U)>MB'\ 
 
 
.^?H5S^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 

 Somewhere In France 
 
SOMEWHERE 
 IN FRANCE 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 By 
 
 ELLA F. COWAN 
 
 EMMA COWAN BARBER 
 
 Illustrated By 
 HELEN WALLEY 
 
 KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI 
 
 BURTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 Publishers and Booksellers 
 

 COPYRIGHTED I917 
 BV 
 
 BURTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 Kansas City, Missouri 
 
 JUL -8 1918 
 
 ©CU4995J)9 ^ ^ 1^ 
 
 ^t^-v3 / 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 To the kind friends whose sympathetic interest 
 has led to its publication, this little volume is af- 
 fectionately dedicated by the authors. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE. 13 
 
 The Conquest Of Peace 16 
 
 TisNot A Dream 18 
 
 The Moon, The Breeze, And 1 19 
 
 He Rose Today 20 
 
 Red Clover 22 
 
 A Contrast 23 
 
 The Meadow Lark 24 
 
 The Change Of The Winter Wind 25 
 
 The Answer 27 
 
 Poor Bim 28 
 
 When Mother Failed to Answer 29 
 
 THE MODERN RUTH 33 
 
 When The Sammies Marched Away 34 
 
 What Christ Means To Me ". 35 
 
 The Soul Of The House 36 
 
 Little Mary's Father 37 
 
 Thy Presence 38 
 
 To Mrs. Lorton 39 
 
 If Every One Was A Genius 40 
 
 Memories..: 42 
 
 A Christmas Greeting 43 
 
 From The Garden Of Allah 44 
 
 The Weather 45 
 
 November 46 
 
 Mere Man 48 
 
 The Human 50 
 
 Where East Meets West. 55 
 
SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 
 KMMA C<>\%^AN Barber 
 
"SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE." 
 
 "Somewhere in France," is all that she may know 
 
 Of where her husband waits to meet the foe; 
 
 Far from his home, when life is past its noon. 
 
 He leads his troops beneath an alien moon. 
 
 But this she knows, through days of anxious care, 
 
 Wherever he may be, her flag is there. 
 
 Through days of hope, and days of dreadful chance. 
 
 Her loyal heart is there, "somewhere in France." 
 
 "Somewhere in France" her lover waits the call 
 To hurl himself amidst the battle's pall; 
 Gone from her side, when all their rosy dreams 
 Had led through peaceful fields, by laughing 
 
 streams. 
 She would not call him back, for this she knows — 
 Wherever he may go Old Glory goes. 
 Though thus may end, for her, life's dear romance. 
 Her loyal heart is there, "somewhere in France." 
 13 
 
Fourteen 
 
 "Somewhere in France," her baby lips repeat. 
 She lifts inquiring eyes, so gravely sweet. 
 Wondering why her father marched away. 
 Why mother's face grows paler, day by day. 
 She may not know that, where the soldier walks, 
 By night and day a frightful spectre stalks; 
 That now their pictured faces lie, perchance, 
 Against a silent heart, "somewhere in France." 
 
 "Somewhere in France" her brother, on the field, 
 Presents his splendid body as her shield — 
 Willing to die, or live a hopeless wreck. 
 If so he helps to hold the foe in check. 
 Through busy hours, she feels the seasons drag; 
 Her thoughts are with her brother and the flag. 
 With heart aflame, defiance in her glance. 
 She longs to serve with him, "somewhere in 
 France." 
 
 "Somewhere in France" her son is at his post, 
 
 Impatient to confront the hostile host; 
 
 Torn from her arms where yesterday, it seems. 
 
 He lay, an infant, smiling in his dreams. 
 
 And now, from smoke wreaths, dark against the 
 
 skies, 
 His dear face seems to look, with smiling eyes. 
 If he should die, this boon a harsh fate grants — 
 He'll die with honor bright, "somewhere in 
 
 France." 
 
Fifteen 
 
 "Somewhere in France" — a million hearts are 
 
 there, 
 A million souls are rapt in silent prayer — 
 Prayer for the loved, wherever they may be. 
 And prayer for those enslaved they fight to free. 
 Unknown to us the field where duties call, 
 But One there is who watches over all. 
 Who guides our flag, that Truth may still advance. 
 Our God is with them all, "somewhere in France." 
 
Sixteen 
 
 THE CONQUESTS OF PEACE. 
 
 Advancement means conquest, means duties, 
 
 So God took the earth when 'twas new. 
 Its mysteries, riches and beauties. 
 
 And gave it to man to subdue. 
 That man might advance by opposing 
 
 The adverse in sea, air, and sod; 
 Might find, through kind Nature's disclosing, 
 
 The pathway that leads back to God. 
 
 But men blindly war with each other, 
 
 Earth's treasures at hand, unattained. 
 Each striving to take from his brother 
 
 The little his labor has gained. 
 Still deaf to the call of the ages, 
 
 He prates of his "problems," forsooth; 
 Persistently reaping sin's wages. 
 
 Still blind to the sunlight of truth. 
 
 The Golden Rule, taught by the Savior, 
 
 Sufficient for every race. 
 By each made his rule of behavior. 
 
 Would solve all the problems we face. 
 0, simple, divine institution, 
 
 Immortal, benign, without flaw. 
 How long must we need evolution 
 
 Before men accept it as law? 
 
Seventeen 
 
 Great nations have risen and perished; 
 
 Great nations will rise and will fall, 
 As long as man's selfishness, cherished, 
 
 Denies that God's gifts are for all. 
 lay down your arms for a season, 
 
 My brothers! let enmity cease; 
 Be guided a moment by reason; 
 
 Consider the conquests of peace. 
 
 God calls from the heart of the mountain. 
 
 Where treasures lie waiting our hand; 
 He calls from the life-giving fountain, 
 
 That leaps down the canon so grand; 
 He calls from the soil, with resources 
 
 Scarce touched in the ages gone by; 
 He calls in a thousand great forces 
 
 Unseen, in the earth, sea and sky. 
 
 If nation uniting with nation, 
 
 Would answer that soul-stirring call, 
 What wonders our own generation 
 
 Might see in God's gift to us all. 
 We know, from the ages behind us. 
 
 What hate and contention have cost; 
 But union and love can restore us 
 
 The glories of Paradise lost. 
 
Eighteen 
 
 'TIS NOT A DREAM. 
 
 My love was here beneath the April skies, 
 When all the earth was clothed in tender green; 
 My love with burnished hair, and mystic eye^- — 
 The light and center of that springtime scene, 
 But now, so far away those sweet hours seem. 
 'Tis like a dream — 'tis like a dream. 
 
 I walk alone beneath September skies. 
 My love seems but a vision passing sweet. 
 Until a laughing babe, with her dear eyes. 
 Comes forth to meet me, on uncertain feet. 
 Though sweet beyond belief the past may seem, 
 'Twas not a dream — 'twas not a dream.* 
 
 My spirit seeks for solace in belief, 
 
 That somewhere you await our coming, dear. 
 
 whisper but a word for my relief; 
 
 From out the mist I strive to pierce, draw near. 
 
 tell me, love, though weak my faith may seem, 
 
 'Tis not a dream — 'tis not a dream. 
 
Nineteen 
 
 THE MOON, THE BREEZE, AND I. 
 
 Above the mountain top through crystal space 
 The moon looks down upon her fair, sweet face, 
 And into dreamy eyes so deep, so true — 
 moon, I envy you, I envy you. 
 
 The gentle breeze that wanders everywhere 
 Can touch her cheek, and stir her silken hair; 
 Can whisper low of love, of love so true — 
 O breeze, I envy you, I envy you. 
 
 When winter's long and lonely days are o'er, 
 With springtime flowers she'll come to me once 
 
 more; 
 Then, sailing on that distant azure sea, 
 O moon, you'll envy me, you'll envy me. 
 
Twenty 
 
 HE ROSE TODAY. 
 (An Easter Poem.) 
 
 He rose today; 
 The bud of promise trembled into bloom, 
 The song of ages swelled with fuller tone — 
 With glad revealing light, within the tomb, 
 The new dawn crept, unhindered by a stone; 
 
 He rose today. 
 
 He rose today; 
 The weary burdened souls that watching wake 
 To see the rose light mingle with the gray, 
 Shall live anew when on the world shall break 
 The full refulgence of the perfect day. 
 
 He rose today. 
 
 He rose today; 
 New forms of beauty spring to meet the light, 
 The desert earth with radiant bloom is sweet — 
 Old things have passed away; the dark is bright 
 And death lies conquered at the Savior's feet. 
 
 He rose today. 
 
 We rise today ; 
 Above the cares that weigh the spirit down ; 
 Above the losses that we mourned with tears; 
 In love and light, with grateful hearts, we drown 
 The wrongs, the sorrows and the pain of years. 
 
 We rise today. 
 
Twenty-one 
 
 We rise today; 
 Not e'en the weight of sin can crush the soul, 
 One touch divine — our burdens fall away; 
 Beneath our feet the sombre shadows roll; 
 With Him we rise to meet the heavenly day. 
 
 We rise today. 
 
Tuenty-ttvo 
 
 RED CLOVER. 
 
 I am haunted by red clover. 
 Though the years cannot restore me 
 To the scenes I wandered over, 
 Sunny ways and woodland gloom, 
 Still I see that field before me, 
 With its wealth of fragrant bloom. 
 
 I can see that field of clover 
 
 In the freshness of the morning, 
 
 With the cold white dew all over 
 
 Shining like a diamond spray. 
 
 When the first pink rays give warning 
 
 Of the long, bright summer day. 
 
 I can see that field of clover 
 When the sun on high is beaming, 
 With the laden bees all over, 
 Humming low a drowsy tune 
 'Mid the fragrant blossoms dreaming 
 In the solemn hush of noon. 
 
 I can see that field of clover 
 In the twilight softly falling, 
 With the fireflies gleaming over — 
 Lanterns for the fairies' feet — 
 When the whip-poor-wills are calling 
 Through the darkness cool and sweet. 
 
 Since the haunting scent of clover 
 Sweetens all life's dreary byways, 
 May I find, when I pass over 
 To the land beyond the tomb, 
 Not the fabled golden highways, 
 But a clover field in bloom. 
 
Twenty-three 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 Against the sky a fringe of leafless trees, 
 
 A falling mist, and grasses brown and sere — - 
 
 I turn away from contemplating these 
 
 And smile, for lo! a mircle is here. 
 
 A white thought budded in a heart of gold 
 
 And grew so quickly that, though far away. 
 
 Chrysanthemums are blooming, fold on fold, 
 
 All white and golden, in my room today; 
 
 Each feather globe a thing of light and cheer. 
 
 That seems to know my care, and smile at me. 
 
 And so I turn from landscape dim and drear. 
 
 To blooming flowers within, and thoughts of thee. 
 
Twenty-four 
 
 THE MEADOW LARK. 
 
 Meadow lark, your liquid trilling 
 
 Sets my languid pulses thrilling, 
 
 For the long years seem to vanish when you sing — - 
 
 Once again a child I'm playing. 
 
 In the fields and wood I'm straying, 
 
 Where I learned the joyful secrets of the spring. 
 
 When your first song greets my hearing, 
 
 Well I know the time is nearing 
 
 When the wild plum fills the dell with fragrance 
 
 rare, 
 When the redbud lights its tapers, 
 And the winter's chilling vapors 
 Are dispersed in springtime's soft and balmy air. 
 
 Near a long, loved, humble dwelling 
 
 Dainty maple buds are swelling. 
 
 And the iris blooms beside the garden wall; 
 
 Robins twitter, all contented, 
 
 In the orchard, blossom-scented. 
 
 And the turtle-dove repeats his plaintive call. 
 
 Meadow lark, you sing of faces 
 
 Gone from those familiar places, 
 
 Some remaining but a sweet and tender dream; 
 
 But a nest is in the grasses. 
 
 Where no careless footstep passes, 
 
 And the violets are blooming by the stream. 
 
Twenty- five 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE WINTER WIND. 
 
 Along the west, as twilight shadows fall. 
 
 The hostile campfire of the Storm King glows, 
 
 While round the crescent moon on star-gemmed 
 
 wall, 
 A warning circle in the azure shows. 
 
 The settler sees and heeds the friendly sign; 
 The stock is in, the barns are closed and warm. 
 His rosy children gleefully combine 
 In preparation for the coming storm. 
 
 With night the wild winds march from out the 
 
 west. 
 And hurl themselves against the cottage door; 
 They snatch the last leaves from the maple's crest, 
 And charge the smoking chimney with a roar. 
 
 Inside, a happy group, with minds serene. 
 Is gathered in the lamplight's cheerful glow. 
 Stout walls and locks securely intervene 
 Between the hearthstone and a cruel foe. 
 
 With phantom banners to the night unfurled. 
 The hosts assemble to a wild refrain; 
 With savage force, from raging heavens hurled, 
 Their icy lances smite the window pane. 
 
 The charge is met with sound of popping corn — 
 A fusillade — and laughter silver-sweet; 
 With leaping fire, with shouts of childish scorn, 
 And eerie bugles sound a swift retreat. 
 
Ticpnty-six 
 
 From out the North the reinforcements come, 
 From Arctic strongholds, for the final test; 
 And still they march, to roll of ghostly drum. 
 When brave defenders all have sought their rest. 
 
 When day was near, before the flush of dawn, 
 A brooding silence on the tumult fell. 
 The cottage fort had stood, the foe was gone. 
 And poplar sentries whisper, "All is well." 
 
 Sweet voices hail the coming of the light. 
 
 Bright eyes look out where warring hosts have 
 
 been; 
 In contrast to the harshness of the night. 
 Sweet sounds without reply to those within. 
 
 The sparrows chirp their gratitude for crumbs, 
 A kindly gift each winter morning brings. 
 And through the junipers there shyly comes 
 A cardinal, with flash of scarlet wings. 
 
 Alight with joy, the eager eyes behold 
 A downy mantle on the stately spruce; 
 On roof and hedge, in spotless fold on fold, 
 And earth itself is draped — the flag of truce. 
 
Twenty-seven 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 The morning sunlight touched the hills, 
 The winds were softly blowing 
 Across the fields the sound of bells 
 From herds to pasture going. 
 And down the lane beside the hedge, 
 Where dewy boughs were dripping, 
 With song as merry as the birds, 
 A little maid came tripping. 
 
 Her eyes were like the summer sky 
 
 When clouds have drifted over. 
 
 And left new fragrance on the rose. 
 
 The rain upon the clover. 
 
 She offered me a flower to which 
 
 The dewdrops still were clinging, 
 
 Tossed back her sunny curls, and smiled, 
 
 Then went her way, still singing. 
 
 A prayer arose within my heart: 
 "God keep the little maiden 
 As pure and stainless always as 
 The flowers with which she's laden. 
 keep her little feet from thorns. 
 Her gentle heart from sadness; 
 May care and trouble never come 
 To rob her song of gladness." 
 
 The sunlight lay upon the hills, 
 
 But none beheld its shining; 
 
 The little maid came down the lane 
 
 In solemn state reclining. 
 
 Among the flowers she loved so well. 
 
 In peace she's sweetly sleeping. 
 
 And I, because my prayer was heard, 
 
 Now stand here idly weeping. 
 
Twenty-eight 
 
 POOR BIM. 
 
 He is waiting by the window for his master, young 
 
 Jim, 
 A fine and faithful bulldog, and affectionate, 
 
 named Bim. 
 He is weary, sad, and lonely. 
 And he asks for one thing only; 
 For a step that he can tell, 
 And a voice he loves so well ; 
 For his kind companion, Jim — dear Jim. 
 Poor Bim! 
 
 You have waited by the window since the morning, 
 
 poor Bim; 
 But you must not linger longer in the twilight for 
 
 him. 
 Though I know you loved him dearly. 
 And he loved you, too, sincerely. 
 You may wait and watch and wake 
 Till your faithful heart shall break. 
 But he'll never come again, will Jim. 
 Poor Bim! 
 
Twenty-nine 
 
 WHEN MOTHER FAILED TO ANSWER. 
 
 "0 Mother!" called a little child, when wearied 
 
 with her play. 
 "Yes, dear," the answer came at once, for that was 
 
 Mother's way. 
 Then, bound for dreamland in a craft by Mother's 
 
 fancy wrought. 
 She drifts away with silken sails in fairy breezes 
 
 caught. 
 
 "0 Mother!" called a girlish voice, when all went 
 
 wrong at school, 
 "Yes, dear," the answer came at once, for that was 
 
 Mother's rule. 
 Then Mother's counsel seemed to shrink those 
 
 troubles, great and small, 
 And daughter hastened back to school with strength 
 
 to meet them all. 
 
 "0 Mother!" sobbed a maiden when her first love 
 
 proved untrue. 
 "Yes, dear; the thorns that pierce your heart must 
 
 wound your mother, too." 
 From daughter's heart she plucked the rue, the 
 
 tears upon her face. 
 And then, with love-taught art, she set the heart's- 
 
 ease in its place. 
 
 "O Mother!" from a woman's heart is wnmg the 
 
 longing cry: 
 "I need you so — you'd understand"; but silence 
 
 makes reply. 
 In all the world one force, but one, could thwart 
 
 that loving will 
 To answer when her daughter called — ^the mother's 
 
 voice was still. 
 
Thirty 
 
 THE WEST. 
 
 With golden days and silver nights, 
 With rosy dawns and sunset lights, 
 With verdant vales and purple heights 
 
 She charms the traveler to rest. 
 
 She carries magic in her streams, 
 She lifts our thoughts to highest themes, 
 She helps us realize our dreams; 
 
 The great, resourceful, smiling West. 
 
THE MODERN RUTH 
 
 ELLA F. COVTAIV 
 
11. / 
 
 •, ./; 
 
 
 The Modern Ruth 
 
Thirty-three 
 
 THE MODERN RUTH. 
 
 She gleamed amid the harvest fields of old — 
 
 Ruth, the fair — 
 Mid harvest fields with golden grain aglow — 
 
 Listening there 
 While merry reapers sang their joyous lays 
 
 Of harvest days. 
 
 She gleans to-day on blood-drenched battle-fields — 
 
 Ruth, the brave — 
 Where hate has plowed the earth with shot and 
 shell. 
 
 The new-made grave 
 Has marred the peaceful fields of ripening grain 
 
 Love sowed in vain. 
 
 She snatches from the very jaws of death — 
 
 Ruth, the strong — 
 Sad wrecks of brave men maimed by savage fiends, 
 
 The foes of wrong, 
 That they with tender hearts that loved them best 
 
 Once more may rest. 
 
 She gleans the whispered words from whit'ning 
 lips — 
 
 Ruth, the kind — 
 Love's messages and prayers to The Most High, 
 
 From halt and blind. 
 Bearing to agonizing hearts surcease 
 
 And holy peace. 
 
 She binds alike the wounds of friend and foe — 
 
 Ruth, the meek — 
 Where e'er appealing hands of need are stretched. 
 
 Her care to seek, 
 And where the shafts of hatred thickest fly, 
 
 She dares to die. 
 
Thirty-four 
 
 WHEN THE SAMMIES MARCHED AWAY. 
 
 Firm the tread of marching feet 
 To the war drums' measured beat, 
 Oh! It was a wondrous day 
 When the Sammies marched away. 
 Waving flags and shouting throng 
 Cheered them as they moved along. 
 Oh! How proud we were that day 
 When the Sammies marched away. 
 Oh! It seemed an endless throng, 
 Marching forth against the wrong 
 Surely tyrants paled that day 
 When the Sammies marched away. 
 Every man a hero bold. 
 Faring forth like knight of old, 
 Bearing flags to be unfurled 
 O'er a federated world. 
 One there wa;s above them all — 
 Fair and brave and strong and tall, 
 Oh! It was a tearful day 
 \^^en the Sammies marched away. 
 When the laurel wreaths are won 
 And the reign of peace begun, 
 May we seek no face in vain 
 When the Sammies come again. 
 
Thirty-five 
 
 WHAT CHRIST MEANS TO ME! 
 
 "A shelter in the time of storm," Christ means 
 to me; 
 "The shadow of a great rock," in a weary land; 
 A friend so close that, tho on morning's wings 
 I flee, 
 I cannot miss the guidance of His hand. 
 
 A fount of joy that ever springs within ray heart, 
 Expelling all the bitter waters of dispair, 
 
 When from earth's dearest idol I am called apart. 
 And Martha-like I feel the press of care. 
 
 Christ means to me a promise in the rainbow's 
 gleam; 
 His benediction rests where sunset splendor 
 glows; 
 A song of praise is caroled by the mountain 
 stream ; 
 His love exhales in fragrance from the rose. 
 
 Christ means to me a richer, more abundant life; 
 
 More true possession of my heritage — the earth — 
 A steadfast faith that from war's fierce and grue- 
 some strife. 
 
 An everlasting peace shall have its birth. 
 
 When earth's last dreamless sleep my weary eyes 
 shall close. 
 And from its bonds, my soul shall shake its 
 pinions free, 
 May He who from the shadow of the grave arose, 
 Give to my spirit, life's long victory. 
 
7 hirty-six 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 Holding love's scepter o'er a fitful realm, 
 Our patient mother sat, a queen enthroned, 
 
 Making more glad the summer's happy hours., 
 And soothing fear when winter storm winds 
 moaned. 
 
 To her we brought as tribute. May's first flowers, 
 And the first sprays of spring-time's tender 
 green. 
 
 We ran with eager haste to offer her 
 
 Ripe berries from a blossom starred ravine. 
 
 From pebbles gathered in our childish sport. 
 She read to us the tales engraved in stone. 
 
 With her we listened to the robin's note. 
 
 And questioned why the turtle dove made moan. 
 
 One day the tired hands were clasped in rest, 
 A look of childlike peace o'er spread the face; 
 
 A glory faded from the earth and sky, 
 
 The soul of love had vanished from the place. 
 
 Yet, faring thru a world of many needs. 
 
 Where e'er our Father wills that we should roam, 
 
 Oh, may we still find guidance and repose 
 In the sweet spirit of that childhood's home. 
 
Thirty-seven 
 
 LITTLE MARY'S FATHER 
 
 One time a black dog came into our yard, 
 
 And it looked to me like a bear, 
 But when he looked up, how that doggy did run — 
 
 Just because my father was there. 
 
 When black Jerry Ornduff was out of work. 
 
 He had things to eat and to wear; 
 And Cousin Kate said she knew why it was — 
 
 Just because my father was there. 
 
 But it seems that lately nothing goes right, 
 Things will always seem wrong, I fear. 
 
 For now we are all so quiet and sad, 
 Because father cannot be here. 
 
 The Germans would take their submarines home; 
 
 To sail them they never would dare, 
 And Uncle Sam's ships would be safe on the sea, 
 
 If father could only be there. 
 
 If father would only step from a trench, 
 
 He'd sure give the kaiser a scare. 
 And make him run like that cowardly dog. 
 
 If father could only be there. 
 
 My father lives in a beautiful home. 
 
 We all are invited to share. 
 I'll not fear the journey into the dark, 
 
 Because my father's been there. 
 
Thirty-eight 
 
 THY PRESENCE. 
 
 The morning chirp of birds is sad, 
 And lonely silence fills the room, 
 E'en the pale sunlight is not glad. 
 My heart forebodes its hopeless doom 
 From morn to night and from night 'till dawn 
 
 When thou art gone! 
 
 When thou art gone! 
 
 The lark springs high to meet the light, 
 The silence breaks in sounds of joy, 
 The sun dispels the gloom of night — 
 Its gold undimmed by grief's alloy; 
 And sovereign love has banished fear, 
 
 Since thou art near! 
 
 Since thou art near! 
 
Thirty-nine 
 
 TO MRS. LORTON. 
 
 Sweet friend, through all the coming year, 
 May naught that brings thee harm. 
 
 Approach to blight one moment's cheer, 
 Or rob thee of one gracious charm. 
 
 But may thy life as ever send 
 
 Its radiance forth, to bless and cheer 
 
 Each heart that loves to call thee friend, 
 Tho sadly far or gladly near. 
 
Forty 
 
 IF EVERY ONE WERE A GENIUS. 
 
 If all of us were painters, who'd loll upon the grass, 
 
 Responsive to the whispering leaves, 
 And watch the light clouds pass? 
 
 We then should all be thinking, "How can I 
 catch that hue?" 
 Shall 1 sketch it in with ultramarine 
 
 Since I can't use Prussian blue 
 Who'd gaze upon our canvas. 
 
 With reverence or with mirth. 
 And say, "Such a sky was never seen. 
 
 In heaven or on the earth." 
 
 If all were great composers who'd listen to the 
 choir. 
 
 That sings in the rhythm of the storm. 
 As it smites sweet nature's lyre? 
 
 Then we should be pondering — "Will that song 
 suit my harp?" 
 "Can I best express the theme in flats, 
 
 Or by writing in one sharp?" 
 Who'd listen to our harmony 
 
 And with the critics vote 
 That the work is surely a masterpiece. 
 
 Or is not as the masters wrote. 
 
Forty-one 
 
 If all of us were poets, should we have time to 
 speak 
 
 A word of love to a sobbing child, 
 And caress the tear-stained cheek? 
 Or should we then be thinking, "How can I say 
 
 this best?" 
 "Shall I tell the tale in iambics, 
 
 Or employ the anapest!" 
 If all were real poets 
 
 Thru-out earth's varied climes. 
 Then where should I find an audience 
 
 To listen to my rhymes? 
 
Forty-two 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 Earth's path was thorny for the feet 
 
 Of gentle May, 
 And when June roses blossomed sweet 
 
 She went away. 
 
 Yet comes the thought when all the glow 
 
 Of life turns gray, 
 "The dear Lord loved her, too, and so 
 
 She went away." 
 
 And when with summer's waking life 
 
 My senses thrill, 
 Her whispered word stills all my strife, 
 
 "I love you still." 
 
Forty-three 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GREETING. 
 
 Here's a health to you, 
 
 And wealth to you. 
 And merry Christmas cheer, 
 
 Here's gladness to you 
 
 And no sadness to you 
 Thru all the bright New Year. 
 
FoTty-fouT 
 
 FROM THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. 
 
 She came from the "Garden of Allah," 
 To this toil-worn western land, 
 
 And, lo! like glad-hearted children 
 We laughed and played in the sand. 
 
 She came from the "Garden of Allah," 
 Bringing dawn-kissed roses bright 
 
 And hearts a-gloom in the shadows 
 Were lured to the waking light. 
 
 She came from the "Garden of Allah," 
 With healing for body and brain. 
 
 And the weak and sick and desponding 
 Grew strong and hopeful again. 
 
 She came from the "Garden of Allah," 
 
 And builded an altar where 
 The weary and heavy laden 
 
 Are offering incense of prayer. 
 
Forty-five 
 
 THE WEATHER. 
 
 When shivering spring awakes the grass 
 
 And trembles through the wood, 
 An answering thrill within my heart 
 
 Proclaims, "The weather's good." 
 
 When languorous June her censer swings, 
 
 And wafts incense divine, 
 My being glows with fuller life 
 
 And breathes, "The weather's fine." 
 
 When autumn sends her pall of mist 
 
 My spirit to refine, 
 I gaze upon its sunlit edge. 
 
 And vow, "The weather's fine." 
 
 When winter shrouds the earth with snow. 
 
 And savage storms apall. 
 My soul breathes in new strength and cries, 
 
 "This weather's best of all." 
 
 'Tis Wisdom guides blind Nature's moods, 
 
 Not always understood. 
 And sends no weather that is bad — 
 
 Just different kinds of good. 
 
Forty-six 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 (Country) 
 
 No daisies in the meadow grass, 
 
 No violets by the brook, 
 No wrens nor blue birds chirping, pass 
 
 My leafy greenwood nook; 
 No golden glow of sunset skies, 
 
 But only hearth-stone ember, 
 No summer zephyr's perfumed sighs, 
 November. 
 
 No hammock swinging in the grove. 
 
 No long piazza talks. 
 No spells by mists and moonbeams wove. 
 
 No quiet evening walks. 
 No partings at the rustic gate 
 
 Such as you all remember, 
 When some one says, "the hour grows late." 
 November. 
 
 (City) 
 
 No spins along the boulevards, 
 
 No boating on the "Blue." 
 No sheltered nooks in grassy yards. 
 
 Where sweet breathed roses grew. 
 No tennis, golf, nor tally-ho 
 
 As "in the mild September," 
 No strolls where autunm blossoms grow. 
 November. 
 
Forty-seven 
 
 No exodus toward the West 
 
 To find a cooler zone, 
 No journeys to the lakes, in quest 
 
 Of freckles and ozone. 
 But though these past delights were sweet, 
 
 I'd have you all remember 
 The month of football now to greet — 
 November. 
 
Forty-eight 
 
 MERE MAN. 
 
 An answer to Rudyard Kipling's 
 "The Female of the Species" 
 "What a piece of work is man!" 
 
 "A worm! A God!" 
 
 — Shakespeare. 
 
 Mere Man. 
 
 Though we may not pierce the jungle where the 
 
 dreadful cobras glide; 
 Though we may not rove the forest where the 
 
 treacherous red men hide; 
 We may learn some useful lessons though debarred 
 
 from all of that 
 If we will but draw instruction from the common 
 
 household cat. 
 
 See the "deadly" mother's patience, as she watches 
 o'er her brood, 
 
 Giving warning and instruction, while providing 
 daily food. 
 
 With what courage she gives battle for her help- 
 less offspring's weal 
 
 When the father of the family of his child would 
 make a meal. 
 
 If you'd study human nature without very arduous 
 work; 
 
 Natural history may be learned of Stalky, Beetle 
 and McTurk. 
 
 Then pray note how, later, Stalky shows of grati- 
 tude no trace 
 
 When he makes some sulphurous charges, impli- 
 cating half the race. 
 
Forty-nine 
 
 Hear a tale from far off Eden, handed down from 
 age to age. 
 
 There the powers of darkness gather and their 
 fearful warfare wage. 
 
 See the frightened Adam cower, crouching down- 
 ward to the sod, 
 
 Charging half his sin to woman and the other half 
 to God. 
 
 Or see one of Rome's proud tyrants, swaying men 
 with nod and beck. 
 
 Wishing that his hated subjects had but one ex- 
 tended neck, 
 
 That the royal headsma nmight be able with one 
 deadly stroke 
 
 To decapitate the nation as a huge historic joke. 
 
 Then come take a little journey, annihilating time 
 
 and space. 
 And, presto, another country, governed by this 
 
 gentle race. 
 Now salute the gentle sovereign, to six *'deadly" 
 
 spouses wed 
 Only one of them survived him, in the book it has 
 
 been said. 
 
 But the "Law of Abstract Justice," working in 
 
 with Darwin's plan. 
 Through the flight of many ages, may have changed 
 
 the modern man. 
 Now review industry's army as they mark with 
 
 blood the trail, 
 While their spurred and mounted brothers drive 
 
 them on with goad and flail. 
 
Fifty 
 
 "Hear the crying of the children," born to toil, 
 
 disease and death, 
 Breathing deadly moral miasm from the hour of 
 
 their first breath. 
 See the white slave, ghastly visaged, vainly lifting 
 
 erring hands. 
 To the adorers of a "Justice" which no woman 
 
 understands. 
 
 Wakened by these wrongs and sorrows, see the 
 
 mad defenders come. 
 Meeting scorn and sore oppression with the fire 
 
 brand and the bomb. 
 Fierce the answering fires of hatred sweep the 
 
 nations like a flood, 
 While the call for "Justice" urges still the sacrifice 
 
 of blood. 
 
 Then the braves in council gather (not a squaw 
 
 allowed in sight) 
 And, to soothe a trouble conscience, say "Whatever 
 
 is is right." 
 "If squaws mount the car of progress then its 
 
 wheels must backwards roll." 
 So reads a majority report of the Committee of 
 
 the Whole. 
 
 But look skyward, ye faithless, where the rain- 
 bow's colors glow, 
 
 A reminder of the promise made in Eden, long ago, 
 
 Promise made unto the woman, promise made by 
 God who said. 
 
 That the offspring of the woman yet should bruise 
 the serpent's head. 
 
Fifty-one 
 
 And in Christ, our Elder Brother, half the promise 
 
 was fulfilled 
 When the Law of Concrete Justice, Mary's fierce 
 
 accusers stilled. 
 And when Mary, Martha's sister, sought and found 
 
 "the better part," 
 She was welcomed to His council, speaking with 
 
 Him, heart to heart. 
 
 He the Perfect Savior loved her, loved as but the 
 
 Perfect can. 
 Not because of service rendered as wife or mother 
 
 to the man. 
 For He cherished a? His mother all who did The 
 
 Father's will. 
 Now exalted, crowned with glory, He, The Christ, 
 
 is reigning still. 
 
 And when heart of man is chastened, till as pure 
 as knight's of old. 
 
 When to look upon the face of a just God he shall 
 make bold. 
 
 He will find the God of Justice, Abstract or Con- 
 crete in name, 
 
 (Spite of all man's vain distinctions) when un- 
 vailed to be the same. 
 
 Then, when man's no longer boastful of his kinship 
 
 with the brute. 
 When the strivings of the Spirit shall have borne 
 
 their perfect fruit, 
 Then in answer to Eve's pleadings, Eden's gates 
 
 will open wide. 
 And as once the pair departed, they'll reenter, 
 
 side by side. 
 
FiitY-two 
 
 P. s.: — 
 
 Written in 1917. 
 
 // in any mind still lingers doubt as to the proper 
 
 head. 
 In the DEADLINESS contention by the famous poet 
 
 led, 
 He will reach a quick decision to aivard the prize 
 
 to MAN, 
 
 When he thinks of gentle William of the Hohen- 
 zollern clan. 
 
 — E. F. C. 
 
Fifty-three 
 
 THE HUMAN. 
 
 And didst thou conquer man, Ocean! 
 
 When the great ship went down? 
 
 Nay, he revealed no slave's emotion, 
 
 But smiled to meet thy frown. 
 
 And like a god on her deck he stood, 
 
 When love and duty spoke, 
 
 He answered the call of Supreme Good 
 
 Self-conquered 'neath death's stroke 
 
 And frail woman, greater than thy power, 
 
 Rose above woman's fears. 
 
 All undismayed in the mortal hour. 
 
 With eyes undimmed by tears, 
 
 And a woman's love more strong than death, 
 
 Or grave where billows roll, 
 
 She proved to the world with her latest breath. 
 
 She was "captain of her soul." 
 
 And can man who dies for love of friend, 
 
 The greater tribute pay 
 
 Of a life lived nobly to the end. 
 
 Through fortunes grave or gay? 
 
 The father who strives with niggard fate. 
 
 Bequeathing not renown, 
 
 But a blameless life to child and mate, 
 
 Has earned a hero's crown. 
 
Fifty-jour 
 
 The mother, wearing with patient grace, 
 
 Ofttimes a crown of thorns, 
 
 Not like the Spartan with stony face. 
 
 Who life's best riches scorns, 
 
 But with heart attuned to life and love, 
 
 And childhood's guileless mirth 
 
 She allures God's favor from above, 
 
 To bless the waiting earth. 
 
 The loving hearted who, childless give 
 
 Almost a parent's care 
 
 To unsheltered childhood, and e'er lives 
 
 The untried heart to spare 
 
 The bitterness of an unloved youth. 
 
 Striving to meet the need 
 
 Of those who hunger and thirst for truth; 
 
 These shall on manna feed. 
 
 The tireless searchers for hidden things 
 
 Found close to nature's heart, 
 
 The intrepid leader who oft brings 
 
 Order to crowded mart, 
 
 The sun-crowned guides, amid shadows dim. 
 
 Oft stumbling day by day — 
 
 These be the human, like unto Him — 
 
 The Life, the Truth, the Way. 
 
Fifty-five 
 
 WHERE EAST MEETS WEST. 
 
 With her South-Lands kissed by the tropic sun, 
 And her North-Lands white 'neath the polar star, 
 
 America welcomes the East and West; 
 
 Her children are gathered from near and far. 
 
 The Latin has come with his gift of law, 
 
 The Greek with his love of beauty and grace, 
 
 And Africa's light-hearted sons of toil. 
 
 Have found in the West-Land a resting place. 
 
 The red man e'er loves the home of the brave; 
 
 Mongolia still for her place awaits, 
 While with gifts of treasure and beauty filled. 
 
 Bronze hands are a-knock at the sunset gates. 
 
 They who for Zion have bitterly wept. 
 
 Sad wand'rers from many a hostile strand, 
 
 With heads bared in reverence to the flag, 
 
 'Neath its folds have entered "The Promised 
 Land." 
 
 The Saxon, in search of space for his powers. 
 Flung out the banner of red, white and blue; 
 
 The Hindu dreamer is telling his dreams 
 
 In a land where wonderful dreams come true. 
 
 The valley is calling to mountain top; 
 
 The stars are shrined in the heart of the sea; 
 The bands of Orion shall not bind the truth, 
 
 And love of the truth shall make the world free. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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