSee Roman diligence employed \n\nTo make the papal tool; \nYour boy or girl or mine decoyed \n\nWithin the Catholic school. \n\nf tf& Qfirf t&f \n\nBathing Superfluous \n\nA clergyman of Georgia who was quartered for the \n\nnight \nIn an isolated cabin found himself in luckless plight; \nNo facilities for bathing \xe2\x80\x94 no, not even of his face \xe2\x80\x94 \nCould be found within his chamber or adjacent to the \n\nplace. \n\n101 \n\n\n\nWhen the morning light had broken, he a requisition \n\nmade \nFor a wash-bowl and a towel, and a comb of any grade ; \nWhen the junior of the household, late appearing from \n\nbeneath, \nBrought a rusty tin and dishcloth, and a comb with \n\nseven teeth. \n\nSitting down, he watched the preacher in his toilet-doing \n\nact, \nAnd then asked him, quite astonished, whether, as a sim- \nple fact, \nHe performed the same ablution every morning without \n\nfail- \nAll the washing, combing, wiping, and the cleaning of \nthe nail. \n\nBeing answered "Yes," the urchin one more query but- \nted in; \n\nIt was, "Mister, don\'t you sometimes think it is a sort \no\' sin \n\nTo be makin\' so much trouble for yourself as well as us \n\nBy keepin\' up this washin\', wipen\', combin\', cleanin\' \nfuss?" \n\n102 \n\n\n\nThe Little Grayback \n\nThe soldier\'s boon companion, his faithful body-guard, \nThat shares his bed and raiment, and keeps him watch \n\nand ward, \nThat never leaves his person, nor asks a day\'s release, \nNor runs away in battle, nor shirks in time of peace. \n\nHe \'s smaller than a bedbug and slower than a flea, \nYet every Union soldier with me will quite agree \nThat when he wants his rations he \'11 get them in a trice, \nAnd cause more lively scratching than cats pursuing \nmice. \n\nI \'ve seen a thousand soldiers along the beaten track, \nAnd not a man among them with shirt upon his back; \nTheir garments they are searching, deep down in every \n\nseam, \nFor graybacks love snug quarters in which to sleep and \n\ndream. \n\nThey \'re fast in taking rations, but slow in getting filled ; \nThey \'re lively in their travels, and multiply when killed ; \nA more tormenting creature hath ne\'er survived the flood, \nNor cursed the race of Adam, nor feasted on his blood. \n\n103 \n\n\n\nI \'m glad these little graybacks have left the scene of \n\nstrife ; \n1 \'m glad that boiling water is fatal to their life ; \nI hope all Union soldiers will keep so clean and nice \nThat down to Satan\'s quarters will go all body lice. \n\n1&t 9\xc2\xa3r^ f\xc2\xa3r* \n\nCritics and the Patriarchs \n\nA preacher old, of Scottish cult, \n\nDefending Bible truth, \nArraigned the critics high and low \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAll infidels, forsooth. \n\n"My freens," he cried, "when ane ye tak \n\nWith skeepticesm\'s ways, \nNae one can teel where ye \'el come oot \n\nWith patriarchal days. \n\n"These men lived long, too long by far \n\nTo suit the creetiks* view; \nSo fix \'em up, in modern ways, \n\nAnd make \'em young and new. \n104 \n\n\n\n"The creetiks say that we must coont \n\nThe patriarchal yeers \nAs oonly months \xe2\x80\x94 divide by twelve \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTheir troothful age appears. \n\n"Methuselah was therefore not \n\nA thousand yeers of age, \nBut oonly seventy-five at moost \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis helps the Sacred Page. \n\n"A dacent age is that for man, \n\nAs you will all agree; \nBut pay me heed, my freens, to this \n\nOne thing that poozles me: \n\n"Fine thing this noo-fledged learning is- \nFor Noah, strong and bold, \n\nThe father of two sons became \nWhen airily \'five years oold." \n\n\n\n105 \n\n\n\nThe Fly Trap \n\nA bachelor, to clear his room \nOf flies that broke his slumber, \n\nTwo sheets of sticky paper bought, \nThe insects to encumber. \n\nHe placed the open sheets on chairs \n\nBeside his bed so handy; \nAnd then went out to take a smoke \n\nAnd buy a box of candy. \n\nReturning when the clock had struck \n\nHis hour for retiring, \nHe had forgotten both the traps \n\nSet for the insect miring. \n\nAnd carelessly he sat him down \nPlump on one sticky paper; \n\nThen, jumping, pulled his trousers off, \nChagrined by such a caper. \n\nAnd backing to the other chair, \nTrap number two ignoring, \n\nHe dropped \xe2\x80\x94 but soon was in the air \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHalf-dazed, full-mad, and roaring. \n\n106 \n\n\n\nThe Preacher and the Robber \n\nA youthful circuit rider of the old-time circuit school \nWas appointed to "Brush College" in accordance with \n\nthe rule. \nThe college was a great one in those early gospel days, \nAnd our rider was a model in all Methodistic ways. \n\nSo he jumped astride his roadster, having filled his sad- \ndle-bags, \n\nAnd proceeded on his journey through the woods and \nswamps and snags ; \n\nThe journey was a long one and required fortitude, \n\nBut the preacher was a strong one, though he needed \nample food. \n\nAlong the route so lonely there were none to cheer his \nway, \n\nNot a living being met him through the livelong sum- \nmer day ; \n\nAnd only one overtook him \xe2\x80\x94 a man of giant mold, \n\nOn a furious charger mounted, in demeanor rough and \nbold. \n\n107 \n\n\n\n"Whither bound, my fellow?" quizzed the stranger, \n\nhoarse and low, \nHalf conceding by his manner that he had no right to \n\nknow. \nBut the preacher answered promptly, "I am bound for \n\nZionview \nAnd the settlements adjacent; are you also going \n\nthrough?" \n\n"I am not," replied the stranger, "but to Robberville \n\ninstead ; \nAnd if you prefer to do so, you can share my board and \n\nbed. \nWe will reach my destination just about the set of sun, \nAnd you will feel, I reckon, that your journey then is \n\ndone." \n\n"Are there no taverns on the route, sir," asked the cir- \ncuit-riding youth. \n\n"Not a tavern," said the stranger, "nor a settlement; \nin truth, \n\nMy hovel is the only one which you will see to-day; \n\nAnd unless you sleep outdoors, sir, in that you \'11 have \nto stay." \n\n108 \n\n\n\nThe preacher paused, suspecting he had missed his \n\nproper road, \nFor he had been instructed that a Methodist abode \nWould be open to receive him just at the set of sun, \nIf he urged his pony forward as he hitherto had done. \n\n"No use to stop here, captain; there is naught to feed \n\nupon; \nYou can not back your journey, for the day is nearly \n\ngone. \n1 5 11 see you safe till morning if you have the cash to \n\nP a y; \n\nMy hut \'s as good as any, and it lies along your way." \n\nThe preacher eyed the stranger while he talked of "hut" \n\nand "cash," \nAnd felt his undertaking to be nothing else than rash. \nAlone through such a forest he had bravely ventured \n\nforth, \nBut now he wished he had n\'t by all his money\'s worth. \n\nBut he made a quick decision, and resolved to go ahead ; \nPolitely thanked his fellow for the proffered board and \nbed; \n\n109 \n\n\n\nMade a turn in conversation and religion introduced, \nProclaiming free salvation till he reached the robber\'s \nroost. \n\nLo, what a change! the matron quick to meet him at \nthe door, \n\nGave the pastor such a welcome as he ne\'er received be- \nfore; \n\nThe "hut" he so much dreaded proved a heaven for the \nnight, \n\nWith something added to his "cash" to cheer him in his \nplight. \n\nNo need of explanation, though the "stranger" thought \nit fit\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor he had feigned the "robber" just to try the preach- \ner\'s grit; \n\nIt cheered his heart immensely not to see his pastor \ndodge, \n\nAnd he welcomed him forever to his old itinerant lodge. \n\n\n\n110 \n\n\n\n\nOLD SAMBO \n\n\n\nOld Sambo \n\nOld Sambo to the market went \nWith basket large, but not a cent. \nHe passed along from stall to stall \nAnd priced the tempting produce all. \n"De price am fair, de goods am fine; \nI wish," he said, "some cash was mine." \n\nAt length he paused. A happy thought \nOn his low-pressure brain had caught. \nHe could not buy. If he could borrow, \nHe might return the change to-morrow; \nBut where the tradesman who would lend \nTo one who had no cash to spend? \n\nHe chose his man and asked the loan \nIn modest, low, beseeching tone. \nTo his surprise, consent was given, \nAnd Sambo thought himself in heaven; \nHe did until the dealer made \nConditions for the luckless trade. \n\nHis plan was this: Sambo with vim \nMight fill his basket to the brim; \n111 \n\n\n\nThen, generous man, Sambo could pay \nHis debt upon the following day ; \nBut, goods included, bargain fair, \nSambo must leave his basket there. \n\nOld Sambo stood in musing mood, \nQuite loath to leave the pawn-held food: \n"Dis loan," said he, "am not de ting \nDat does de bestest pleasure bring; \nInstead of goods lent to the poor, \nSambo would lose his basket sure." \n\nffiP t\xc2\xa3rf t&f \n\nUnchangeable Identity \n\nFrom town a pert professor came, \nThis truth to give a wider range \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIdentity remains the same, \n\nAlthough materials may change. \n\nA hearer rose, of rustic life, \n\nAnd this peculiar statement made: \n\n"A year ago I bought a knife, \n\nBut soon did lose the pretty blade; \n112 \n\n\n\n"I then a new blade had put in, \nAnd, to prevent the losing game, \n\nI had the new blade not so thin; \n\nNow did my knife remain the same?" \n\n"Yes," the professor quick replied, \nAnd spoke the answer with a will, \n\n"An object, with a part supplied, \nRemains the same old object still." \n\n"Well," said the rustic, sober-faced, \n"My losing luck was still to blame; \n\nThe handle lost, I had replaced; \n\nNow does my knife remain the same?" \n\n"Yes," said the speaker, though confused, \n\nAnd possibly a little vexed; . \n"It is the same." His hearers mused, \n\nAnd wondered what was coming next. \n\n"Then," said the querist, "luck reversed; \n\nI found the blade and handle old, \nPut them together, same as first \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhich knife doth now the sameness hold?" \n\n113 \n\n\n\nThe Irishman\'s View of Immersion* \n\nThrae times 1 5 ve read the Bible through, \n\nAnd once upon me bended knaes; \nThe essence of its doctrines drew, \n\nAnd marked its precepts, words, and ways. \n\nImmarsion sure it does contain, \n\nIf only by example rare; \nI sarched for this and sarched it clane, \n\nAnd God did grant my arnest prayer. \n\nThrae cases of immarsion clear \n\nAre in the Howly Book made known; \n\nThe spranklers need not greatly fear, \nFor faith the thrae stand all alone. \n\nFor number one the flood survives; \n\nIt whelmed the race \xe2\x80\x94 each mither son \xe2\x80\x94 \nSave Noah, wife, and sons and wives, \n\nWho sure were sprankled, ivery one.f \n\n*Note.\xe2\x80\x94 In one of the Methodist Conferences of Canada was a \npreacher who had the habit of mingling the brogue of the Emerald Isle \nwith his English utterances, and being a man of wide reading and keen \nwit, and very sharp and sarcastic in controversy, he came to be known \nas " The Wild Irishman." He prepared a course of lectures on the sub- \nject of baptism, arguing strongly for sprinkling as the only proper \nmode, and after working up his audience to the highest pitch of excite- \nment on the subject, leaving the immersionists with not a grain of \ncomfort, he would wind up his remarks, amid convulsive laughter, with \na narration of his own experience, substantially as above. \n\nfl Peter 3; 20,21. \n\n114 \n\n\n\nAh, spranklcd? yes, I make no doubt, \nThough mankind seldom see such sights; \n\nThe Bible says it rained about \n\nThe space of forty days and nights.f \n\nFor number two I here recall \n\nKing Pharaoh and his mighty hosts; \n\nThe dape Red Sea submarged them all, \nSo of this proof immarsion boasts. \n\nThe Jews were sprankled, \'t is maintained ; \n\nA strong wind o\'er them dashed the spray ;^ \nThe Psalmist says it also rained, \n\n\'Mid thunderings loud and lightning\'s play.f \n\nThe last example which I fooned, \n\nWas where the divil swine disparsed; \n\nToward "a steep place" they made a boond, \nAnd plunging down were all immarsed. \n\nYet of this case, I here must say, \n\nDapely one fact my mind impressed; \n\nThe immarsed were hogs, yet even they \nWere not immarsed until possessed. \n\nfGenesis 7: 4, % Exodus 14: 21. $ Psalms 77: 16, 17, 18. \n\n115 \n\n\n\nIn a Bishop\'s Bed \n\nLast night I slept in a bishop\'s bed, \nAnd marvelous were my dreams; \n\nA thousand cares flashed through my head \nLike dust-charged sunshine beams. \n\nA preacher bright, in deference asked \n\nFor an appointment high; \nWhile laymen strong the wish unmasked \n\nThat I would pass him by. \n\nA preacher\'s wife in tearful stand \n\nMy sympathy implored; \nA needless change was the demand \n\nOf their official board. \n\nCommittees came in stern array, \n\nExpressing want and woe; \nSome asked for pastors still to stay, \n\nAnd some bade theirs to go. \n\nWith elders oft I wrestled hard, \nIn plan and plea and prayer, \n\nThat worthy men might be prepared \nTo go they knew not where. \n116 \n\n\n\nAnd restless Churches by the score \n\nBefore my vision rose, \nTheir needs rehearsing o\'er and o\'er \n\nUntil my vitals froze. \n\nI rolled and tossed my weary frame \n\nIn dread that o\'er me crept; \nWhen lo! to consciousness I came, \n\xe2\x80\x9e And thanked the Lord \xe2\x80\x94 and slept. \n\nAn Attachment \n\nA bachelor sheriff by duty was called, \n\nA writ of attachment to serve; \nThough a widow of note was the party involved, \n\nFrom duty he could not swerve. \n\nHe called at the door and politely did say \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n"I have an attachment for you!" \nShe blushed and returned, in the naivest of way, \n\nThe reciprocal compliment due. \n\n"But," answered the officer, red in the face, \n"My meaning you do n\'t understand ; \n117 \n\n\n\nYou must go into court and plead in the case, \nAs charged by the law of the land." \n\n"Ah!" answered the widow, "I know it\'s leap year; \n\nBut courting I leave, sir, to you!" \n"Zounds!" thundered the bachelor, making it clear, \n\n"My part of the service is through; \n\n"The justice is waiting your coming just now; \n\nRepair to the court and be heard!" \n"The justice!" she said, "why dearest, I vow \n\nA parson is greatly preferred." \n\n1\xc2\xa3r? 1\xc2\xa3r* t\xc2\xa3T* \n\nNo Stuttering Women \n\n(A physician remarks that " women who stutter are very scarce. ") \n\nAye, the women will not stutter; they propose to talk \n\nit straight; \nThey may talk it bright and early; they may talk it \n\ngood and late; \nThey may talk it keen and lively ; they may talk it sweet \n\nand gay; \nBut they will not st-t-stutter, in a queer, spasmodic way. \n\n118 \n\n\n\nDid you ever see a woman for one moment hesitate \nWhen she wants to do some talking, to commend you, \n\nor berate; \nDid you ever see her stumble over syllable or word \nIn a nervous, jerky fashion, with her every sentence \n\nblurred? \n\nAsk a woman any question ; ask the question anywhere ; \nAsk it quickly, ask it slowly; she will never stand and \n\nstare, \nWith her jaws a t-t-twitching and her words half blurted \n\nout, \nAs she turns embarrassed from you, or goes staggering \n\nabout. \n\nI have known the men to stutter, t-t-times again repeat, \nT-t-trying words to utter when their friends they \n\ng-g-greet; \nBut I never knew an instance when a woman made a \n\nbreak \nAnd began to stutter trying rapid thoughts to overtake. \n\nNo ! a woman will not stutter ; set that down as safely so ; \nWere the habit to come to her, she would quickly lay \nit low. \n\n119 \n\n\n\nShe will never pause nor falter in the utterance of sound \nWhile the fashion is for talking and a hearer is around. \n\nf\xc2\xa3T* f\xc2\xa3& 1\xc2\xa3r* \n\nHe, Not I \n\n"it makes a difference whose ox is gored/\' \n\n"He lost his all!" The truth was told, \nIn blackest type, with headline bold. \nThat "all" seems much like worthless pelf \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe "he" is other, not myself. \n\n"He lost his health !" Yes, many do ; \nHe was consoled, sincerely, too; \nNot hard to go upon the shelf \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat "he" is other, not myself. \n\n"He lost his child!" "How sad!" they- said; \n"How bitterly he mourns his dead!" \nWhy should he mourn the little elf? \nAh! "he" is other, not myself. \n\n"He lost his all!" No loss so great! \n"He lost his health!" O dreadful fate! \n"He lost his child!" Show pity, brother! \nThat "he" is I, and not another. \n120 \n\n\n\n"See the Point" \n\nOne Tom and Betty quarreled, and Tom was in the \n\nwrong ; \nSo Betty was indignant, and scolded loud and long; \nShe kept the racket going, not sparing the accused, \nAnd gave to Tom occasion to feel himself abused. \nSee the point? \n\nAbuse to human nature is worse than sorest pain; \nIt rankles in the bosom, and rankles o\'er again; \nAnd Tom in desperation, as the victim of abuse, \nDeclared for the abuser he had n\'t any use. \nSee the point? \n\nSo Tom and Betty parted, each sorely in the wrong; \nThe enmity between them forever growing strong. \n\'T were better, safer, saner, a small abuse to bear \nThan madly to resent it, and worse abuse to dare. \nSee the point? \n\n\n\n121 \n\n\n\nA Shining Duty \n\nIt is the duty of all to shine, \nYou in your corner, I in mine. \n\nTo shine with clear and steady light, \nLike brightest stars in darkest night; \nTo shine by word and look and deed, \nTo bind the broken hearts that bleed; \nTo raise the faint and aid the poor, \nAnd ope to all a sunshine door. \n\nOur only mission is to shine, \nYou in your corner, I in mine. \n\nShine like the sun for God and truth; \nShine on the hearts of age and youth; \nIn haunt of sin, in sorrow\'s pall, \nIn kindness shine for one and all. \nGod looks from heaven to see you shine, \nYou in your corner, I in mine. \n\n\n\n122 \n\n\n\nMy Birthday \n\nO day supreme, supreme to me, \n\nWhen I began the world to see! \n\nTo see the world, and meet my friends, \n\nDevelop life, and learn its ends; \n\nTo learn its ends, and share its bliss, \n\nAnd make it to abound in this; \n\nFor this is why the birthday came, \n\nTo make my life with goodness flame. \n\nTo flame with goodness! Mighty task! \nIt drives me higher help to ask; \nTo ask of God, to man appeal; \nTo summon faith, and wisdom real; \nTo set a watch on heart and lip, \nOn tongue and foot and finger-tip; \nTo watch the record, keep it clear, \nFrom day to day, from year to year. \n\nThe record grows! The swift birthdays \nA long, white row of milestones raise. \nLife\'s train flies on with lightning speed, \nAnd soon must reach the end indeed. \n123 \n\n\n\nI wonder what shall be the end, \nWhen milestones into tombstones blend ! \nI\'ll not despair, but wait and see, \nAnd every birthday fill with glet. \n\nQfiP t\xc2\xa3r* l2r* \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0* \n\nMy First Flame \n\nQuite dear to me, in youthful days, \n\nThe girl I called my flame; \nTo match her modest, kindly ways \n\nWas my most constant aim; \nI liked to sit by her in class \n\nAnd read with her by turns; \nFor such a bright and lively lass \n\nNo sane boy ever spurns. \n\nHer father rich, her mother fine, \n\nHer sister college-trained; \nShe lived upon the old town line \n\nHer brothers were big-brained; \nAnd when with Mary I was thrown, \n\nThough shy as wildest deer, \n1 9 m willing even now to own \n\nI thought my heaven near. \n124 \n\n\n\nWhene\'er we walked along the road, \n\nWe walked on either side; \nOur talking was an episode \n\nAcross the great divide ; \nAnd yet to be within her sight, \n\nAnd see her safely home, \nI felt to be as proud a right \n\nAs could to boyhood come. \n\nThe years wore on; the lambent flame \n\nSurvived in mild degree; \nI cared for Mary just the same, \n\nAnd Mary cared for me; \nYet, when I came a wife to take, \n\nShe stood not at my side; \nNor was I there a vow to make \n\nWhen she became a bride. \n\n1\xc2\xa3T* Vr* Vf* \n\nRifts in the Clouds \n\nSmile away trials, sing away cares, \nSunshine will brighten your home unawares; \nWork when you sorrow, trust when you grieve; \nFresh from the fountain comfort receive. \n125 \n\n\n\nAsking My Consent \n\nUpon my daughter\'s hand he placed \n\nA diamond pure and white, \nAnd when she next my presence graced \n\nShe flashed the gem in sight, \nAnd looking in my startled eyes \n\nShe smiled a loving smile, \nWhich seemed to ask, in sweet disguise, \n\n"How do you like the style?" \n\nWithin a day or two he came \n\nWhere I alone did sit; \nAnd, posing in an humble frame, \n\nHe spake, then paused a bit, \nAnd added low, "I am in love, \n\nAnd all my future bliss \nDepends on living with your dove \n\nAnd your consent in this." \n\n"And do you think," was my demand, \n\n"That vou can ever be \n\n\xc2\xab/ \n\nAs happy with her, joined in hand, \nAs I am with her free?" \n126 \n\n\n\nHe moved his lips, and slowly said, \n\n"In this world, or above; \nAsleep, aw r ake, alive, or dead, \n\nWith her I am in love." \n\nYou ask me if I gave consent? \n\nHow could I do the less? \nOn him my darling\'s heart was bent, \n\nAs did the ring confess; \nAnd so, with two young hearts inclined \n\nAgainst my one heart old, \nHow could I ever courage find \n\nTo turn the shoulder cold? \n\n\xc2\xab\xc2\xa3** jp t\xc2\xa3& \n\nThe Happiest Three \n\nI asked some jovial business men \nThe happiest words to mortal ken. \nOne said that "orders" took the lead, \nWhile some on "customers" agreed. \n\nOne slow of speech, of sober face, \nLong trained in the commercial race, \nAllowed of all the words on deck \nNone equaled these, \xe2\x80\x94 "Enclosed find check, \n127 \n\n\n\nM \n\n\n\nThe Twinkling Eye \n\nBe not too grave this side the grave, \nLest all too soon you die; \n\nSeek not to waive a laughing wave, \nNor start a useless cry. \n\nA busy bee may pleasant be, \nWhile laying honey by; \n\nAnd busy man, by trying can- \nMaintain the twinkling eye. \n\n\n\n128 \n\n\n\nPart IV \nSentimental Rhythm \n\n\n\nWere sentiment removed from life, \n\nThe passions only leaving, \nThe world would prove a scene of strife, \n\nOur very being cleaving. \n\n\n\nNature\'s Tears \n\nWhile Nature mourns the dying year, \nWith lengthened nights and winter drear, \nShe tunes her heart with Christmas cheer. \n\nWe live, we love, we fail, we die, \nAnd every season passing by \nReminds us that the end is nigh. \n\nBut just as Nature mourns the year, \nThen ushers in the days more clear, \nSo let new love displace our fear. \n\nBe glad that when the year is through \nA brighter one will come in view, \nWith richer joy, I trust, for you. \n\n%lr* V^ <K^ \n\nDedication of a Guest Book \n\nA welcome guest and ready host \n\nGive life a happy zest; \n? T were well to mark the hour when they \n\nWere each by other blest. \n131 \n\n\n\nMy Relatives \n\nMy relatives are those I love, \n\nWho have a love for me; \nOur kinship cometh from above, \n\nAcross the mystic sea. \n\nFor accident of blood or birth \n\nNo claim I recognize; \nI rest it all on merit, worth, \n\nAnd power to sympathize. \n\nMy wife and children are my own, \n\nAnd boundless is their hold; \nThey share my life, my blood and bone \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTheir claim is pure as gold. \n\nA brother may be close to me ; \n\nA sister may be dear; \nToward parents I may loving be, \n\nAnd live their age to cheer. \n\nBut nephews, nieces, cousins all, \n\nAnd uncles, aunts galore, \nNot one I choose my kin to call, \n\nUnless, as said before, \n132 \n\n\n\nI find in each a worthy friend \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA loving heart and true; \nTo such I cling unto the end, \n\nAs relative should do. \n\nl\xc2\xa3r* t3^ ti^ \n\nHis Spot of Sunshine* \n\nAlone and dejected a prisoner lay, \nShut off from his fellows, shut in from the day ; \nWhen, lo! in his dungeon a sunbeam appears, \nAnd silently, sweetly the prisoner cheers. \n\nThe spot where it rested the captive marks well ; \nThe brightest and dearest within his lone cell; \nAnd daily he chisels with instrument rude \nThe form he conceives in his fanciful mood. \n\nAnd lo ! when the sunbeam is chiseled in stone, \nA sign of the thought of the prisoner lone; \nIt stands in bold outline, the Christ on the cross, \nHis sunshine of spirit, a gain for his loss. \n\n*A poor man in Europe, thrown in prison for debt, was cheered \nevery day by a little ray of sunshine which crept through a small aper- \nture in his dungeon, forming a figure which seemed to him like Christ \nupon the cross. Groping about in his cell, he found a nail and a stone, \nand with thesejrude implements, he chiseled the picture into the solid \nadamant. \n\n133 \n\n\n\nTrue Friends Are Best \n\nOld friends are good; true friends are best; \n\nThe old may be the true; \nAnd happy they who now are blest \n\nWith true friends, old or new. \n\nOld friends may fail. There\'s naught in age \n\nTo make a friendship sure; \nBut love and life and truth engage \n\nTo keep true friendship pure. \n\nTrue friends are best, although they may \n\nBe new as newest morn; \nNor wise nor kind nor brave are they \n\nWho would new friendship scorn. \n\nWho are the true? Not those who fail \n\nYour good name to defend; \nBut those on whom, when foes assail, \n\nYou can for help depend. \n\nWho are the true? Not such as care \nFor yours far more than you; \n134 \n\n\n\n\n\'A NOISY STILLNESS" \n\n\n\nBut such as for your weal will dare \nTo die, or live and do. \n\nGive me the friend that stands the test \n\nOf life\'s extremest tryst; \nThat friend I\'ll count the first and best, \n\nThough latest in my list. \n\nt2^ t&* t&* \n\nIn a Lady\'s Album \n\nI never feel less lonely than when I am alone ; \nNor ever quite so lonely as when with others thrown. \nTherefore in lonely hours a friend both tried and true \nIs ever present with me, and greeting gives to you. \n\ntjr^ ifiP <5^ \n\nNoisy Stillness \n\nA quiet night, a peaceful shore, \nA flashing scene the waters o\'er; \nNo sound except the ocean\'s roar, \nA noisy stillness evermore. \n135 \n\n\n\nGems From An Old Casket \n\nIn pensive mood a Christian bard \nFrom ancient casket sought a gem; \n\nThe Muse repaid his just regard \nWith jewels for his diadem. \n\nThe diamond "faith" came first to view, \nA precious fundamental stone; \n\nThe moral structure shining through, \nAnd to all values giving tone. \n\nThe opal next of blessed "hope," \n\nAn anchor for the storm-tossed soul; \n\nFirm-holding though the spirit grope \nToward the beacon-lighted goal. \n\nThen came the pearl of "gratitude," \nA thankful sense for good received; \n\nNone need to its high worth allude; \nWithout it, God with man is grieved. \n\nThe ruby of a holy "zeal," \n\nA spirit of swift-rushing flame, \n\nMan\'s heart to warm, his woes to heal, \nAnd rouse his soul to purer aim. \n136 \n\n\n\nThe agate of "forgiveness" pure, \n\nWhich blessing strews in foernan\'s path; \n\nAnd in the heart effects a cure \nOf that diseased emotion, wrath. \n\nThe emerald of "patience" long \n\nA virtue of angelic mold, \nUnruffled by affliction strong, \n\nUnmoved by provocation bold. \n\nThe amethyst of "charity," \n\nThe love which seeks a neighbor\'s weal, \nAnd does without disparity \n\nHis virtues praise, his faults conceal. \n\nThe Christian stored these gems of worth \n\nAs precious jewels in his life, \nAnd found, when he had passed from earth, \n\nWith heavenly beauty they were rife. \n\n\n\n137 \n\n\n\nThose Far-off Days \n\nWhen we were young and life was high \n\nWe looked the world straight in the eye: \n\nIts seeming good we did espy; \n\nIts noble principles apply; \n\nIts cunning evils to defy, \n\nAnd keep our burnished armor nigh. \n\nWhen we were young and life was high, \nNo use had we for tear or sigh; \nNo room for grief or vain outcry, \nNor yet for fear or faces wry. \nWe stood to win or dying try, \nEre time beyond recall might fly. \n\nWhen we were young and life was high \n\nWe let no values useless lie, \n\nNor chance for happiness pass by. \n\nWith each and other we did vie, \n\nTo cultivate each friendly tie \n\nAnd let no rich affection die. \n\n\n\n138 \n\n\n\nA Love Secret \n\n5 T is love awakens love ; but sleeping love \nPuts love to sleep. Be sure of this: \nThough far or near, the friend you love \nWill listless prove should love in you decline. \nNo subtler essence lives than love; \nIt thrives and grows as flame is fed by flame; \nThe agile spirit leaps afar to reach \nIts sweet congenial mate ; no leap, \nNo growing love; like fire unfed, \nLove long unnourished wanes and dies. \nI had a friend, a dear warm friend, \nIn whose kind bosom love increased \nAs love in mine waxed warm; \nBut when, in course of years, the loving fire \nIn my own heart went down, I thought \n? T will not be known ; my friend will constant prove, \nThough love in me grows cold. Alas! \nDelusive proved my hope; the coldness, too, \nHad leaped through widening space and chilled \nThe soul of my dear friend. And when \nAt length we met, no spark of love \nFlashed forth from either heart; in mutual death \n\n139 \n\n\n\nOur mutual loves had died; or else \n\nMy dying love my friend\'s had killed; \n\nNo matter which, for love was dead the same. \n\nRemember this: love feeds on love, \nWhile love neglected dies. No matter where \nYour loving friend may dwell, or far or near, \nUnless affection, like a living spring, \nYour faithful soul o\'erflows, the love \nOf closest friend will fail and die. \n\nLove fosters love. If love die out, \nThe zest from life is gone. You meet \nYour former friend in different mood, \nAnd face and form seem changed, because \nYour heart of flame has changed \nTo heart made bare of love. \n\nThen cherish love. Keep it supplied \nWith elements of warmth and growing power. \nBreathe forth sweet words of gentleness. Act out \nUnchanging love. Your constancy express \nIn endless iteration. Tell it o\'er \nIn tireless strength: I love! I love!! I love!!! \nFor only thus, till death shall come \nAnd bring immortal love, can love \nIn mortal heart be kept intensely real. \n\n140 \n\n\n\n"Do You Love Me?" \n\n"Do you love me?" she inquired; \n\n"Do you love me? Tell me true." \nAnswered he, as if inspired, \n\n"It is joy to be with you." \n\n"Do you love me?" she persisted; \n\n"Do you love me, now, true blue?" \n"On my honor," he insisted, \n\n"It is bliss to be with you." \n\n"Do you love me?" more emphatic \nCame each tender, simple word; \n\n"O, your presence is ecstatic," \nWas the fond reply she heard. \n\n"Do you love me? Do you love me? \n\nDo you love me?" her appeal. \nOut it came: "The heaven above me \n\nKnows no love more sweet or real." \n\n\n\n141 \n\n\n\nOld Letters \n\nDo n\'t keep my letters ; please evict \nThe shell from which the meat is picked; \nI wrote them not for you to keep; \nReduce to ashes that old heap. \n\nDo n\'t keep my letters ; other eyes, \nWhich never scanned your apt replies, \nMay o\'er the yellow missives pour \nAnd give ex parte judgment sore. \n\nDo n\'t keep my letters ; ask for new, \nAnd thus augment affection true; \nA fig for friendships that depend \nOn old epistles without end. \n\nDo n\'t keep my letters ; private tales \nAre best withheld from public gales; \nJust send them on the wings of flame \nTo nothingness, from whence they came. \n\n\n\n142 \n\n\n\nHappiness \n\nTo think how wretched one might be \nAffords no small tranquillity. \n\nTo know our state, if not the best, \nIs yet quite good, affords some rest. \n\nTo witness happiness around, \nOurselves a part, is happy ground. \n\nTo meet with few things to annoy, \nIs cause for one big bump of joy. \n\nTo have a little, hope for more, \nShould keep a chap from being sore. \n\nTo get along, and keep a-going, \nIs happy secret worth the knowing. \n\nTo be in favor with yourself \nIs richer worth than lots of pelf. \n\nTo be by nature cheery, gay, \nInsures bright sunshine any day. \n143 \n\n\n\nAll past misfortunes to forget, \nLeaves room for gayest spirit yet. \n\nTo make another\'s features shine \nYields by reflection light for thine. \n\nA true affection to inspire \n\nIs sure to lift the spirit higher. \n\nBut happiness at very best \nIs being in the spirit blest. \n\n\xc2\xab* \xc2\xab* & \n\nTwo Hearts \n\n\n\nHow sweet the bliss when hearts agree- \nTwo hearts that beat as one \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTwo hearts held close by Love\'s decree- \nIn trust excelled by none. \n\nTwo minds on one high purpose stayed ; \nTwo wills in perfect blend; \n\nTwo natures by one impulse swayed; \nA union till life\'s end. \n\n144 \n\n\n\nAdvice \n\nAdvice is cheap \xe2\x80\x94 as cheap as air \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd often worth far less than air. \n\'T is sometimes bad, like fetid air. \n\nReal advice is seldom wanted; \nApprobation is what \'s wanted ; \nThis is welcome if not wanted. \n\nBad advice hurts the adviser; \nGood may come from bad adviser; \nBad may come from good adviser. \n\nMuch depends on the advised; \nHow he takes it; whether wise; \nThe wise alone should be advised. \n\nWise ones seldom need advice; \n\nThey live and prove their own advice, \n\nAnd wisely they withhold advice. \n\n\n\n10 145 \n\n\n\nGratitude \n\nWhen soul is void of gratitude, \nThen study well the body\'s mood. \n\nEach member, master of the art, \nMost gladly serves some other part; \nNor head nor hands nor feet refuse \nA part, or parts, ofttimes to use. \n\nAll corporal acts, in part or whole, \nTeach gratitude to every soul. \n\nf&* f\xc2\xa3rt 9&* \n\nA Test of Friendship \n\nA friend 5 s a friend when he has proved \n\nHis friendship by his deeds; \nGive me the friend whose heart is moved, \n\nWhen my heart, wounded, bleeds. \n\n\n\n146 \n\n\n\nBenevolence \n\nConquest fills the world with awe, \n\nBenevolence inspires love: \nBoth giver and receiver draw \n\nA breath of incense from above. \n\nA money king, intent on more, \nAwakens wonder, envy, hate; \n\nBut princely giving men adore, \nAnd kindly on the giver wait. \n\nA life with real benevolence fraught \nIs counted of angelic mold; \n\n\'T is governed by divinest thought, \nAnd bears the stamp of heaven\'s gold. \n\nThe hard, penurious spirit shrinks \nAs one for mummy state embalmed; \n\nIt lives and moves and acts and thinks \nAs if already doomed and damned. \n\nGive not, grow not; waste away; \n\nReturn the vain and useless breath; \nA withering, worthless mass of clay; \n\nUnloved in life; unwept in death. \n147 \n\n\n\nFrugality \n\nFrugality, of thee I sing! \n\nSister of Temperance, plain and fair; \nDaughter of Prudence, thrift to bring, \n\nAs mistress of the art of care. \n\nParent of Liberty ! To thee \n\nThe nations owe a boundless debt. \n\nWere no man frugal, none were free, \nAnd all would face dependence yet. \n\nExtravagance prostrates the rich; \n\nEconomy uplifts the poor; \nWhile from despondency\'s deep ditch \n\nTemperance makes deliverance sure. \n\nFrugality inspires hope; \n\nTemperance limits greed and waste; \nIndustry gives the needed scope, \n\nWhile Prudence plans her work with taste. \n\nThese rear the temple strong and high, \nWhere Liberty hath glorious reign; \n\nThey augur man\'s redemption nigh, \nFrom destitution\'s blight and bane. \n148 \n\n\n\nHonor \n\nThere is a quality of worth \nAs high as any known to earth; \nA fitting sense of what is true, \nAn attitude of reverence due; \nA consciousness of perfect right, \nAn exercise of courage bright; \nEsteem for justice, virtue rare; \nA needless pain or grief to spare. \n\nHonor at best will never do \nThat which it would not suffer too. \nEsteem it takes, esteem it gives, \nAnd by the noblest standard lives. \n\nHonor holds its trust with friend \n\nAnd keeps its promise to the end. \n\nIt aims at just things, mourns the wrong, \n\nDevelops heart, and guards the tongue. \n\nIt has the good of men in view, \n\nAnd stands four-square life\'s journey through. \n\nIt swears by truth; it scorns a lie, \n\nAnd for a conscience clear would die. \n\n149 \n\n\n\nJealousy \n\nHei/l\'s fool devil ! let loose upon the earth \nTo rave and rage, and by incessant strife, \nTo show to men his hideous deformity. \n\nA yellow fiend is he, with eyes of green \nSet deep in sockets red, and backed \nBy brain astir with fuss and fire! \nA monster gorged with feverish doubts, \nHunting for secrets useless when laid bare; \nSelf-harming, self-defeating, self -detesting, \nHarboring foolish fears, and nourishing \nHatred implacable and strong as death. \n\nChronic poisoner of happiness is he; \nRuthless invader of confiding trust; \nReckless extinguisher of wonted peace; \nFrenzied slayer of own and others\' joys; \nBreeder of soul-rust, corroding every thought; \nDeveloper of torture, pouring agony unmix\'d \nInto the waking life, and haunting quiet sleep; \nEvolver of gangrene, eating out the tender heart; \nNerve-paralyzer, blasting love\'s paradise, \nTransforming pure affection into gall \n150 \n\n\n\nAs venomous as serpent\'s fang \nAnd bitter as death-steepings. \n\nFatuitous plunger, blind and bold, is he; \n\nWalking on ruin\'s brink, shrinking back \n\nFrom very consciousness of self; fearing to know, \n\nAnd dreading to be known; credulous \n\nTo point of gullibility in all that fear \n\nAnd weak distrust can conjure up; \n\nStuffed with lunacies allied to the insane. \n\nA subtle liar born ; a furious demon bred ; \nAcknowledging superiority in worthless curs; \nAnnihilating self-interest, and hopelessly \nCutting off esteem of others; turning mirth \nInto sheer torment, innocence into anguish; \nMarring all emotion sweet, murdering love, \nAnnulling bliss, and making life itself \nA loathsome, blackened void. \n\nHell\'s fool devil! Sorriest of imps! \nCommon as freaks of demoniacal fury; \nDead to reason; impervious to argument; \nDrunk with false imaginations, and bloated full \nWith maddened manglings and regretless suicides. \n151 \n\n\n\nNature Our Teacher \n\nThere \'s sunshine in Nature ; \n\nIt flashes and gleams \nOn mountains and prairies, \n\nOn forests and streams. \nAnd sunshine of spirit \n\nIs needed to-day, \nIn flood-tides of gladness \n\nO\'er life\'s darkened way. \n\nThere \'s music in Nature ; \n\nIts sweet notes are heard, \nIn rippling of water \n\nAnd carol of bird. \nAnd music of spirit \n\nHumanity craves, \nIn pain and affliction \n\nAnd march among graves. \n\nThere \'s healing in Nature ; \n\nIts balms ever flow, \nFrom stores in the open \n\nAnd fountains below. \n152 \n\n\n\nAnd healing of spirit \n\nIs just as divine, \nThrough kindness and brightness, \n\nAnd goodness benign. \n\nThere \'s beauty in Nature, \n\nIn flower and leaf, \nIn budding and fruiting, \n\nAnd ripening sheaf. \nAnd beauty of spirit \n\nWe can but applaud, \nAs highest and noblest, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe beauty of God. \n\n1\xc2\xa3T* 1&^ t&^ \n\nDanger in Ridicule \n\nWere ridicule alone employed \n\nTo crush out vice and folly, \n9 T were well that man should be decoyed \n\nTo hear the snicker jolly; \nBut when the laugh is meanly turned \n\nA virtuous aim to shatter, \n\'T were better that the gibe be spurned \n\nAnd ridiculers scatter. \n153 \n\n\n\nThe Highest State \n\nThe highest state \n\nTo mankind given, \nApproved of God, \n\nAnd loved of heaven, \nIs that where right \n\nAnd truth abound, \nAnd none in want \n\nOr woe are found. \n\nWhere nature gives \n\nThe needed skill, \nAnd grace supports \n\nThe acting will, \nAll Christian souls \n\nTheir spheres adorn, \nWhen others\' cares \n\nBy each are borne. \n\nThe love of Christ \nHath made us free; \n\nWe wear His yoke \nAnd bow the knee; \n154 \n\n\n\nWe toil, we rest, \n\nWe mourn, we joy; \nTo serve the King, \n\nOur blest employ. \n\nWe live to love, \n\nAnd love to live; \nWe give our all, \n\nAnd love to give; \nWe give to men \n\nA just amount, \nAnd give to God \n\nOur last account. \n\nAnd soon the end \n\nTo each will come ; \nOur bodies fall \n\nIn common doom; \nBut, crowned on high, \n\nEach shall appear \nAs he hath done \n\nHis duty here. \n\n\n\n155 \n\n\n\nGive Me The Truth \n\nI \'d rather have one grain of truth \n\nThan forty pounds of lies; \nI \'d rather teach a wayward youth \n\nTo reverence than despise. \n\nI hate a sham, a trick, deceit, \n\nOr any other fraud; \nI want the truth in language meet, \n\nAnd in its purport broad. \n\nNot broad enough to cross the line \n\nOf verity in fact; \nBut broad enough to be the sign \n\nOf thought\'s progressive act. \n\nTruth that will live when I am dead, \nAnd like the sun shall blaze, \n\nThough error, like a cloud overhead, \nMay intercept its rays. \n\nTruth that is true and safe and sane, \n\nFrom sophistry set free; \nThat ne\'er shall tarnish, fade, nor wane, \n\nThrough God\'s eternity. \n156 \n\n\n\n"Dat\'s Enuff" \n\nu \'Whisky, dat \'s all, 5 and dat \'s enuff," \nSaid old Aunt Chloe, in manner gruff; \n"Whisky brings in all de trubbel, \nMakes de cost of life jest dubbel, \nTurns each joy into a bubbel, \xe2\x80\x94 \nDat \'s all, and dat \'s enuff . \n\n"\'Whisky, dat\'s all,\' and dat\'s enuff; \nNothin\' makes dis worl\' more ruff; \nWhisky \'s what Joe took in his \'n ; \nWhisky set de row to siz\'n\'; \nWhisky sent \'em all to pris\'n, \xe2\x80\x94 \nDat \'s all, and dat \'s enuff. \n\n"\'Whisky, dat\'s all,\' and dat\'s enuff; \nWhoebber heard such no \'count stuff? \nWhisky takes \'em off der level; \nWhisky makes \'em rave and revel; \nWhisky takes \'em to de debel, \xe2\x80\x94 \nDat \'s all, and dat \'s enuff." \n\n\n\n157 \n\n\n\nNo License, No ! \n\nThey say it isn\'t "license;" just "permit" \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA kindly wink from Uncle Sam \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA token from the State. \n\nYet in that "wink" there \'s hell, \n\nAnd in that "token" death \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGigantic death, one hundred thousand strong. \n\nNo license; no! but just a tax \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA tribute to the State \xe2\x80\x94 hush money \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe price of open doors \n\nTo murderers, thieves, foul souls, \n\nThat revel in the mire \n\nOf filthy tale and putrid song. \n\nWe \'11 never give them license ; no ! \n\nWe \'11 simply reap a share \n\nOf hard cash wrung from beggared wives \n\nAnd starving children shivering in the cold. \n\nBlood money! The stain is on the coin \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe finger-marks of foulest crime! \n\nThere is no "license," no; but just the same \nThe dealers get their cards and hold \n158 \n\n\n\nTheir dens of drink and vice \nWide open to our boys! \nThe deadly work goes on, \nAnd voters tacitly consent. \n\nHow long, O Lord, how long shall "Tax" \n\nDeceive the rulers of this land? \n\nThe people rule ; 5 t is they \n\nWho grant these vile "permits" \n\nThat keep these holes of sin and death, \n\nLike yawning hells, wide open evermore! \n\n4\xc2\xa3r* 1&* 1&^ \n\nA Straight Path \n\nErrors bankrupt bankers, \n\nCharacter as well; \nFalsehood always cankers \n\nHearts of those who tell; \nCrime invites detection, \n\nFolly fools itself; \nHence for your protection \n\nShun dishonest pelf. \n\n159 \n\n\n\nTwo- Line Sermons \n\nAn aimless life is full of harm; \nHigh purpose gives to life a charm. \n\nIf Virtue guide, you can not stray, \nNor safety find in Vice\'s way. \n\nWho lives in guilt abides in fear; \nThe bravest keeps his conscience clear. \n\nWho does no good dies like the beast; \nWho lives to bless doth ever feast. \n\nLive as you ought! Results will shed \nA halo \'round your dying bed. \n\nGod loves the humble to befriend, \nAnd sides with those who would amend. \n\nWho would be better, nears the best; \nImprovement is a valid test. \n\nWhose cause is ill should sell it cheap; \nSow worthless seed, poor harvest reap. \n160 \n\n\n\nHe liveth not who dares not die; \nDeserveth not who will not try. \n\nSuccess attends developed traits; \nReward the use of gifts awaits. \n\nRich man is he who wants no more, \nBut poor who will not use his store. \n\nRiches in trust are safer far \nThan men who trust in riches are. \n\nTo prosper bring four things in chime: \nRight temper, knowledge, force, and time. \n\nWho debt incurs and never pays, \nDeep hatred in his mortar brays. \n\nLie down with dogs, rise up with fleas; \nBad sequel with low act agrees. \n\nWho nothing knows is always sure; \nThe fool 5 s conceit no drug can cure. \n\nTo see himself a mountain high, \nOne only needs a small "big I." \n11 161 \n\n\n\nWho his own trumpet always blows \nDulls friendly ears where\'er he goes. \n\nWho flies on wings of arrogance \nMay get a hurtful drop by chance. \n\nHe rarely sinks who swims in gall, \nOr, sinking, is he mourned by all. \n\nHe never fails who works with grace, \nCompletes his tasks, and fills his place. \n\n\n\n162 \n\n\n\nPart V \nDevotional Pieces \n\n\n\nYou worship something, if not God, \n\nYour sanity allowing, \nFor every knee above the sod \n\nIs sure to do some bowing. \n\n\n\nThe Universal Religion \n\nThere \'s one approved religious plan, \n\nA world-wide honored creed; \n\'Tis love of God and love of man, \n\nExpressed in loving deed. \n\nNo form of piety yet known \nCan e\'er such influence sway, \n\nAs love sincere to others shown \nIn practice every day. \n\nThe very air and sunshine rays \n\nWith nature love are warm; \nThe flowers and trees in quiet ways \n\nTheir loving acts perform. \n\nWere love unknown, how cold were life! \n\nHow prone were man to rave! \nHow fraught with pain and hateful strife \n\nHis journey to the grave! \n\n\'T is love supplies our sorest needs \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTrue love to God and man \xe2\x80\x94 \nMore vital than the formal creeds \nOf Church or lodge or clan. \n165 \n\n\n\nLove is of God, and God is love, \nOf His commands the sum; \n\nShow love, and from the realms above \nHeaven down to earth shall come. \n\ni2r* tfi^ Vr* \n\nWhat is Life? \n\nTo wake beneath the sun, \nTo sleep beneath the sod, \n\nA journey short to run, \nAnd then return to God. \n\nTo laugh, and then to cry; \n\nTo joy, and then to sorrow; \nTo scorn the blessing nigh, \n\nAnd endless trouble borrow. \n\nTo feel a thirst for more \nThan earth can ever give, \n\nAnd then, when life is o\'er, \nThe endless life to live. \n\n\n\n166 \n\n\n\nDestroy Not My Faith \n\n("The meanest man in the world is the man who destroys \nthe faith of any human being in anything." \xe2\x80\x94 Judge K. M. \nLandis, of Chicago. Certainly a correct faith should not be \ndestroyed.) \n\nDestroy not my faith. There is naught to supply \nThe purpose it serves in my care- fraught career; \n\nIt gives me a motive inspiring and high, \nAnd in my distresses it furnishes cheer. \n\nDestroy not my faith, for it quickens my life \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA life in the Spirit alone understood; \nIt soothes me in sorrow and nerves me in strife, \n\nAnd in my soul-hunger it points me to food. \n\nDestroy not my faith, for it pivots me fast \n\nWhen torrents destructive would sweep me away; \n\nIn substance eternal my anchor is cast; \n\nIt holds, though death\'s forces around me may play. \n\nDestroy not my faith. I am passing from earth; \n\nThe world and its pleasures will presently fade. \nLeave regnant this solace of infinite worth, \n\nThat life to the dying by faith is conveyed. \n\n167 \n\n\n\nDestroy not my faith, for it opens to view \n\nThe country I \'m seeking ; 5 t is heavenly ground, \n\nWhose elements pure my life forces renew, \n\nWhose pleasures with rapture immortal abound. \n\nDestroy not my faith. There is nothing to gain, \nBy cutting the line which connects me with God; \n\nYou rob me of pleasure; you fill me with pain, \nAnd darken the night of my sleep \'neath the sod. \n\nq\xc2\xa3& tfr* t&* \n\nSoul Rest \n\nO hapless mortal, tossed by doubt! \n\nO stricken spirit, torn by sin; \nNo longer bar the Master out, \n\nBut find through Him sweet rest within. \n\nO wanderer stumbling in the dark! \n\nO seeker grieving in despair! \nFind refuge in the gracious ark, \n\nFind peace and comfort resting there. \n\n168 \n\n\n\nO pinioned slave of Mammon\'s greed! \n\nO ruthless sport of Pleasure\'s gale! \nFrom Passion\'s galling yoke be freed; \n\nIn God find strength for spirit frail. \n\nO cheerless victim of Remorse! \n\nO beggared dupe of Folly\'s toll! \nGod\'s gift of rest to thee endorse, \n\nAnd gain a boundless wealth of soul. \n\nA Faithful Monitor \n\nConscience distasteful truths may tell, \nBut mark her sacred lessons well; \nWhoever lives with her at strife \nExpels his better self for life. \n\n\n\n169 \n\n\n\nWork Before Wages \n\nAlone in my vision I wandered afar, \nUnarrested in flight. Not a glittering star \nDisconcerted my gaze from the wonderful sight \nWhich arose to my view in the regions of light. \n\nJoyous, saintly, adoring before heaven\'s throne, \nAll made pure through the blood of the Crucified One ; \nComplete in their rapture, and perfect in might, \nKnelt the angelic throngs and the spirits of light. \nSome were casting their crowns at the feet of their Lord ; \nOthers shouted His praise or in silence adored. \n\nEntertained beyond measure, I longed to be free, \xe2\x80\x94 \n"Let me join the bright hosts !" cried my soul in its glee. \nDeep-toned was the voice which replied to my cry, \nRousing all my convictions, and making me fly \nEven meteor-like back to earth as I heard: \n"Do your life\'s, labor first, and then look for reward." \n\n\n\n170 \n\n\n\nThe Sweetest Song \n\nThe sweetest song earth ever heard \nFrom throat of angel, man, or bird, \nWas set to music from the skies, \nInspiring hope that never dies ; \nA song of God befriending man, \nWith heaven revealed; hell under ban. \n\nThat song was heard on Bethlehem\'s plain; \nGood-wall its note, with peace refrain ; \nA glorious, high, angelic thrill, \nMan\'s heart with godlike bliss to fill; \n5 T was heard of old ; \'t is heard to-day, \nAnd shall be heard for aye and aye. \n\nThat sweetest song is yours and mine, \nIf keyed to harmony divine; \nWith soul attuned by saving grace, \nToward Zion bent with steadfast face; \nLinked up with Christ; with saints aligned; \nIn life, in death, to God resigned \n\n\n\n171 \n\n\n\nThe Heavenly Song \n\nRev. 5 : 1-14. \n\nThe wondrous book in God\'s right hand \n\nNo one is found to take \nUntil the Lamb receives the roll, \n\nIts seven seals to break; \nWhen lo! before His feet there fall \n\nThe beasts and elders down, \nAnd loud they sing, and strike their harps, \n\nThe worthy Lamb to crown. \n\nThe song they sing is new and old; \n\nSalvation is its theme; \nThe blood of Christ its central note, \n\nThe nations to redeem. \n"Unto our God we have been made \n\nBoth kings and priests," they cry. \n"With Him in glory we shall come \n\nTo reign eternally." \n\nAnd many angels round the throne \n\nJoin in the glad acclaim, \nAscribing riches, honor, power, \n\nAnd blessing to His name. \n172 \n\n\n\nAnd every creature in the skies, \n\nAnd in the earth below, \nAnd in the seas, or underneath, \n\nTheir joyful praise bestow. \n\nThis heavenly song is ours now; \n\nFor us the Lamb prevailed ; \nHis blood unnumbered hearts has cleansed, \n\nAnd never once has failed. \nWith all the hosts the prophet saw \n\nAdoring at His feet \nWe \'11 worship Him in life, and then \n\nIn heaven each other greet. \n\n^* t^* <\xc2\xa3* \n\nWeighty Words \n\nTo give your words a weight unique, \nThink twice, good friend, ere once you speak; \nBy thinking twice your speech will hold \nA meaning multiplied twofold. \n\n\n\n173 \n\n\n\nThe Century Dawn \n\nHail to the century dawn, \nThe brightest of the line, \n\nWhose light, from heaven drawn, \nEternally shall shine! \n\nThe light of clearer truth, \nThe flame of simpler creed, \n\nInspiring world-wide youth \nTo nobler, Christlike deed. \n\nHow good to live and learn! \n\nHow blest to learn and live, \nAll selfishness to spurn, \n\nAnd generous service give! \n\nWe join with heart and hand \nTo speed the right along, \n\nIn God\'s own armor stand, \nTo help subdue the wrong. \n\nOur breastplate is the Word, \nUnsullied faith our shield, \n\nAnd with the Spirit\'s sword \nWe hope to win the field. \n174 \n\n\n\nAlone With Thee \n\nAlone with Thee, my God, my King, \nIn worship and in work alone; \n\nA servant\'s sacrifice I bring, \n\nAnd humbly bow before Thy throne. \n\nAlone with Thee, my Spirit guide, \nThy gracious comfort now impart; \n\nWith me in storm and calm abide, \nDirect my steps and cheer my heart. \n\nAlone with Thee, my Savior friend, \nMy spirit knows no dread nor fear; \n\nAlone with Thee until life\'s end, \nI then shall joy to feel Thee near. \n\nLet Death his sting and terror boast, \nAnd to the grave my flesh consign; \n\nWith Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, \nA lonely hour shall ne\'er be mine. \n\n\n\n175 \n\n\n\nOur Years \n\nOur years like waves have swiftly rolled \n\nAcross life\'s troubled deep ; \nWe spent them as a tale is told, \n\nOr as a dreamless sleep. \n\nIn joy they swept with greater speed, \n\nIn grief they tarried not ; \nOur cravings keen they would not heed, \n\nNor care for any lot. \n\nOur dearest friends they bore away \nWithin their strong embrace; \n\nFor sharpest pain they would not stay, \nNor turn a pitying face. \n\nAnd soon across the narrow sea \nThey \'11 bear our spirits too ; \n\nFrom time\'s concerns we shall be free, \nAnd work will cease to do. \n\nTeach us, Lord, in presence nigh, \n\nTo number all our days! \nUnto the truth our souls apply, \n\nAnd walk in wisdom\'s ways. \n176 \n\n\n\nThanksgiving Hymn \n\nGod, we bow before Thy throne; \n\nIn prayer and praise look up to Thee. \nThy goodness in our lives we own, \n\nAnd laud the grace which makes us free. \n\nWe thank Thee for the peace we feel, \nAnd for the hope which stays the soul. \n\nWilt Thou Thy gracious power reveal, \nAnd all our wayward thoughts control? \n\nMay every wish be born of love \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe love which casts out every fear; \n\nPlace Thou our hearts on things above, \nAnd wean from vain attractions here. \n\nMay faith inspire our every view ! \n\nMay kindness our affections move! \nMay all our words be just and true! \n\nAnd pure may all our motives prove! \n\nThus, while we worship Thee below, \nIn Christian bonds our hearts unite; \n\nAnd may we all in wisdom grow, \nTill called to heaven\'s clearer light ! \n12 177 \n\n\n\nThe Risen Lord \n\nAll hail, blest Prince of Peace! Thou risen Sufferer, \n\nhail! \nTo perfect man\'s release Thy merits must prevail; \nE\'en now o\'er all the earth the faith-saved millions rise \nTo celebrate Thy birth and laud Thy sacrifice. \n\nThou spotless, bleeding Lamb, from world\'s foundation \n\nslain ! \nJehovah, great I Am, e\'en loss with Thee is gain ; \nThy bow abides in strength, Thy promise shall endure \nUntil Thy blood at length has wrought its gracious cure. \n\nThou blessed Holy One ! Thou God with man enshrined ! \nThe Father\'s only Son, the Savior of mankind! \nThou hast eternal life to our blest vision brought, \nAnd in this vale of strife Thy peace-clad truth hast \ntaught. \n\nHow gentle is Thy sway, Thou mighty King of kings ! \nHow bright is Thy glad day which to us blessing brings ! \nWe lay our hands in Thine, our hearts we give to Thee, \nFor Thee our light shall shine, and Thine the glory be. \n\n\n\n178 \n\n\n\nThe Scarlet and White \n\nAn Epworth Rallying Song for the Toronto Convention, \nJuly, 1897. \n\nTune\xe2\x80\x94 "Red, White and Blue/\' \n\nHark! A call rings from ocean to ocean, \n\nOur Epworth League forces obey; \nTo our cause we are pledging devotion, \n\nAnd for it will labor and pray. \n"Look up and lift up," our endeavor; \n\nOur aim, to be pure and do right; \nOur vow is to serve God forever; \n\nOur badge is in scarlet and white. \n\nOur badge is in scarlet and white, \nOur badge is in scarlet and white, \n\nOur vow to serve God is forever, \nOur badge is in scarlet and white. \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 \nList! The tocsin still louder is ringing; \n\nIts echoes, like eagles, take wing; \nAnd millions of leaguers are bringing \n\nTheir tributes of love to our King. \n\n179 \n\n\n\nO Prince of the Calvary Mountain! \n\nTo praise Thee our voices unite; \nThy blood is our sin-cleansing fountain, \n\nAs symboled by scarlet and white. \n\nAs symboled, etc. \n\nThe Union now greets the Dominion; \n\nWe meet in fraternal accord; \nWe are one in essential opinion, \n\nAnd perfectly one in the Lord. \nThe angel of peace hovers o\'er us, \n\nThe star of redemption gives light; \nWith triumph and glory before us, \n\nWe follow the scarlet and white. \n\nWe follow, etc. \n\n<^" Qfirf %C^ \n\nAn Insatiate Thief \n\nProcrastination \xe2\x80\x94 greedy thief \xe2\x80\x94 \nWould rather filch than borrow; \n\nUnwisely lend him your to-day, \nHe \'11 steal your whole to-morrow. \n180 \n\n\n\nThe Highest Honor \n\nTo have of earth the greatest wealth, \nSurpassing all the wealth of yore; \n\nTo wear the bloom of highest health, \nAnd live a hundred years or more; \n\nTo stand on eminence of fame, \n\nWith statesman\'s eloquence and skill, \n\nAnd there by virtue of my name \nThe listening multitudes to thrill; \n\nTo sit upon a monarch\'s throne, \nA royal scepter long to sway; \n\nTo give behests in kingly tone, \nAnd see an abject world obey, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThese things were great; but greater far \n\nThe saving of a single soul; \nIn balance cast, at judgment\'s bar, \n\nThe latter would outweigh the whole. \n\nNo earthly honor can compare \n\nWith that which in this life is won \n\nBy turning souls from deep despair \nTo hope through God\'s eterfial Son. \n181 \n\n\n\nAs clearest brightness of the sky, \nAs brilliancy of flashing star, \n\nThe wise shall shine with God on high \nIn light the sun surpassing far. \n\nThen gird yourselves with strength anew, \nYe heralds of the conquering cross. \n\nFight bravely on your warfare through, \nNor dare to shrink at temporal loss. \n\nLet others gain the wealth of earth, \nLet others win the world\'s renown; \n\nYour gain is all of heaven\'s worth, \nYour glory an immortal crown. \n\nijr* i2r* 1&* \n\nThe Best Goodness \n\nNo goodness is best, \n\nWhen better than worst, \nExcept when the worst \n\nDeserves to be blest. \n\n182 \n\n\n\nThine Forever \n\nShould God my life on earth extend \n\nTo fifty solid, earnest years; \nIn truth I \'11 walk, to work attend, \n\nAnd cast on Him my cares and fears. \n\nAnd should those years to sixty reach, \n\nWith health and strength in mercy given, \n\nThe faith I \'11 keep, the way I \'11 teach, \nFrom fading earth to fadeless heaven. \n\nAnd if to full threescore and ten \nHe lengthens out my glad career, \n\nAmong the cheery aged men \n\nI \'11 seek my place and serve with cheer. \n\nLong be my life, remote my death, \nIf God my trusting soul sustain; \n\nBut sooner let me yield my breath \nThan lose my trust and live in vain. \n\n\n\n183 \n\n\n\n"1 Can Not Depart Alone" \n\nA mother in anguish of soul \n\nBends over her daughter in death. \nAs nearer the dark waters roll, \n\nShe whispers with shortening breath: \n"What is this strange anguish I feel, \n\nWhich remedies do not allay?" \nResponse to the dreadful appeal: \n\nu O, daughter, your life ebbs away!" \n\nNo thought of Death\'s presence so near! \n\nNo fitness to meet the last foe! \nNo grace the frail spirit to cheer! \n\nNo staff through the valley of woe! \n"O mother! Not dying!" she cries, \n\nBetwixt a low shriek and a moan; \nThen adds, in her painful surprise, \n\n"I can not depart all alone!" \n\n"You, mother, must go with me now; \n\nSustain me, so weak have I grown; \nWipe off the cold sweat from my brow; \n\nI can not depart all alone!" \n184 \n\n\n\nAgain and again was It said, \n\nTill fainter and feebler the moan; \n\nHer arms were unclasped, and the dead \nHad passed to her God all alone. \n\nt^rl i2r* f4r^ \n\nWhat Money Can Not Buy \n\nThe value of money I freely concede; \nTo earn it for service is wisdom indeed; \nIt buys to the limit, yet one thing is clear, \nIt can not buy heaven or happiness here. \n\nThe man who has money can live as he will ; \nHis larder and wardrobe with luxuries fill; \nHis palace may shine in accord with his sphere, \nYet never yield heaven or happiness here. \n\nThe tourist may girdle the earth with his sweep, \nThe finest of everything everywhere reap; \nYet neither in trophy, or homecoming dear, \nFind semblance of heaven or happiness here. \n\n185 \n\n\n\nWith heaven and happiness ever unknown, \nWhat else worth the while into life can be thrown? \nAmong my heart learnings, O let there appear \nThe secret of heaven and happiness here. \n\n<^" t&t i&* \n\nThe White Tie \n\nA tie is but a little thing, \n\nA trifle in attire; \nA mite of cloth, a bit of string, \nA knot to make the bonnet cling, \n\nA bow to suit desire. \n\nAnd yet a tie may be the sign \n\nOf consecration pure; \nThe token of a call divine, \nThe signal of a work benign \n\nAmong the sick and poor. \n\nI love to meet the tie in white \nIn temple, home, or street; \n186 \n\n\n\nIt speaks a heart and motive right, \nOf love and ardor at their height, \nAnd sacrifice complete. \n\n"For Christ alone my tie is worn," \n\nThe wearer seems to say ; \n"For Him the cross is gladly borne; \nFor Him I comfort those who mourn, \n\nAnd with the dying pray. \n\n"The wanderer I freely seek, \nThe haunt of danger dare ; \n\nTo save the sinning, help the weak; \n\nTo cheer the faint, direct the meek, \nAnd for the orphan care. \n\n"No other honor do I crave; \n\nNo other aim have I; \nFor this myself I humbly gave; \nFor Jesus to be true and brave \n\nAnd in His service die." \n\n\n\n187 \n\n\n\nThe Penitent\'s Prayer \n\nGod, be merciful to me, \n\nAnd hear my heart\'s deep cry! \nFrom sin and guilt now set me free, \nAnd dry my tearful eye! \n\nNo grant of honor do I plead; \n\nNo golden gift implore; \nNor e\'en relief from pressing need, \n\nNor chastening trouble sore. \n\n1 ask alone for pardoned sin, \nAnd clearance from its stain; \n\nThy holy courts to enter in, \nForever to remain. \n\nO God, this mercy to me show, \nThis gracious favor give; \n\nAnd while I tread this vale below, \nTo Thy dear praise I \'11 live. \n\n\n\n188 \n\n\n\nThe Dying Pilgrim\'s Plea \n\nWeep not for me ; \'t were better far \n\nThat age should lay life\'s burden down; \n\nI followed long my guiding star, \nAnd now I seek the starry crown. \n\nYouth had its bloom, and manhood\'s day \nWas rich with ripening fruit and flower; \n\nThe charm has passed; why should I. stay \nBeyond the normal parting hour? \n\nMy friends who crossed the mystic tide, \nEre I had reached the shaded vale, \n\nAre beckoning from the farther side; \nTheir rising songs my soul regale. \n\nAnd this I know ; the friends I leave \nMust soon embark and follow on; \n\nWhy, then, for me should loved ones grieve, \nOr mourning wear when I am gone? \n\n\n\n189 \n\n\n\nThe Laymen\'s Movement \n\nMy spirit feels the power of the rising Christian throng ; \nMy soul receives the echo of their ardent shout and song ; \nI see them mailed and ready for a conflict sore and long, \nThe heathen world to gain. \n\nFull conscious of obstructions which in their path re- \nmain, \nThey firmly plant the standard far on the open plain, \nAnd bright they keep their armor till the man of sin \nis slain, \n\nAnd truth and right abound. \n\nThe trumpet sounds to battle, and \'tis no uncertain \n\nsound ; \nStraight forward move the columns upon the mission \n\nground ; \nMay every loyal soldier square in his place be found, \nAnd each his weapon yield. \n\nThe struggle rages fiercely, for the foe is slow to yield, \nBut to the King Immortal their cause they have ap- \npealed, \nThey bravely charge the ramparts, and \xe2\x80\x94 Hurrah! they \nwin the field \n\nAnd triumph over wrong. \n190 \n\n\n\nPart VI \nPersonal Characterizations \n\n\n\nDevelopment has noblest sweep \n\nIn moral, not in mental; \nTrue worth from training we must reap, \n\nFor brains are accidental. \n\n\n\nA Cheery Ministry \n\n(To Rev. H. A. M., on his seventieth birthday.) \n\nThree-score and ten ! How sweet to live \nThe span of man\'s allotted years! \n\nHow doubly sweet to live and give, \nIn every year a thousand cheers! \n\nThe cheery nature, such as thine, \n\nThough placed among the sick and sad, \n\nCan but dispense the gospel wine \n\nAnd make the humblest mortal glad. \n\nSuccessful living is the sum \nOf being true and living well; \n\nAnd in the life of bliss to come \n\nThese virtues bright must ever tell. \n\nCongratulations, brother! Shake! \n\nYour helpful ministry I recall; \nMay heaven keep you sweet and make \n\nYour future years the best of all! \n\n\n\n13 193 \n\n\n\nOur Ruth \n\nJust as blithe as a bird and as free as the air, \n\nHaving never a grief, or a burden or care; \n\nWith a face wreathed in smiles and a heart kind and \n\ntrue, \xe2\x80\x94 \nLet me sing to the praise of our Ruth of Bay View. \n\nFrom her home at the straits she doth hasten away, \nLeaving chums of the city and pastimes so gay; \nFor a love of the bay, with its tinges of blue, \nIs supreme in the heart of our Ruth of Bay View. \n\nIn the dawn of her life she the habit began, \nAnd she comes every year with the migrating clan; \nWe should miss her as keenly as sunshine or dew \nShould she fail to appear, constant Ruth of Bay View. \n\nSo, alas for the day, with its morning of gold, \nWhen the future its secrets of life shall unfold, \nAnd our Ruth meets a man, as dear girls often do, \nWho will charm her away as a bride from Bay View! \n\n\n\n194 \n\n\n\nTim Tom \n\nTim Tom was born with one idea, \n\nAnd that was wrong; \nAlthough he held but one idea, \n\nHe held it strong. \nNo argument his one idea \n\nCould e\'er dislodge; \nIf pressed to change his one idea, \n\nHe \'d always dodge. \nBecause he clung to one idea, \n\nHis head was small ; \nIf urged to yield his one idea, \n\nHe turned to gall. \nHis head was filled with one idea \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo room for more. \nIf bumped against a new idea, \n\nHis head grew sore. \nHe lived for long with one idea ; \n\nWith one he died; \nAnd men rejoiced that that idea \n\nThe grave should hide. \n\n195 \n\n\n\nAnd so Tim Tom with one idea \nHas passed from earth ; \n\nMay other Tims of one idea \nNe\'er have their birth! \n\n^* JF* t\xc2\xa3& \n\nElna, a Detroit Idyl \n\nO Detroit, famed in story ! \n\nBeauteous "City of the Straits !" \nRising in thy modern glory, \n\nStoried song thy rise awaits. \n\nSing I now a story simple; \n\nSing it happily and clear; \nSong of heart and baby dimple, \n\nSong of home and loved one dear. \n\nOn thy broad, majestic river, \n\nNear thy queenly gem, Belle Isle \n\nLoving gift of gracious Giver \xe2\x80\x94 \nSaw I first the dimpled smile. \n196 \n\n\n\nDimpled smile and heart expanding, \nKeenness beaming from the eye; \n\nPlace for growing life demanding, \nUseful service drawing nigh. \n\nFlow on, river, broad majestic; \n\nShine on, island gem so bright; \nBut let me my song domestic \n\nChant with fond and pure delight. \n\nIsland gem and glorious city; \n\nRiver, broad, with commerce crowned; \nNot for you my humble ditty, \n\nNot for you the note I sound. \n\nDimpled smile outshines the glory; \n\nArdent love the fame outweighs, \nAnd the sweetness of my story \n\nIn my heart forever stays. \n\n\n\n197 \n\n\n\nAlonsa, an American Carol \n\nTake my pen and now employ it, \nMuses of the new Detroit; \nSing a carol, plaudit-laden, \nOf a coy and comely maiden, \n\nFrom her infancy demure; \nTell of music and of teaching, \nOf admiring childhood reaching; \nOf warm friendship always making, \nTasty fine art undertaking, \n\nWith a will and skill mature. \n\nCall the past to rapt attention ; \nHer ancestors freely mention, \nThrough the many generations, \nSince the Pilgrims paid oblations, \n\nOn the wild New England shore; \nTell of pioneer advances, \nWith red warriors taking chances; \nOf the children pert and trustful, \nYouth courageous, strong and lustral; \n\nTell the story o\'er and o\'er. \n\n198 \n\n\n\nCall to mind the distant travel; \nCalifornia\'s golden gravel; \nCatalina\'s famous island; \nSan Francisco\'s wave-dashed highland; \n\nHow the glorious visions rise! \nArid plains and snow-capped mountains ; \nDashing streams and crystal fountains; \nSpacious parks and fruitful valleys; \nPalm-decked streets and blooming alleys; \n\nBalmy air and sunny skies. \n\nSing the maiden shy and shrinking; \nQuick perception, careful thinking, \nLively speech, and ready action; \nFinding bliss in benefaction; \n\nSing her praises just and mete; \nPilgrim blood in her descending; \nRevolution valor blending; \nIn the love of home abiding, \nAnd in God and friends confiding; \n\nHail the maiden coy and sweet. \n\n\n\n199 \n\n\n\nEthel D \n\nEthel flashed upon my vision like the sun\'s surprising \nray, \n\nWhen he bursts in golden splendor after shower in sum- \nmer day; \n\nAnd I found myself illumined by the radiance of her face, \n\nBy the warmth of her expression, and the witchery of \nher grace. \n\nIn the heart of sunny Southland Ethel D. was born and \ntrained, \n\nAnd a wealth of gentle spirit in her nature was in- \ngrained ; \n\nA sweet seriousness accented her uniquely spoken words, \n\nAnd her earnestness was natural as the trilling song of \nbirds. \n\nLove was held in firm abeyance in her strenuous career, \nBut a full-orbed active kindness drew her charmed as- \nsociates near; \nShe was loyal in her friendship, in appreciation keen, \nQuick to cheer and hearten others, and in self-control \nserene. \n\n200 \n\n\n\nRipened culture sealed the beauty of her modest, shrink- \ning air; \n\nAn uplifting sense of duty gave her strength to do and \ndare ; \n\nOn the threshold of her mission she the unknown future \nscanned, \n\nAnd with fond and true ambition every task demurely \nplanned. \n\nIn our brief association, as I searched her searching eyes, \nHer appeal to my best manhood I could keenly realize ; \nPlacid faith was the foundation of her feeling and her \n\nthought, \nAnd inspiring each volition stood the secret spring, "I \n\nought !" \n\nMuch I wondered while with Ethel what the w^orld might \n\nhave to give \nTo a soul equipped and ready the sincerest life to live; \nAnd I wondered, still I wonder, where this brilliant star \n\nshall shine, \nWhen my own is dimly twinkling far beyond the sunset \n\nline. \n\n\n\n201 \n\n\n\nThose Johnson Girls \n\nAs o\'er the tide of life we go, \nAmid the social ebb and flow, \nOne charming group I chance to know,- \nThose Johnson girls. \n\nThey \'re fair of form, appearance neat ; \nThey \'re keen in speech, in spirit sweet ; \nIn pleasing ways they can\'t be beat, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThose Johnson girls. \n\nWhen threatened with a fit of blues, \nOr fretfully my spirit stews, \nOne remedy I can\'t refuse, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThose Johnson girls. \n\nIf sick, or hurt, or only sad; \nIf tired, grieved, or even mad, \nTheir presence always makes me glad, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThose Johnson girls. \n\nAnd when with joy my spirit glows, \nIn bliss as pure as life e\'er knows, \nAt sight of them my cup o\'erflows, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThose Johnson girls. \n202 \n\n\n\nEsther Earl \n\nO, a bright and comely maid was Esther Earl, \nWith her rosy cheeks, her diamond eyes, and teeth of \npearl. \nMany suitors sought her hand; \nHer admirers thought her grand, \nFor her heart she did command, \nLike a brave and pure and sweet and queenly girl. \n\nBut a suitor came at last for Esther Earl, \nAnd a flag of ruthless conquest did unfurl. \n\nShe could not his suit withstand; \n\nGave to him her heart and hand; \n\nSweetest bride in all the land; \nWarm as sunshine, bright as gold, and pure as pearl. \n\nBrief and strange the wedded life of Esther Earl. \n\nShe her spouse in righteous wrath did from her hurl, \nAnd the court gave her divorce, \nFor a cause suppressed, of course \xe2\x80\x94 \nFor the world\'s best good, perforce, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThough the cruel lips of scorn did meanly curl. \n\n203 \n\n\n\nNow she sleeps beneath the sod, doth Esther Earl, \n\nAnd a marble polished bright, and white as pearl, \n\nMarks the spot where long she sleeps \n\nAnd her fatal secret keeps, \n\nWhile Death other harvests reaps, \n\n\'Mong the mourners lone and sad for Esther Earl. \n\nt\xc2\xa3r? t&* t&* \n\nHenry White \n\nA man of kingly mold was Henry White; \nStrong-framed, close-knit, clear-visioned, bright. \nHis heart was stayed on God, on truth, and worth; \nHis work a ministry as wide as earth. \n\nAnd where he moved, light beamed, love stirred, guilt \n\ncowered ; \nHis soul was by the Soul of souls empowered; \nHe spake, and listeners to the word were thrilled; \nHe taught, and wisdom on his lips distilled. \n\nA scientist was he ; a master mind, \nWith gifts the roots of fact and thought to find. \nDeep down within the earth he saw the light, \nAnd e\'en star-depths were open to his sight. \n\n204 \n\n\n\nHe lived, a leader long In knightly clan; \n\nHe grew as leader and as manly man. \n\nAge was his friend; youth stayed within his heart; \n\nHe brought to perfect use the living art. \n\nAnd millions loved this royal Henry White, \nWho stood for progress, verity, and right; \nNor king, nor prince, nor emperor ever shone \nWith truer luster from a monarch\'s throne. < \n\nIfP* Iff* vF* \n\nMaggie O \n\nShe was neither gay nor pretty, \nThough perhaps a trifle witty; \nShe was honest and sincere, \nFull of heartiness and cheer. \n\nFriends she made at every meeting, \nFriends for happy future greeting; \nGifted with artistic taste, \nSomething fine in each she traced. \n205 \n\n\n\nSoul she put in every painting, \nTruth of nature never tainting; \nPainting all things as they are \nWith a conscientious care. \n\nHers it was to lay the pigments \nIn the canvas so the figments \nWould the work of art conceal \nAnd the end of art reveal. \n\nRoughest things she made attractive; \nCrudest things she made didactive, \nAnd her charming studies told \nJust the truth she would unfold. \n\nAnd her canvas glows with brightness, \nTouched by her with skillful lightness, \nThough her brush is laid aside \nAnd ? t is long since Maggie died. \n\n\n\n206 \n\n\n\nDolla Konantz \n\nAt rare and lengthened intervals \n\nIn earthly being there appears, \n\nIn instances as wide as hemispheres apart, \n\nA blending sweet of spirit so subdued \n\nAnd matter so refined as to form \n\nIn mold of perfect womanhood \n\nA creature of angelic loveliness. \n\nOne such I knew. \n\nA queenly wife was she; a gentle mother; \nA chaste and true and noble friend; \nA princess in the home; an ornament \nIn vast assembly or in classic hall. \n\nIn manner unpretentious, she was clothed \nWith graces fit for royalty; \nReserved e\'en to the point of diffidence, \nYet shrinking not from Duty\'s post \nOr stern responsibility. \n\nAnd life and love and plenitude \nWere given her as one who brought \nA touch of heaven down to earth; \n207 \n\n\n\nA glimpse of the Immortal state \nIn transient mundane sphere. \n\n1\xc2\xa3r* t\xc2\xa3r* t2^* \n\nMabel B \n\nWith happy heart I sing the praise \n\nOf lovely Mabel B., \nWho made her life in every phase \n\nA service glad and free. \n\nUpon her comely face there played \nAn earnest look, or smile, \n\nAs might befit the tasks she laid \nOr cause she served the while. \n\nNo wealth was hers, nor dainty ease, \nNor freedom from all pain; \n\nYet she contrived to live to please, \nAnd best of life to gain. \n\nHer coming was a source of joy; \n\nHer going was a grief; \nTo charm the hours was her employ, \n\nAnd bring to care, relief. \n208 \n\n\n\nShe lived in love so pure and true \n\nThat loving was her life; \nShe loved to live, and living, do \n\nThe things with true love rife. \n\nNo spirit, with hot anger stirred, \n\nBy her was ever stung; \nNo bitter plaint nor hateful word \n\nWas ever on her tongue. \n\nShe simply kept her gifts and powers \n\nIn firm and sweet control, \nAnd used them through the passing hours \n\nIn blessing every soul. \n\nf\xc2\xa3r* t\xc2\xa3r^ tfir* \n\nFrances E \n\nAn exquisite personality! \nIn infancy, childhood, youth, and active life \nEnvironed by that which fills, controls, and fires \nA gracious nature and a heaven-lit soul! \n\nIn character and purpose \nShe stood a long and clear remove from common clod; \n14 209 \n\n\n\nA destiny as special as that of ancient seer \nAwaited her development. \n\nUnder the fostering rays \nOf Christian love and wise paternal care, \nIn home and temple and in classic hall, \nShe fast evolved the elements that swayed \nHer ever-fruitful life. \n\nHer intellect was imperial! \nHer disposition sweet. Her will \nWas pliant only as the tempered steel. \nTenderness was in her look and word and heart, \nWhile might was in her poise. Her judgment \nWas full and clear and quick, unerring-like, \nMatched only by her rare humility. \nShe was an honor to her sex ; a type \nOf queenly womankind. \n\nHer surname \xe2\x80\x94 Willard: "one who wills" \xe2\x80\x94 \nBespoke just what she did; she willed \nTo lead the way of woman everywhere \nTo larger, nobler sphere. \n\n210 \n\n\n\nPathfinder she, \nIn realm of temperance and "white life for two!" \n"For God and home and native land!" she said. \nAs one inspired, impelled, compelled, \nWith trembling lip and agitated soul, \nWith logic keen, emotion deep; with lip \nBy living coal from off God\'s altar touched, \nAnd with persuasiveness as gentle as the dew, \nShe fired her message straight into melting hearts. \n\nIt was a heavenly place \nWhere she was seen and heard ; for God \nWas always there, while angels hovered round. \nShe talked as one emboldened by the truth; \nShe pleaded long for soberness and purity in all; \nShe longed for womankind to stand on par with men \nIn building up the home and State and wholesome life. \n\nHer patriotism \nWas of the lofty, strict, and stalwart type, \nWhich sees the best and goes out after it. \nNo word of faith in God or love toward man \nWas alien to her sympathy. \n\n\n\n211 \n\n\n\nShe traveled far, \nAnd every land contributed a share \nIn broadening her view and sharpening her love \nFor humankind, and for the triune God, \nAnd for her own America, the land most dear. \n\nHer chiefest sadness \nWas that freedom\'s flag, red, white, and blue, \nShould wave in beauty and expression vast \nO\'er Liquor\'s legalized and ugly schemes. \nWith prophet eye she saw the coming day, \nWhen men, aroused and doubly nerved, would wipe \nThis foul and bloody stain, too long excused, \nFrom Freedom\'s stately shield. \n\nHer life in years \nWas brief, but long in work projected \nAnd in service wrought. Her death, \nLike that of Enoch pure, of old, who walked with God, \nWas simply a translation. \n\n"How beautiful it is to be with God!" \nNo sooner said than done; with God she was, \nBut scarcely more after her saintly spirit\'s flight \nThan through her eight and fifty years before. \n\n212 \n\n\n\nCordelia A \n\nFrom fame and greatness \nLet me for a moment turn, in humble words, \nTo simple domesticity and fond maternal love. \nI met her first in school, and ere \nThe term had closed I met her as a friend ; \nAnd then, erelong, we two as lovers met. \nThe oftener we met the more we loved, \nAnd soon we were betrothed, and next \nIn lifelong union joined. \n\nShe was a blithe and zealous bride, \nAs trustful as a child. Our home \nTook on the impress of her mind. \nWhat she could do she did with heartiness, \nAnd did it faithfully and well. \nConspicuous in her character was liberality; \nTo be and do for others was her joy. \nGenerous, practical, confiding, and serene, \nShe made my life, as far as wife could do, \nA quiet-flowing stream of bliss. \n\nAnd when, in course of time, with courage true, \nShe walked Gethsemane\'s pain-fraught vale, \n213 \n\n\n\nAnd with eternal dews upon her pallid brow \nCame forth unscathed, and bearing in her arms \nOur first-born son, my very soul, \nIn gratitude and reverence, mix\'d with awe, \nCrouched lovingly before her, as at the shrine \nOf motherhood almost divine. \n\nFive times that peril-hung path she trod, \nTo gather buds by angel-fingers dropped, \nTo bloom in garlands on my brow; offspring \nAs dear as e\'er engaged a father\'s care \nOr crowned a mother\'s love. \n\nAnd once, yea, twice, when God on high \nCalled from His stainless throne, and asked \nReturning gift of those sweet flowers, \nI saw that wife and mother, bathed in tears \nAnd trembling like the aspen, look up and say, \n"Yea, Lord!" and then bow down in keenest pain, \nTo love and serve as ne\'er before the trusts^ \nTo her and me continued. \n\nAnd now, with life a waning force, her love. \n\nChastened, refined, improved, and proven oft, \n\n214 \n\n\n\nSheds gentle halo on my path, and streams \nOf hallowed influence on my heart distils. \nMy wife ! My children\'s mother ! My better half, \nIn time and in eternity the same! \n\nJF* t2\'* J^ \n\nMy Little World \n\nA little world existeth within my throbbing breast, \nWhere tiny orbs of splendor keep glowing night and \nday; \n\nWhere waves of deep emotion oft rock themselves to rest, \nOr, rising with the breezes, roll and surge alway. \n\nThat world is my Affection; the sun of love is there; \n\nAnd stars reflect its brightness when western skies \nare gained; \nCompassion deep and constant, a keen and tender care, \n\nA universe of action within my heart contained. \n\nFrom infancy and onward unto the present hour \nThat little world has held me enchanted on its shore; \n\nIn filial love\'s first dawning it thrilled me with its power, \nAnd gave the love fraternal to thrill me evermore. \n\n215 \n\n\n\nThe love of youth and maiden, the love of loving wife, \nThe love of home and country, the love of plighted \nword, \n\nThe love of God and neighbor, the love of waning life, \nThe love of joys paternal all have my being stirred. \n\nAnd now this world advances ; its earthly course is run ; \n\nIts tide of sweet endearment is drifting to the sea; \nBut here or there or other, the little world begun, \n\nMust always and forever be all the world to me, \n\ni2^* i&* t&* \n\nJames Riston \n\nWho is this tiny little elf \nThe nurse is bringing to myself, \nWith blinking eyes and pinky toes, \nAlmost concealed in swadling clothes? \nIt is my boy, as you \'11 agree, \nThe very same that comforts me. \n\nWho is it shares my daily rides, \nAnd on the foremost seat abides ; \nWho takes the reins and swings the whip, \nAnd gives old Bird the trotting clip? \n216 \n\n\n\nIt is my boy, as you \'11 agree, \nThe very same that comforts me. \n\nWho is it asks such questions keen \nAbout all things a boy has seen; \nWho wants to know the reason why \nFor stuff on earth and stars in sky? \nIt is my boy, as you \'11 agree, \nThe very same that comforts me. \n\nWho is it now to manhood grown, \nWith things he calls his very own; \nA home, a wife, employment too, \nWith lots of social cares in view? \nIt is my boy, as you \'11 agree, \nThe very same that comforts me. \n\nWho is it with a mind mature, \nA manly step, both firm and sure, \nOn whom with trusting heart I lean, \nIn whose good-will I dwell serene? \nIt is my boy, as you \'11 agree, \nThe very same that comforts me. \n\n217 \n\n\n\n"Kittie" \n\nWe named her Florence, but I called her "Kittie." \n\nThe reason why I can not tell. \n\n\'T was but a whim, a freak of fancy, \n\nAn impulse strong to fondly pet \n\nA first-born daughter. \n\nShe was a gentle child, with no \n\nPrecocity of note, nor bent of will unbreakable. \n\nShe was never self-asserting, nor forward, bold, \n\nNor unpleasantly dependent. Her tender mind \n\nA practical turn assumed. She would do \n\nThe things we thought she ne\'er had planned \n\nNor thought of. \n\nA mimic school was her delight; \n\nHerself the teacher, and the infant chairs \n\nHer pupils well-behaved. \n\nAnd oft by day and evening, rod in hand, \nWith tireless step and school-ma\'m air, \nWith voice of cheer, correction, or command, \nAmong those empty seats in order placed \nIn pride of heart she moved. \n\n218 \n\n\n\nAnd still I called her "Kittie." \n\'T was the corollary of style adult \nIn child-life sweet and true, with a wish \nTo keep her all my own. \n\nThe years flew by. Her school-girl days \nWere passed. Her childhood garb \nGave place to woman\'s paraphernalia; \nBut never for one hour did there cease \nIn her maturing life the infant drift \nTo be a teacher grave. And e\'en to-day \nShe holds and wields the teacher\'s scepter, \nWhile living pupils gather at her knee. \n\nAnd so, to duly match and modify \n\nThe character of pedagogue, through habit fixed, \n\nI call my Florence "Kittie." \n\n\n\n219 \n\n\n\nTo Alice \n\n(On receiving her photograph on a postal card.) \n\nOnly a bit of light and shade, \nA dainty touch of sunray, \nAnd lo! an impression fair \nOf sweet and cheery life! \n\nAnd what is here for me? \nA precious memory of infant charms! \nA hallowed treasury of cherished thought! \nThe hopes and fears and wishes fond \nOf young paternal years. \n\nIn this imprint \nI see reflection of a mother love, \nBlending with traces of a father\'s image. \nI see devotion deep and true; \nA thoughtfulness of others merged \nIn due respect for self. \n\nUrge on thy way, my daughter! \nThe morning dawn gives promise bright \nOf glad fruition in the noon-tide hour \nOf all our fondest dreams. \n220 \n\n\n\n\nALICE \n\n\n\nWe know not what the future hath in store ! \nEnough to know each passing day \nThat present life is fullness quite \nOf all we dared expect in days of yore. \n\n<^" ^" llr* \n\nA Father\'s Pity \n\nYou may talk of the strength of friendly ties; \n\nOf love so perfect that naught can mar; \nOf fond devotion that never dies, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut a father\'s pity is stronger far. \n\nHe sees his child in the morn of life, \nA tender plant that needs his care; \n\nA spirit frail exposed to strife; \nA life with others to do and dare. \n\nHe sees that life on the shores of time, \nWhere tides roll in and breakers roar; \n\nWhere deeds of men are dark with crime, \nAnd dissipation reigns galore. \n\n221 \n\n\n\nHe sees sweet innocence sore amazed \nAt wrongs that breed distrust in God ; \n\nHe sees the trembling spirit dazed \n\nBy passion\'s war and the chastening rod. \n\nAnd up in his heart there wells a tide \nOf pity deep as the ocean\'s flow; \n\nHis daughter or son he has descried \n\nWhere threatening breakers come and go. \n\n"0 God!" he cries, "my child sustain \nIn this supreme and crucial hour; \n\nIn strength unmoved may he remain \n\nUnscarred, unscathed by tempter\'s power.\' \n\nAnd time rolls on \xe2\x80\x94 probation\'s years \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe child attains mature estate; \n\nYet still the father\'s heart appears \nSurcharged with pity just as great. \n\nThrough life he bears the fateful load, \nAnd with it goes beneath the sod; \n\nHe enters heaven\'s secure abode, \n\nAnd lays it down at the feet of God. \n\n222 \n\n\n\nOscar Ferdinand \n\n(Born June 28, 1878; died March 9, 1879.) \n\nThey say the healing hand of Time \nCures every ill of mortal breath; \n\nAssuages griefs which in their prime \n\nSeemed like the staggering blow of death. \n\nBut there \'s a wound in my poor heart \nThat passing years can never heal; \n\nThe flow of nature, skill of art, \nNo healing touch or balm reveal. \n\nSo oft my memory calls him back \xe2\x80\x94 \nMy darling Ferdie, sweet and pure \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNor does the vision ever lack \nA seeming realness, vivid, sure. \n\nI feel his arms my neck around; \n\nHis little form to mine I press; \nAnd e\'en mine ear, so dull to sound, \n\nCan hear that voice of gentleness. \n\n223 \n\n\n\nI look into his lustrous eyes; \n\nThey beam on me with love and light \xe2\x80\x94 \nNo new experience can disguise \n\nThat vision falling on my sight. \n\nI know 9 t is he ; the same sweet smile \nThat ever played upon his face \n\nResponds to mine, and shall beguile \nMy life-long, checkered, earthly race. \n\nO Ferdie! angel of my life! \n\nSweet spirit of my sorrowing years! \nContinue round me till the strife \n\nIs ended in this vale of tears. \n\nThen, tender angel, bear me home, \nBy the immortal life made strong, \n\nAnd with my spirit ever roam, \n\nWhile God and heaven our bliss prolong. \n\n\n\n224 \n\n\n\nArthur Ninde \n\n(Born May 11, 1889; died March 9, 1895.) \n\n"I love you, papa; now remember!" \n\nMy little boy would say, \nWhene\'er I left him at the door, \n\nFor work from day to day. \n\n"I love you, papa; "now remember!" \nWith index finger raised, \n\nHe would the tender words repeat, \nAs after me he gazed. \n\n"I love you, papa; now remember!" \nThe frail and lovely child, \n\nDeep into my affection grown, \nMy leisure hours beguiled. \n\n"I love you, papa; now remember!" \n\nAnd can I e\'er forget? \nIn Woodmere my dear Arthur sleeps, \n\nAnd I am weeping yet. \n\n15 225 \n\n\n\nAfter One Year \n\n(March 9, 1896.) \n\nWhy sinks my heart within my breast? \nWhy is my soul with grief oppressed? \nAnd why my startling thoughts distressed, \n\nAs if in woe? \nThe sun is shining o\'er the hills; \nThe world its common mission fills, \nAnd dawning spring new life distils \n\nWhere\'er I go. \n\nAh! chide me not. I do my best \nTo bear my burden unconfessed \nAnd lock the secret in my breast \n\nThat pains me so. \nAlas! in vain my nature wills \nTo hide the memory that chills, \nAnd sink the carking care that kills, \n\nLike bitter foe. \n\nThis day and date my loss suggest \xe2\x80\x94 \nI think of him I oft caressed \nAnd to my heart his dear form pressed \nOne year ago. \n\n226 \n\n\n\nHe \'s now with God ; sweet songs he trills ; \nHe plays along the heavenly rills, \nAnd earth\'s rude storms and pains and ills \nHe ne\'er shall know. \n\nPeace, then, my heart! Heed God\'s behest! \nGrieve not for those supremely blest, \nBut follow them to endless rest, \n\nAnd tears forego. \nHis word to faith he now fulfills; \nHis blessed truth he now instills; \nAnd my poor trusting heart he thrills \n\nWith heaven\'s inflow. \n\n<^" <2r* t2^ \n\nAfter Two Years \n\n(March 9, 1897.) \n\nHow long the space of two whole years, \nTo spirits cramped in molded clay! \n\nWe struggle on \'mid grief and tears, \nAnd wait our coronation day. \n\nHow short the space of two brief years, \nTo spirit freed from earthly clod! \n227 \n\n\n\nHe knows no sorrow, feels no fears, \nBut rests serenely with his God. \n\nTwo years with God. The angel choirs \nTo him are chanting songs of bliss, \n\nAnd Jesus still his heart inspires \n\nWith truths from other worlds than this. \n\nRest on, sweet soul! Divine advance \nIs written on thy sunlit brow ; \n\nNor sin, nor doubt, nor woe, nor chance, \nCan ever mar thy glory now. \n\n1&9 t2^* l2r* \n\nAfter Fifteen Years \n\nMy life seems like a meteor flight \n\nAcross the evening sky; \nThe twinkling stars and planets bright \n\nAll flash before my eye; \nThe lengthening past is dimly set \n\nIn memory\'s sacred scene; \nBut one brief space is brilliant yet, \n\nIn quietness serene; \n228 \n\n\n\nIt is the life, \nWith sunshine rife, \nOf happy Little Arthur. \n\nI see his face of winsome grace; \n\nHis slender, shapely form; \nI feel him near, with sprightly cheer, \n\nAnd greetings keen and warm; \nNo whit of change is in his smile; \n\nHe answers to his name; \nHe runs and leaps in childhood style ; \nHis spirit is the same; \nI know \'t is he, \nIn merry glee, \nMy precious Little Arthur. \n\nYou call it fancy ; be it so ; \n\nWe will not disagree; \nBut fact or fancy, this I know, \n\n5 T is very real to me ; \nHe lives through all these passing years \n\nIn vivid, fadeless hue; \nHe comes to me, he talks, he cheers, \n\nAs breathing children do; \n229 \n\n\n\nNor could he be \nMore dear to me \nAs living Little Arthur. \n\nt&* t&* t&* \n\nEasy and Not Easy \n\nYour neighbor hears Death\'s dread alarms, \n\nAnd when the monster grim \nStrikes down his babe in tender arms, \n\nWith ease you say to him: \n"O neighbor, bow you to the stroke, \n\nSubmissive to God\'s will; \nLife\'s silken cord is only broke, \n\nHis mandate to fulfill." \n\nBut when the child that droops and dies, \n\nAnd for the tomb is sealed, \nIs yours by Nature\'s fondest ties \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNot easy then to yield; \nThat piteous moan of loving wife, \n\nO\'er baby\'s marble face, \nWith trembling strikes your very life \n\nAnd tests supporting grace. \n230 \n\n\n\nSo when your neighbor in the tomb \n\nHas laid his child away; \nReturning to the cheerless home, \n\nYou easily do say: \n"Well, neighbor, death is yet a friend; \n\nFrom pain your child is free; \nNo ill its footsteps can attend \n\nTo all eternity." \n\nBut when the saddened home is yours, \n\nAnd silent are its halls; \nNo cooing voice your life allures \n\nWithin its lonely walls; \nWhen in the crib o\'er which you bend \n\nIs naught but formless clothes; \nNot easy then to see a friend \n\nIn death, the last of foes. \n\nAnd when the months of time have rolled, \n\nLike waves o\'er dreary sea; \nHow easy told the unconsoled: \n\n"Now, neighbor, list to me: \nDeath is a fact that will not change, \n\nThough tears forever flow; \n231 \n\n\n\nYour grief should have a liberal range, \nBut not make life a woe." \n\nAnd yet, when green the grass has grown, \nWhich hides your child from thee, \n\nAnd long the bitter tears have flown \nO\'er death\'s unchanged decree, \n\nThere still will come a mourning hour, \nThe heart will bleed anew, \n\nAnd naught have compensating power, \nBut grace and glory too. \n\nt\xc2\xa3r* t2^* W* \n\n"Dropping Out of Sight\' \n\nSpeaking of the recent death of an old acquaintance, a \nfriend in a private letter said: \n\n"Do please live on, to be 120 at least, for this dropping \nout of sight of dear friends is something dreadful, and all my \nphilosophy and my little religion can not reconcile me to it. \' \' \n\n"Live on?" Well, yes, if live I may; \nNot long at best my earthly stay ; \nAnd yet, to live, O sorry plight! \nIs but to see friends drop from sight. \n\n232 \n\n\n\nFor friends are passing, one by one, \nAs each his course in life may run; \nThough I remain, some one must go; \nThe stream of life doth ever flow. \n\n"Philosophy?" O vain retreat! \n\nCold Death cares naught for Reason\'s heat. \n\nNor can "Religion" reconcile \n\nMy heart to Death\'s relentless style. \n\nBut stay ! This passing out of sight \nMay mean, perchance, when viewed aright, \nBut furling of a worn-out sail, \nWith anchor dropped within the veil. \n\nShould this be true, why live in dread, \nAnd mourn unsoothed the blessed dead? \nWhy live a century or more, \nAfar from friends gone on before? \n\nI argue not. I urge no faith. \n\nI quote no heralded "God saith." \n\nI simply sail the sunlit sea \n\nAnd steer my bark toward what may be. \n\n233 \n\n\n\nThe Lost Hearing \n\nThe world is still. The marts of trade, \nThe public halls, the crowded streets, \nAre voiceless all. Hushed the cry \nOf lusty newsboy and of vender old. \nSilent the crier of court and train. \nThe strong-lunged auctioneer is dumb. \nNo song or speech or loud command \nOr senseless oath or ribald jest \nIs heard. Commerce and sport, \n> Business and worship, travel and pomp, \nTheir course pursue in soundless world. \n\nThe earth is still. Old ocean\'s roar \nAnd thunder\'s crash and cyclone\'s wrath \nAnd earthquake\'s rending shocks \nAnd river\'s flow and forest\'s moans \nAnd low of herds and bleat of flocks \nAnd howl of beasts and note of birds, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAll Nature\'s voices, loud and rich, \nStartling and keen, gentle and sweet, \nAre powerless and vain; \nAll, all is still. \n\n234 \n\n\n\nThe home is still. The stir of feet, \n\nThe talk of child, the cheer of friends, \n\nThe words of love, the call of bell, \n\nThe clink of dish, the swish of broom, \n\nThe sounds familiar to the normal ear, \n\nAre muffled in the making. The hearth, \n\nThe court, the drawing-room, and chambers all \n\nAre still, so still. \n\nAnd life is still. No tread of foot, \n\nNor clap of hand, nor heave of lung, \n\nNor throb of heart, nor pass of breath, \n\nNor tone of voice, nor crush of tooth, \n\nAwakes the nerve to carry sound \n\nTo deadened tympanum. By day or night, \n\nAsleep, awake, within, without, \n\nIn action or repose, dear life \n\nIn silence flows. All, all \n\nIs still, so still. \n\n\n\n235 \n\n\n\nSfcr" 6 \xc2\xbb\xc2\xbbiu \n\n\n\nDeacidified using the Bookkeeper proce \nNeutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide \nTreatment Date: Sept. 2009 \n\nPreservationTechnologie \n\nA WORLO LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATII \n\n111 Thomson Park Drive \nCranberry Township, PA 16066 \n(724)779-2111 \n\n\n\nA \n\n\n\nOne copy del. to Cat. Div. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n'