^ ^ ^ < . ■ { i*'"'« r i}HMV --^ ; >*. ^s 'W^&K:'-- &>. tSa^'t ? iJ X < a tn H < _) W « n z U < S3 ^ " w & M w > w m C! c Q < ►J ?^ z MEADOW MELODIES BY CHARLES F. GERRY 33 ILL USTRA TED BOSTON LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 10 MILK STREET NEXT OLD SOUTH MEETING-HOUSE 1887 -J^ i^'^1 Copyright, 1887, by CHARLES C. GERRY Electrotyped and Printed under the Direction of F. F. GERRY Press of Berwick and Smith ^ TO MY CHILDREN CONTENTS A Day on the Sudburv River Meadows The Bluebird .... A May-day Ramble A Day in Early Hay-time The Scarecrow A Morning in Spring Hunting Birds' Nests Dedication Ode The Lincoln Boys The Old Homestead Katie ..... The Tryst of College Days Fishing for Pouts Grandmother's Garden In the Old Barn The Drought of 1873 Paul Brown Our Little Boy Then and Now . In my Hammock Autumn The Robins have Come PAGE 13 19 21 23 27 30 32 35 37 41 43 46 48 50 52 54 56 59 61 63 65 67 CONTENTS. PAGE Memories , , . . 69 Grandmother 71 Madeline 73 The Butterfly and Ant 75 Jessie Earle n The Fireside Dream 79 The Ploughboy . 82 Reveries 84 Reunion Poem ^7 The Forest 90 Midsummer Haying 92 The Yellow Wasp's Nest 95 Song of the Frogs 97 The Convalescent 99 Uncle Nathan lOI Halcyon Days 103 In Memoriam 106 Sunshine 108 Have Charity 109 Suspense no Pantry School . 112 Childhood's Throne 115 The Partial Judge 117 The Geniting Tree 119 Album Brieflets 121 Onward 123 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Frontispiece .... TJie Last Load ..... 23 Grinding a Novel Grist .... 38 Results ...... 39 The Old Barn ..... 52 Home of the Robins .... 67 Lniicheoii Time ..... 82 The Yellozu Wasp's Nest 96 Pantry School . . . = . 113 Meadow Melodies. A DAY ON THE SUDBURY RIVER MEADOWS. The clouds drift slowly o'er the sky, But dense and black to westward lie, Assuring with the east wand's chill A splendid day for pickerel. With early breakfast, off we tramp Through woods, green fields, and pastures damp. Till on a gentle height we stand And view^ the weaving meadow land. The river gained, we launch our boat And slowly down its current float. On every hand the flattened mound Reminds us of the muskrat's ground : While button bush and tall grass hide The small lagoons that lay outside, Where wild ducks in the fading light Seek shelter through the summer night. And on the borders gaily swings The blackbird with his scarlet wings. Beyond in lowest meadow lands Some inches deep the water stands. Where bitterns in the early day 13 A Day on the Siidburv River Meadows. The words "plum pudd'n" plainly say, Arising oft with awkward flight To seek new shelter out of sight. We idly drift adown the stream, Half lost in a delicious dream. Till, roused, we tish on either shore, Slow moving with a silent oar, — Now trolling with the greatest heed Through lily pads and pickerel weed. Until a whirlpool near is seen Beside a floating mass of green. The bait moves oft^ with race-horse speed, And, down beside a quivering reed, Is swallowed with a gourmand's orreed. A twitch sends through my frame a thrill,— The hook is fast in the red-fringed gill Of a steel and gold-hued pickerel, And drawn aboard with hearty wiP And, as we view him o'er and o'er, About his weight we speculate. But set him at a pound or more And vainly try to catch his mate. Then onward row, new fields to glean, Seeking with vision doubly keen For every spot to drop our bait. Where hungry pickerel silent wait. We troll until the sun breaks through The clouds and dries the meadow dew; And then within our well-filled creel A satisfying look we steal. H A Day on the Sudbury River Meadows. 'Tis dinner time, and back we row, Our pulses high, our cheeks aglow With keen excitement of the day, And build a hre the Indian way. The fish are dressed, with salt applied, And in the pan lay side by side. And sputter loud w^hile being fried. Meanwhile upon a napkin spread. Are crackers, cheese, and home-made bread, While water from a meadow spring With hasty steps I quickly bring. The dainty meal so rare and sweet With relish keen we quickly eat ; Using our hands for knife and fork. With very little table talk. As appetites so keenly whet Banish the thought of etiquette. Our savory dinner at an end, I sit me down an hour to spend Beneath the willow's green arcade. Where rests the noontide's cooling shade. With distant stretch of meadow view Hemmed in by sky of misty blue And wooded heights of purplish hue. In early summer verdure dressed, Fair Goodman's hill looms up to west, Upon whose sloping sides serene The cattle in the shade are seen. And checkered fields of brown and green. 15 A Day on the Siidhurv River Afeadoivs. Near bv the Old Ilaynes Garrison Is basking in the noonday sun An ancient landmark in decay, Reminder of King Philip's day. Southeast the Wayland village stands, Down sloping to the meadow lands, With generous grow^th of spreading trees, Through whose green leaves the summer breeze Makes music like the hum of bees ; While, in the background, green hills lie Like battlements against the sky. But rested from the morning's sport. Again we quickly leave the port And glide adown the stream to try Our fortune with the smaller fry. The turtles on the banks to sun Have climbed, but vanish one by one. While dragon-flies with colors gay Adorn the pads that skirt our way. Arriving at the fishing goal. We fasten to an alder pole. Then rig our lines and cast them in, When spiteful nibblings soon begin. A moment, and the hooks are bare ; The next, a shiner cleaves the air With silver-spangled coat of mail, A rare bait for a pickerel trail. Anon I disengage the prize, And with my hook in worm disguise i6 A Day on the Sudburv River Mcadozus. Soon draw from out the placid stream My childhood's pet, the sunn}- bream, Whose gravell}' nests I'll ne'er forget On shores of dear old Assabet, Where, oft, within some beached retreat, Her waters laved my willing feet. The sun is low, but still we wait For perch to take the tempting bait. And soon secure a noble one Whose sides gleam in the setting sun ; Another and another still ; 'Twill take not longr our creel to fill. The sun, just sinking out of sight Upon the crimson couch of night, Suffuses all the west with light. The white-sleeved farmers on the shores Have left the fields to do their chores, And Co! Co! Co! distinct and clear Is heard upon the hillsides near, While at the open barn-yard gate The ruddy milkers patient wait. Not yet has ceased the robin's trill In apple orchard on the hill, And far away in forest drear. The song of whippoorwill I hear. As darkness of the night steals on, The pleasant home-lights one by one. Gleam out through clustering vines and trees. And twinkle with the stirring breeze ; While o'er the meadows dark and damp, 17 A Dax on the Sndbnry River Meadozus. The fire-fly lights his cheerful lamp. Along the stream a fog-bank lies, And far to eastward greets our eyes The moon, as up the Weston hills She wheels and soon the valley fills With shadows weird, while far away A cloud obscures the lingering day, Along whose crests the lightnings play. Again on shore we homeward steer, While muttering thunders greet the ear ; And soon, secure from dews and damp, Are seated round the evening lamp. Recounting, as our tea is quaffed, The joyous scenes of river craft. i8 THE BLUEBIRD. 'Tis early spring ; the distant hills Are flecked with drifts of dingy snow, And bird-notes from the lofty trees Come down in warblings soft and low. The bluebird seeks his home again, He sings sweet love-songs to his mate ; They choose the dear old apple-tree Whose branches shade our garden-gate. One door, one window, in their cot ; All else is safe from wind and rain ; The ruffled nest of former years Is soon made new and warm again. And now I watch with keen delight This shady home so near our door. Till busy parents come to bring Their dainties to the fledglings four. 19 The Bluebird. How sweet to climb the bended trunk, To gaze upon the tiny brood. And see four Httle gaping mouths Upraised imploringly for food! Dear warblers of my early years! A child again, once more I w^ait, And watch you in the apple-tree Whose branches shade our garden-gate. 20 A MAY-DAY RAMBLE. We found the modest flowers of May Intwined with leaves and mosses, And dainty fingers fashioned them In fragrant wreaths and crosses. I shall not soon forget the day When all the school went Maying, Nor flowers few that met om" gaze While through the pastures straying. We rather sought for human flowers To meet our high ideal ; And fancies of that bright spring-time To-day are strangely real. The birds on every wayside hedge Poured forth their songs of greeting, And, on the southern pasture slopes. Were heard the young lambs bleating 21 A May-Day Ramble. Our children now, like olive plants, Are growing up around us, And sweet it is to point them where That happy May-day found us. Each year, when merry spring-time comes, Its birds and blossoms bringing, I seem to hear the same glad notes Through old-time valleys ringing. And may the sweet strains never cease. Nor lose their mystic measure, Till blent in songs of ecstasy That greet at heaven's embrasure. 22 A DAY IN EARLY HAY-TIME. Small watery clouds begin to rise Before the midday hour, And beaded drops on water-jars Foretell an early shower. 23 A Day in Early I lay- Time. The house-dog seeks his favorite grass While coming down the lane, And tree-toads in the poplar boughs Are prophesying rain. The quail since early morning hours Has piped his song "More wet!" And cuckoos in the maple grove Are singing "Cuckoo!" yet. The mower drops his scythe, and wipes The sweat from off his brow ; Two loads of choicest clover hay Are ready for che mow. "Be quick and get the ox-team, John! Frank, harness up Old Gray! And James, you leave off spreading swaths, And tumble up the hay." A dark cloud with its watery folds Now meets the farmer's eye, And mutterings indistinct are heard Along the western sky. Soon John comes shouting to the field, "Get up Old Star! gee, Bright!" And in the loading, Farmer Day Is almost lost to sight. The hay goes on the rick so fast That John cries, "Father, stop, 24 A Day in Early Hay- Time, And let me lay the corners out And bind them at the top!" "Be quick then, for the shower is nigh! 'Twill never do to let This clover hay, so sweet and dry, Be spoilt by getting wet!" And, standing in the grateful shade Beneath the apple-bough. The farmer wipes the sweat again From off his heated brow. One load is safely in the barn, And one upon the wain. While just across the meadow-lot Comes on the drifting rain. A large drop falls upon the hat, Another on the hand, And now the tempest wildly breaks Upon the thirsty land. The other load is in, hurrah! And ranged along the bay, The men and boys lie stretched at ease Upon the new-mown hay. The sun in splendor breaks again Upon the waiting eye, And lo! a painted bow appears And spans the eastern sky! 25 A Day in Early Hay- Time. And Farmer Day in evening prayer Thanks God with hearty praise For vernal sun, and summer rain. And plenteous harvest days. 26 THE SCARECROW. "The crows are pullin' up the corn Upon the plain,'* said Deacon Gore: "A hundud hills already gone; We'll try the skeercrow plan once more. ••John, run and bring my trainin' suit. An' with it fetch my bell-topped hat : Rig up the old chap ra'al cute An' make him perty middlin' fat. '•An' I'll load up the old French gun — Six fingers! wun't it make some noise! We'll hev a leetle extry fun," He said wdth chuckle to the boys. When night came on with sable reign, They harnessed up the old white mare And bore the image to the plain, Arranging it with greatest care. 27 The Scarecrozu. And then sought out a place to hide, The next day, ere the morning's dawn Should call the parents to provide Their callow young with stolen corn. And sure enough, before the crows. The Deacon and his boys were there ; Nor waited long to hear their foes With angry cawings fill the air. At first they circled very high, Then lower dropped but cautiously, Until a sentinel near by Was stationed on an apple-tree. The boys peered through the mossy wall, Then held their sides with mirth suppressed, One crow was pulling at a scrawl Of hair outside the scarecrow's vest. Two others on the ground below Were cackling in a saucy way ; The Deacon saw the hated foe And cocked his gun without delay. Kerwhang!!! and dust and feathers flew, While echoes answered far and wide ; The Deacon hastily withdrew In manner not so dignified. A grand display of shooting stars He saw, but with supreme disgust, 28 The Scarccroiu. While shouts were heard mid loud hurras "By Jinks! the old shebang has bust." The boys hung up the lifeless crows All torn and riddled with the shot, While Deacon Gore with bloody nose Limped homeward talking of the plot. "I bought that gun of Ensign Clay Some forty years ago or more, But never knew the derned thing play Me sich a tarnal trick afore!" The secret — so the story ran — Was this : — The load at tirst was large, — But afterwards the hired man Put in another rousing charge. 29 A MORNING IN SPRING. 'Tis beautiful morning, the air is all vocal With music of birds in the orchard begun ; While pasture and meadow are beaded with dew-drops, And waiting to flash back the rays of the sun. The swallow is skimming the still, misty lakelet. Reposing in beauty beside the old wood. Now dimpling its surface to sip the sweet bev'rage, Now snatching the newly-fledged gnat for his food. The sun rising slowly is bathing the hill-tops With glory all golden, in morning's fresh prime : Now gilding the Mavis that sings on the walnut His sweet measured song of the new planting time. It steals through the shutters, awaking a sleeper. And tinges his curls with the morning's bright gold, Who laughing and cooing, with fists full of dimples, Is striving the beautiful sunbeam to hold. 30 A Morning in Spring. The lowing of cattle, returning fond answers Is heard in response to the cries of their young; They yearn to impart the sweet life-giving treasure, And lovingly fondle awhile with the tongue. The sun rises higher, and all the broad landscape Is studded with diamonds, radiant with light! O! who can behold such a vision of beauty Without breathing thanks for the beautiful sight! 31 HUNTING BIRDS' NESTS. Rare the fun of hunting birds' nests In the early days of June, When the groves are filled with fragrance, And the soul is all in tune With the singing of the builders, With the whispering of the leaves, With the twitter of the swallow In his nest beneath the eaves. Through the orchards we are roaming Of the robin's home in quest, And within some last year's sproutings Soon behold a mud-thatched nest, With a brown head raised above it. Gazing with an anxious eye ; While the master of the mansion Scolds with great anxiety. 32 Hunting Birds' Nests. Just above us sings the bluebird Softly as in early Spring, Emphasizing every measure With a quivering of wing; He is singing to his nestlings In a hollow tree near by ; Now he bears a dainty morsel And is heard their teasing cry. From the meadow fresh with verdure Comes the song of bobolink, Rich in merry semiquavers And its endless "tink la tink" ; Now he swings on bending sedges. O'er the cool brook's silent flow. Mirroring his dainty plumage, In the crystal depths below. Homeward, through an old road strolling Fringed with sumac, birch, and fern, Many nests of tuneful builders Greet the eye at every turn ; Some depend from lofty branches, Some with callow heads in view. Others hid in leafy coverts Graced with eggs of varying hue. At the fording-place while waiting. Many swallows come and go, Bearing mortar for their dwellings In the ancient roof-tree low, 33 Hunting Birds' JVcsts. And with bare feet long we linger Dallying with the waters sweet, As thev ripple o'er the pebbles Tempered with the vernal heat. Nearing home, the sun at setting Crimsons all the western sky. Lighting up the cloud-bar edges With its tints of rainbow dye ; Followed by the evening twilight Purpling every vale and hill, Heralding a wondrous chorus Blent with song of whippoorwill. 34 DEDICATION ODE. Read at the Dedication of the Town Pump at Hyde Park, July 4th., 1876. A Hundred years ago to-day 0\xx fathers struck for broader sway, Displeased with Britain's ruling ; We seek a boon as precious quite, To break the bonds of appetite With drink that's ever cooling. Then take the cup that nature brews And sends to earth in rains and dews No beverage sweeter, — purer; 'Twill give a'ou joy and length of days And lead your feet in wisdom's ways And make lite's mission surer. 35 Dedication Ode. Come, traveller on the dusty way, And slake your thirst as here you may, Without the fearful slaughter That alcohol is sure to bring ; We urge a drink that leaves no sting, 'Tis healthful, sparkling water. May ever from this fountain go A cooling stream whose gentle flow Shall all our borders gladden ; Till pleasant homes in this fair land Shall greet the eye on every hand With nought of woe to sadden. Long wave the flag that floats above, Inscribed upon whose folds is love To every son and daughter; Then let us all our goblets fill And drink its health, with hearty will, In bumpers of cold water. A century hence, when granite walls Imposing stand, and antique halls. In this then ancient city, A wish that temperance may abound, And peace and harmony be found, I'd breathe in this short ditty. 36 THE LINCOLN BOYS. In boyhood days, no rarer fun Was left for me when chores were done, Than hstening by the kitchen fire, To stories of my old Grandsire, Of "Lincoln boys" he used to know, Some seventy years, or more, ago. One trick of theirs, at present time ril try to sketch in simple rhyme. New shoes were bought for all one day, Of Brown, the cobbler, o'er the way, With this remark, "Now boys we'll see Who'll wear them longest, you or me ;" For somehow, always, ugly holes Were quickly worn in all their soles. 37 The Lincoln Boys. From underneath his broad-brimmed hat, He saw them wink, and "smek a rat." So next day, coming home before The boys expected, from the store, He started for the cider mill, And saw within, Dick, Jake, and Bill, All hard at work in grinding down The shoes, so lately bought of Brown. A smell of leather greets his nose, As nearer to the scene he goes. Within, a picture sad he views. For there he sees his last new shoes. With soles ground down to very quick, And left not mor'n a sixpence thick. The mischief done was so complete, He thought he'd make a sly retreat, And settle matters by and by, 38 The Lincoln Boys. When pulse wa'nt running quite so high ; But heard while lingering by the fence, Some queer remarks at his expense. Three weeks or so from this, as sire And sons were round the kitchen fire, While apples sputtered on the hearth, And nuts were cracked, and hearty laugh Was heard above the north-wind's roar. As snow-drifts deepened round the door. Young Jake cried out in feigned surprise With wonder lurking in his eyes, "Bill, just look here and see the holes That father's worn in both his soles!" And quick as thought both Bill and Dick Were kneeling on the old hearth-brick. To view the shoes which now their sire Was drying by the blazing fire. Z9 The Lincoln Boys. "You've saved it this time, boys, but mind, Ef luther grist agin you grind. Don't leave the fragrant toll behind." He knew the trick too well, they found And sideway glances passed around. They keenly felt his sharp reply. And, as the hour of sleep was nigh. The rogues began to gape and said, They guessed 'twas time to go to bed ; But while undressing in the cold, They muttered loud the one word "5c/(^." 40 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. A LARGE brown house, with rambhng rooms, On waving meadows facing ; A noble tree with loving arms. Its eastern side embracing-. In front, on greensward sloping south, Are happy children playing ; And, in the field across the road, The men and boys are haying. On "pasture-hill," in shadows cool. The cows are idly chewing; "Old Sorrel" standing by the fence. The green corn fondly viewing. By Landham Brook in meadows green, I see the fisher strolling, And many a lusty pickerel seeks The tempting bait he's trolling. 41 The Old Homestead. To West, on Nobscot's wooded height, A cap of mist I'm viewing ; The farmer trims the hay-cocks well, He knows a storm is brewing. And far away, at day's decline, My eyes o'er green hills roaming, I see Wachusett's crown of blue Tower upward through the gloaming. The cows come home, with beverage sweet From swollen udders dropping ; Now lowing for the milker's pail. And now the young grass cropping. The work is done, and supper waits With Hyson wreaths ascending ; While round the board, with festal cheer, The summer day is ending. The dusky shades of night come o'er The landscape, softly creeping, And in this valley home, are all The loved ones sweetly sleeping. 42 KATIE. A SWEET young girl was Katie With brow serenely fair, And like the gold of sunset. Was the glow upon her hair. She used to spend the summer With her uncle Abner Gray, And there in fields and meadows She romped the hours away. Rob Gray was a bashful fellow, And afraid of all the girls, But loved his cousin Katie With her wealth of sunny curls. And thought of her when morning Kissed the hillsides with its beams. And roamed with her by starlight In the pleasant land of dreams. 43 Katie. She dearly loved to tease him, And oft with tairy tread Would snatch his hat and wear it In triumph on her head. While Rob, though slightly angered. The playful insult bore, As he felt no hat e'er rested On a fairer head before. But harvest now was ended. And husked the yellow corn ; The apples all were gathered. And summer birds were gone ; And soon the chill November With stormy days would come. When Kate must leave the country And seek her city home. "She must not go," Rob murmured One morning to himself; "I cannot, cannot spare her, The darling little elf." And now a laugh went ringing On the frosty morning air. As dainty hands were buried In his locks of curly hair. "You cannot spare me then, Rob," She said with quiet grace, 44 1 Katie. As little roguish dimples Went eddying o'er her face. "I feel I love you, Katie, Far better than you know ; And can you love me, darling?" She coyly answered "no." But Robert knew her meaning, And — well, I will not say — I only know, next Autumn They called her Katie Gray. And now the dear old homestead, With hoarded memories sweet. Is cheerful with the pattering Of little roguish feet. And in the purple twilight. As fades the lingering day, A golden head is resting On the cheek of Abner Gray. 45 THE TRYST OF COLLEGE DAYS. Written for the Psi. U. Song Book. The midnight oil is burning low, The moon climbs upward in the skies, The evening star-lamps softly glow Like far off angel eyes. Chorus. Then, brothers, raise a parting song, And let the strain float gaily on. While we the chorus loud prolong, Psi. U., Psi. Upsilon. We'll gather here from week to week, A firm and ever faithful band, Our mystic watchword oft to speak, With grasp of friendly hand. 46 The Tryst of College Days. Whene'er our chosen badjie we see In soHtude or crowded mart, The stranger shall a brother be, And heart shall speak to heart. And when we wander, wear}- men. Along the cold world's rugged ways, In fancy we will keep again The tryst of college days. 47 FISHING FOR POUTS. Young Jemmy Flynn is often seen Arranging "fish-pole," line, and hook, To spend a pleasant evening hour In catching pouts at Landham Brook. His pipe well loaded, off he starts Across the fields in tuneful mood ; The robin hears his cheerful song And answers from a neighboring wood. He w^aits not long to feel a bite. But lets him nibble just once more. And then with steady laboring pull He lands a lusty pout on shore. And ere the village bell strikes nine, There lies beside him on the ground A famous catch of horned pouts. In weight at least a dozen pound. 48 i Fishing for Pouts. He strings them quick and starts for home Along the dark uncertain way, But stops a Httle while beside An ancient stack of meadow hay, To smoke his pipe and think of home And Biddy dear in Donegal But hears again her crv "Ye'll see Me niver more at all, at all." He smiles at thought of Biddy's love, And rubs with joy his fists once more, For well he knows her heart was won By pounding rivals, near a score. With sweet old Ireland in his thouofhts Our hero starts for home again. The dog bays loud, he hears the tramp Of Jemmy coming up the lane. The farm-house reached, he enters quick And strikes a light his catch to view, Then seeks his bed and soon in sleep Forgets his pouts and Biddy too. 49 GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. A SUNNY spot of boyhood's years Was Grandma's garden olden ; Its fragrance rare comes floating back O'er forty summers golden. I see the yellow marigold, The fringed "chiny-aster," And morning-glories pink and red And white, like alabaster. The peony, with wealth of bloom, The patch of striped grasses. The four-o'clocks and London prides, And pinks in fragrant masses. The lilac, standing by the door, Was one of that collection. And always showed a wealth of bloom In time of "Old Election." 50 Gra n dm o th c r^s Ga rdc n . The poppy, too, was not forgot, Nor crimson prince's feather ; Oh, what a swamp of beauty rare Was growing up together! And, when the early blossoms came Our garden patch adorning, How joyfully I watched for them Each fragrance-laden morning! All through the long, bright summer days It proved a home of pleasure For humming-birds and butterflies That sought its hidden treasure. But she who planted them is gone Where bright ones greet the comer, And where the flowers richly bloom Through one eternal summer. SI IN THE OLD BARN. Upon the old barn's scaffold high, With dreamy gaze on fragrant bed, I watch the swallows come and cfo With twitt'ring notes above my head. 52 In the Old Barn. Without, upon the half-shut door, The Phoebe sits in silent mood, Prospecting tor a place to build Her nest and rear her quiet brood. The hens upon the seedy floor Are scratching for the scattered grain ; While chanticleer a challeno-e hears And answers back in deaf'ning strain. Old Charley, in the stall below, Keeps grinding at the clover hay, And tries with many an angry stamp To drive the saucy flies away. But hark! a pleasant sound I hear, Of children coming down the lane; And now they strive with flying feet To see who lirst the barn will o-ain. A gush of laughter greets my ears. As up the ladder, lithe and gay. They come to seek for hidden eggs, And Irolic on the fragrant hay. The little rogues are wild with joy, At finding father's hiding place. And thus my pleasant day dream ends, With smoth'ring kiss and fond embrace. 53 THE DROUGHT OF 1873. September parched and dry comes in ; I wonder if 'twill ever rain ; Thank God for crowded barns of hay And fields of early ripening grain ! But later crops are looking slim, The corn fields all are dry and sere, But little water in the wells, For drought, this is the century year. In memory of the aged ones The like before was never seen ; Each morning comes with cloudless sky Each setting day seems more serene. Dear Lord, pour down upon the earth, Abundant showers once again, And fill the springs and river banks Before the winter months set in. 54 The Drought of iSyj. And make the pastures smile once more With verdure of a spring-like hue ; May grassy slopes again make glad Our eyes with glistening morning dew! But see! a tiny cloud appears Upon the starry face of night, Not larger than the one of yore Beheld at sea from Carmel's height. The sky is quickly overcast, And sounds are heard of coming rain ; The little brooks awake and run With singing down the hills again. The parched earth drinks deep, long draughts, Until her thirst is satisfied, And then her overflowing store Is sent to swell the river's tide. But, while the good Lord often frowns. How sweet the thought and how sublime, That never will he once forget The promised seed and harvest time. 55 PAUL BROWN. They tell us of a graceless scamp, A good old Deacon's son, Who bore the christian name of Paul, But christian worth had none ; Whose chief delight outside of wine Was "cutting up" some wicked shine. The parson used occasion'ly To make a friendly call, But always deemed it wise to keep A special eye on Paul ; Unless he did, you're safe to bet, He never left without regret. One night the Deacon went to town Upon his old white mare ; And, after dark, by "County Road," 56 Paul Brozvn. Paul watched with fiHal care. The road was not so very wide, And birches grew on either side. He tied the tops across the way, To clear the horse's head. Then waited till he plainly heard The old nag's measured tread ; "Git up, old White," said Deacon Brown; She did "git up," but he got down. "Whoa, whoa!" he cried, as firmly clung The stirrups to his boots ; The old mare thought the plough, no doubt. Had run against some roots ; She pulled, and down with awkward fall Went Deacon, saddle-bags, and all. Dread silence reigned ; the Deacon, sure, Was thinking of the lurch ; Then breathed he out a hasty speech That wouldn't do in church ; But, on reflection, stroked his chin. While Paul kept shady, holding in. The Deacon with his traps was soon Completely out of sight ; While Paul crept after, cautiously. To see that all was right ; Then stealing by, he homeward sped, And hastily retired to bed. 57 Paid Broxun. The Deacon came and fiercely knocked Upon the kitchen door ; Then Hstened for his sleepy son, And plainly heard him snore; Then knocked again, and still again, Until his knuckles throbbed with pain. A window opened just above, And plainly peered in view The head of Paul, with yawning words, "Why, father, is it yeou?" "It is, my son, jest strike a light. And I will tether out Old White." Next morning after chores were done. And men went off to hoe, The clothes-line held a Sunday suit, All mud from "top to toe;" And, as the dame the garments viewed, She wondered how he got so "slewed." 1 58 OUR LITTLE BOY. He came to us in spring-time, When snow was on the hills, Before the melting south-wind Had waked the sleeping rills ; While from the stately elm above The bluebird lent his song of love. And at the hour of sunset, Across the western sky, Was flung a crimson banner With fringe of deepest dye; As if to celebrate with joy The advent of our darling boy. To-day with lisping accents, He climbs upon my knee, And makes himself, as usual. With hair and whiskers free. And with his dimpled finger tries To fathom depths witin my eyes. 59 Our Little Boy. He sometimes plays the artist, As frequently are seen The daintiest of hand prints Upon my linen clean ; I At other times I hear his steps Beside my coat in search of "peps." Though much of care he gives us, How sweet it is to think, Between us and the angels. Of this connecting link; And ponder oft, how lovingly Our Saviour spake of such as he. I \ 60 THEN AND NOW. THEN. Through the lane and round the hill, Loitering in the shadows cool, Little Daisy Lee and I Wended oft our way to school. In the brush, "Che wink" we heard And the songster still I see Chanting on a bended limb, His sweet wood-notes, "Chip-u-chee." Perched on reed, the bobolink, In his suit of holiday, Sang his cheery song of home. Hid beneath a tufted spray, Where his mate in silence sat All the day in grasses cool ; 6i Then and yozi'. Ot't we viewed their mottled eggs As we journeved home from school. NOW. All along the meadow path, Winding bv the old brown mill, Roses wild and elder bloom Linger with their tragrance still. As I near the alder-brook Where the rustic bridge once stood, Daisv loiters bv the brink. Ripened now to womanhood. Near me plavs her little girl. With a rinorincr laugh so sweet. As the circling waves she makes Kiss m}- Harry's dimpled feet. Now their lips together press ; Daisv. on the other shore, Thinks the picture not unlike A picture forr\- years before. 62 IN MY HAMMOCK. Gently bring, As I swing In my hammock free, Pleasant dreams Cheered by a;leams From blest Araby. Clings the vine To the pine, Hanging gracefully, Coos the dove Perched above, In a mournful key. In the air. Free from care. Float the swallows high ; 63 /;/ my Hammock. Seeking food For their brood In the deep blue sky. Fevered brain Freed from pain In the cooHng shade ; Fanned by air Filled with rare Odors from the glade. Plaints of jay All the day Fall upon my ear, While his mate Sits sedate In the birches near. Blessed sleep Soft and deep Comes with pleasant dreams, As I glide Down the tide Lulled by tinkling streams. 64 AUTUMN. The joyous Autumn comes, at last, With her attendant train ; She brings the apple, pear, and grape, And tields of golden grain. Upon the fresh-mown meadow lot, The lark, with lifted head. Is watching with a steady gaze The sportsman's stealthy tread. While blackbirds, gathered into flocks, And thick on every hand, Are foraging in stubble fields Along the meadow land, Preparing for a flying trip, When morning skies are fair. To reedy swamps and wild rice fields That fringe the Delaw^are. 65 Autnnin. The nuts, now ripe, are waiting for The frosty-fingered night. To burst their prison cells, and bathe In Autumn's mellow light. October comes, and wooded hills Are decked in gay attire, With here a fleck of crimson hue, And there, of sunset fire. The landscape stretching down the vale With joy my bosom fills ; Its tintings all are beautiful, But glory crowns the hills. 1 66 THE ROBINS HAVE COME. The robins have come! the robins have cornel In trees on the hillsides warm they sing, And soon will be heard the drowsy hum Of insect life in the genial spring. 67 Tlic Robins Haze Come. The robins have come! and the pansies lift Their soft bright eyes to the golden light, While snowdrops, beside the lingering drift, Unfold their petals of purest white. The robins have come! and the farmers again Are thinking of grounds they soon will plough, And fields of ripening grass and grain Garnered and safe on the high-piled mow. They come, and the orchards with melody fill, While Grandmother's eyes are moist with tears, As she totters along to the window sill To gaze on the pets of her early years. She's thinking of Philip, in youth so strong, And when he made her a happy bride. And she hears again the sad, sweet song. The morning that little Rachel died. The robins have come! and tenderly bring The glad recollections of years that are gone; When seeking for trailing arbutus in spring. We heard their sweet carols at earliest dawn. 68 MEMORIES. We sit in the evening shadows, My darHng wife and I, And talk the dear past over, Beneath an April sky ; And memories sweet their treasures bring. As time flits by on rapid wing. 'Tis eighteen years in Summer, Since we began, my wife. To journey on together Adown the slope of life ; And pattering feet have cheered the way; God grant they ne'er may go astra}'! But have you thought, my darling, As still we journey on. That life's short year is fleeting — Our summer almost gone? 69 Aleinon'cs. May many days from sorrow free In golden autumn wait for thee. And should our lives be lengthened Into a green old age, O may we both remember The heavenly heritage! Then parallel our paths will be, Through all the blest eternity. 70 GRANDMOTHER. I SEE her in the old arm-chair With tall cap snowy white, And fires light up her antique spec's As gleam the embers bri^iht. Her evening work lies near, of which She seldom seems to tire ; And many an Indian legend tells. Beside the kitchen fire. She knits and nods and drops to sleep, And, through a golden haze. Sees childhood's home in happy dreams, And friends of childhood's days. One morning, — 'twas the month of May,- The air was clear and chill, When peering westward, she exclaimed, "Wachusett, dear old hill!" 71 Grandmother. And glad tears gathered in her eyes, As rapt with keen dehght, She viewed this landmark of her youth With joyous second sight. She loved the birds and fragrant flowers, With joys they ever bring; And always watched with longing eyes For earliest bloom of spring. She often clasped me to her breast And smoothed my flaxen hair, While thinking of her own dear boy Whose head once rested there. In sunset-land afar she sleeps, Where flowers above her bow ; She has no need of second sight, To view the old hill now. 72 ( MADELINE. Pretty blue-eyed Madeline, Singing in a minor key, Underneath a needled pine Close beside the sounding sea ; Hear I still those notes divine, Of my playmate Madeline. Oft we soucrht the violets blue, In the freshness of the morn ; Kissed our feet the pearly dew ; Sang the robin on the thorn ; Sings he still as oft I pine At the grave of Madeline. Thus I saw her long ago, In the flush of girlhood's prime ; "Years they come and years they go," 73 Madeline. Still the picture, toned by Time, Hangs within my cloistered heart, Haloed with a mystic art. In the bracing Autumn days, Oft the sere and yellow leaf, Eddying through a golden haze, Whispers of an early grief, As it nestles where the vine Clasps the grave of Madeline. I 74 THE BUTTERFLY AND ANT. A BUTTERFLY with painted wings, While sipping from the nectar springs Of rarest field and garden flowers, Saw, toiling through the summer hours, A neighboring Ant whom well she knew, And thus commenced an interview. "O how I pity you, my friend. Compelled a toilsome life to spend, Who scarcely see in all your days What I behold in one short gaze! For weeks I've roamed through fields of air And sipped my food from blossoms rare, And, when the dew begins to fall, Beneath a leaf I safely crawl. Or underneath a mossy wall." 75 The Bnttcrfy and An/. "Your pity, friend," the Ant replied, "I do not need, nor vision wide To give me happiness complete, Nor care I for ^-our nectar sweet ; A pastoral life I long have led. My herds of aphides o'erhead Yield me a beverage sweet and pure Enough to tempt an epicure." Just then a kingbird flying bv Seized ruthlessly the Butterfly, But, sated with the food of spring. He dropped her with a broken wing. No more to soar through fields of air. But doomed her neighbor's lot to share. Strange parallels in life we find Amid the strifes of human kind ; To-day, abroad with "coach and four," Anon, "the wolf is at the door;" On every turn of fortune's wheel Depends our future woe or weal ; Then ne'er despise a sun-browned hand,- The pride and hope of every land. 76 JESSIE EARLE. A PICTURE comes of the long ago, And a little girl I see Of beauty rare, sweet Jessie Earle ; Her white brow flecked with many a curl, And her laugh as full of glee As the brooklet's, in its playful flow Through woodlands to the sea. Her pleasant home is nestled still Beneath an old elm tree, Where bright birds build their nests in spring. And cheer the eve with flashing wing, In the leaty drapery ; And still is heard the robin's trill, So dear to her and me. Her mother died ere Jessie knew A parent's tender care ; 77 ycss/c Earlc. And gloom still clouds the father's brow, As memories come of Edna Howe — A wife of beauty rare — In a casket strewn with violets blue One early spring-day fair. Another name now marks the door, But under the same old tree Is often seen a fair-haired girl So like my playmate, Jessie Earle, That in a reverie, I call to mind the days of yore So precious still to me. 78 THE FIRESIDE DREAM. One night, while in my easy-chair Beside the hearth-stone bright, A sweet young face with dreamy eyes From out the embers seemed to rise With crown of rosv Hght. It smiled a moment, then dissolved Like fleecy clouds at morn ; But the fair image memory kept ; In her dim aisles it safely slept Till many years had gone. ■s -s -X- -s ■» * The wasting night-lamp dimly burned, And hushed the lonely room. While from some tome of ancient lore I read strange stories o'er and o'er. Regardless of the gloom, 79 The Fireside Dream. When, through the dusky silence stole The fairy of my dream, With rippling fall of soft brown hair. And smooth, white brow, serene and fair, And eyes that e'en now seem Like stars that gem the quiet sky When summer twilight fades. And o'er some distant purple height The moon holds up her beacon Hght Amid the deep'ning shades. The vision vanished as it came. But in my haunted heart That phantom presence, ever near. Made home a refuge doubly dear, And seemed of life a part. The deep-toned village bell pealed forth A merry wedding chime ; The fields were flushed with flowers of June, And bright bees hummed a drowsy tune Amid the sweet wild thyme. As from the white-walled country church, I led a blushing bride ; Her face was such as long ago Had smiled in vision through the glow Of home's dear "ingle-side." 80 The Fi reside Dream. Long years have come and gone since then, And, in my easy-chair, While gazing on the wood-fire bright Which throws stray gleams of ruddy light Athwart my wife's brown hair, With other memories, I recall The vision-face of yore, And as I meet my darling's eyes, I murmur as the glad tears rise, "It is a dream no more!" 8i THE PLOUGHBOY. Across the field, in early spring, The merry Ploughboy plods along ; His bare feet press the cool brown sod. And echoing hills repeat his song. Behind him, in the furrows broad, The robin seeks, with vision keen, 82 The Ploiighboy. Each dainty morsel turned to view, For nestlings on the village green. The bluebird on a poplar near Is softly warbling notes of Spring, And now he hangs, an azure star. Above the moth with painted wing. And, while the panting oxen rest Where shadows fall in noontide heat. The Ploughboy seeks the old red jug. And drinks the home brewed beverage sweet. Then spreads his luncheon on the grass, — A healthtul but a homely fare, — And eats it with a relish keen. Sharp-whetted by the country air. Thus plods he on till evening hours. Then seeks his home in twilio-ht ""rav. Where fireside cheer and pleasant dreams Refresh him for another day. 83 REVERIES. I LOVE in summer time to sit Beneath a shady tree, And watch the misty sails that come And go far out at sea, And think of perils of the deep, Encountered day by day, To speed the wings of commerce o'er The ocean's broad highway. I love, in morning's dewy hours. To watch the rising sun, — That grand old painter as he tints The hillsides, one by one, Till all the wide-spread landscape Seems aglow with golden light, Lit up by flashing diamond drops, — The jewels of the night. 84 Reveries. I love the cool, deep meadow spring, With trincre of ferns and ci'ass, And often note the clouds that o'er Its mirrored surface pass, And think of brimming cisterns, whence These ceaseless waiters flow Through all the year, in storm and drought And Winter's reign of snow. I love to hear the pattering rain Upon the moss}' roof, And watch the busy spider while Adjusting warp and woof, And dream of days and years agone, When on the high-piled hay We passed with mirth and song the hours Of man}- a rainv dav. I love, how well, that early home, Its orchard slopes and law^n ; The river on whose fertile banks Waved tields of Indian corn. And densely wooded hills beyond, With valleys deep and dark. Where in the frosty autumn nights We heard the foxes bark. Ah, halcyon days forever gone! Yet, in my memory still They come and go in sweet review, So often, at my will, 85 Reveries. That I grow young in thinking of Those lengthened hours of joy, And often wake from pleasant dreams With feelings of a boy. 86 REUNION POEM. Read at the Reunion of the First Settlers of Fairmount and Hyde Park, May 15th., i! Again, in memory, I go back To pleasant days of old, When Autumn tinged these vales and hills With crimson and with gold. And "foxes dug their holes unscared" On wooded hillsides bold. Not long before, a Yankee, from The Granite Hills, came down In search of fame and fortune, but Obtained a wide renown. By choosing this romantic spot To build a model town. 87 Reunion Poem. He plainly saw, on these green hills And waving fields elysian, A stately city rise to view As in prophetic vision ; And soon a score of men were found Who joined in his decision. You know the rest ; since sturdy men That first day's stillness broke, Has rung through all these busy years The hammer's rapid stroke, And curled in morning's quiet hours The cotter's cheerful smoke. The home of Goldsmith never rose Before his longing eyes. More beautiful than this dear spot, Which still in memory lies, Hemmed in by woods and sloping hills And richly tinted skies. My thoughts go back to rambles, when The pleasant moonlight's gleam Lay sleeping on the bosom of Your gently flowing stream. Whose crystal depths, in evening hours, With countless star-lamps beam. You ask the record of these years, So soon forever gone ! In them Rebellion's wicked hand 88 Reunion Poem. Her bloody sword has drawn ; In them to the benighted slave Has come a glorious dawn. Within these years our favored land Has wondrous progress shown ; Her railroads stretch from sea to sea, Her wires thread every zone, And tiny western hamlets have To mammoth cities grown. But some who mingled with us then, Alas! have gone before, — Sailed o'er the waters of that sea Which laves a shininor shore, — And found, I trust, a welcome in That land forevermore. 89 THE FOREST. How blessed is the gift to man Of woodlands wild, whose breezes fan My fevered cheeks in summer hours, As oft I seek their grateful bowers, To spend a day of quiet rest, In cool, deep aisles, where none molest. On bed of softest mosses brow'n. In blissful ease I sit me down, Where forest herbage fresh and rare With grateful perfume fills the air; And bright birds sing with happy song A lullaby, the whole day long. Above, the busy squirrel weaves In chestnut tall his nest of leaves; While in an opening to the sky 90 The Forest. A white-winged cloud is sailing by, But, ere it leaves my narrow view, Is all dissolved in misty blue. A greeting falls upon my ear Of liquid music, sweet and clear ; For, near me in the shadows cool, A cascade drops into a pool. With silvery skein of waters sweet, Whose spray makes damp my rustic seat. And there the trout with colors gay Are seen through all the summer day ; A painted moth comes to explore ; With dip of wing her flight is o'er ; A circling wavelet left, is all To tell the stor}- of her fall. And thus from morn till dewy night I revel in a sweet delight. Till, through the purple twilight's frown, The stars like angel-eyes look down. And then I homeward wend my way, With memories of a blessed day. 91 1 I I MIDSUMMER HAYING. "Come, John, get up and milk the cows, Then turn them in the meadow-lot. And just at night be sure and think To bait them in the clover-plot. "At ten o'clock, or when the dew Is fully oft', if sky is fair, Spread out the hay that's tumbled up, And turn it over once with care. •'Frank, you and I will grind the scythes, While Charles and Mike unload the hay, And Pomp may help with nimble feet To stow it carefully away." % The sun now rising clear and red Is peering through an amber cloud. While swarthy mowers oft lift up The merry whetstone chorus loud. 92 Mids uin ui c r Ha v nig. A broad highway across the fields These stalwart haymen soon have made, And with each sturdy stroke in time The smoking herdsgrass low is laid. A clean-cut swath is Farmer Ben's, The widest in the country round, Nor smoother shave of mowing-land Can anywhere about be found. The welcome dinner-horn now breaks The stillness of the summer noon ; And men and boys in hurrying home Are whistling manv a merrv tune. The meal partaken, rest is sought Awhile within the cooling shade. Where songs are sung and stories told. And manv boyish pranks are played. The nooning passed, some store the hay While others seek the field again, Where windrows serpent-like are formed Behind the white-sleeved husbandmen. The sun is dropping fierv red Adown the western slope of day, And many a plain and meadow near Is tented with the new-mown hay. Anon, in winding lanes, are seen The toiling oxen, moving slow 93 Midstcmiiicr Haying. With giant loads of fragrant hay, Emblazoned with the sunset glow. I As silently the night steals on, The twinkling star-lamps, one by one, Are lighted in the summer sky. Denoting reign of sleep begun. I 94 THE YELLOW WASP'S NEST. "Begorra, look at Mike!" cries Pat: "He's drivin' somethin' from his eyes: "Mike, what's the throuble?" " Throuble. sure An' don't ye see these yiller flies?" With flying hav, he fills the air While smarting from their keen abuse, And with the fiery, stinging pain St. Patrick's name is much in use. "But don't ve know a hornet, Mike?'' " An' is it yiller wasps ve mean?" And darts beneath a havcock near. Where all of him but head is seen. While thinking of his safe retreat He feels his lips and nose enlarge ; The enemy in hot pursuit. Assail him in another charge. 95 The TcUozv Hasp's Xest. r\^ "Oh! murther! murther!" loud he cries, "Oh! Howly Virgin, hale me guilt! Och, Patrick! drive the bastes away Or I shall be intirely kilt." While lingering in his hiding-place. He marvels at his nose and lips ; But on emerging darkness reigns. As both his eyes are in eclipse. He handles with the tenderest care His swollen organs o'er and o'er; "An' sure*' he savs, "I've niver known Me fatures grow so fast before." With bathing soon the lumps go down, And Michael sees once more the sky, But makes fast time whenever sounds The "Yellow-iacket's" battle-cry. 96 SONG OF THE FROGS. The pipings of the frogs I hear, Through all the night so shrill and clear, Glad heralds of the queen of Spring, Who comes her bounteous gifts to bring, With singing birds and sweet perfume Exhaled from generous apple bloom. Peep-peep, no sleep, peep-peep, peep-peep, Wee minstrels of the swampy deep ; Reminders of the cowslip's home. Where oft my young feet used to roam, By meadow brooks, to homeward bring This golden gift of early spring. How oft has proved the song, peep-peep, A lullaby for boyhood's sleep. When tired with rambling throufrh the woods, 97 Soui^' of tJic Frogs. Where oft in deepest solitudes, By stumps festooned with vine and plum, We stopped to hear the partridge drum. And. wlien half lost in dreamy sleep, How pleasino- is the song, peep-peep, As fancy takes me back once more Beneath the raftered roof of yore, To hear above my cot again The patter of the April rain. x\nd thus through all the hours of night, Till morning comes with roseate light. The frogs their tireless vigils keep, Whose drowsy, tinkling notes, peep-peep. Come floating on the perfumed air — A solace sweet for every care. 98 THE CONVALESCENT. He breathes the incense of the morn In dewy fields and pastures green ; Where at the earliest flush of dawn, The red fox oft by him is seen, Steahng along a belt of wood, The home of deepest solitude. He hears the click of opening cones. While underneath a monarch pine; And lists to pleasing monotones, As winds sweep through the needles tine. Beneath, a carpet, russet brown, Ott lures him from the noisy town. The cordial of the woods and fields Makes all his pulses thrill anew ; His malady with promptness yields, 99 The Convalescent. And cheeks take on a ruddy hue ; His flaccid hands grow hard and warm, And all his limbs round into form. His health regained, he delves again In deepest mines of ancient lore, Discov'ring rare and sparkling gems Of thought unknown to him before ; With health, new beauties ever rise To cheer each day his waiting eyes. lOO UNCLE NATHAN. There is no happier man in town, Than Uncle Nathan May, — How different from Caleb Brown, Who lives across the way ; With one, the sky is always bright, With Caleb, nothing's ever right. He grumbles when he ploughs his helds, And sows them with a doubt, And prophesies till blade appears The seed will never sprout ; In drought, he never fails to fret, And always grumbles when 'tis wet. "We're goin' to have a hay-day, sure," Said Uncle Nathan May, One morning, just as early dawn lOI Uncle JVat/?an. Was struggling into day, "Sich heavy dews in mornin's prime x\re follered by a dryin' time." "I doubt it very much," said Brown, "For last night, Colonel Lane Commenced to mow^ his meadow lot, Which always brings a rain ; And mackerel clouds half veiled the sky, Which leaves the earth not three days dry," Though doomed through all his life to dwell Within an humble cot, Yet Uncle Nathan ne'er was heard To grumble at his lot ; Nor does he ever tail to bear His thanks to God, each day in prayer. No home a warmer welcome gives, And neighbors never tire Of dropping in to spend an hour Beside his evening fire, And children watch with faces bright For his return from work at night. In Spring, when planting-time is o'er, He waits the genial rain. And never doubts that harvest days Will bring the ripening grain ; A trusting faith to him is given. With hope that anchors sure in heaven. I02 HALCYON DAYS. Alas! how changed my early home, Beside that swiftly flowing stream, Whose farther shore a green hill meets. And mirrors through the wavelet's gleam! The water-fall's sweet hum is heard, As in the sunny days of yore ; But cot and happy household band, Alas! alas! are there, no more. No longer in the wintry days The ruddy fire-light brightly shines, But, o'er the tiles of broken hearth. Creep noxious weeds and tangled vines. While musing on those early years. It scarcely seems to me a day Since, on that fair, secluded spot, I played the pleasant hours away. 103 Halcyon Days. I see the pearly spring within The quiet orchard's shady nook, And lane that to the forest leads, Across the babbling, meadow brook, Where, 'mid the trembling poplar trees, I set, with skill, the hidden snare, And often bore in triumph home Some victim of my watchful care. On garden-gate again I swing, A fair-haired sister oft to please ; And as we journey to and fro Her tangled tresses catch the breeze. The house, the well, the aged trees. In glad review I see once more, And lilacs, that in spring-time bloomed Beside the dear old cottafje door. The dreamy hour of evening comes, And on the kitchen's paneled wall The cheerful fire-light flickers, as The deep'ning shadows thickly fall. The loved ones all are gathered in ; There's gladsome youth and manhood's prime, And with a captive ear I list To stories of the olden time. I see within his favorite nook, My father, with a thoughtful eye, 104 Halcyon Days. While mother, angel of the home, Is ever softly flitting by. But sadly changed is that old home, Since childhood's sunny days of yore, For cot and happy household band, Alas! alas! are there no more. 105 IN MEMORIAM. A Tribute to the Memory of Bro's Geo. W. Pratt AND Samuel Wesley Wood, Written for the Anniversary of the Xi Chapter OF THE Psi UpSILON FrATERNITY. Amid the ever-changing Hghts and shadows, That come and go along life's stormy track. We've seemed to hear a sweet voice softly calling, "Brothers, come back, again to us come back!" We're here, once more, at our old Alma Mater, We meet again the friends we met of yore, We hear familiar voices kindly speaking. And grasp the hands so often grasped before. But, even now, there is a death-knell ringing Through the hushed chambers of each manly heart, While music chants her sad and solemn dirges For the lost votary of her glorious art. 1 06 /;/ Mcmoriam. Mute is the lyre he swept with skilful fingers, And silent, too, the voice that charmed our ears, While the green laurel Fame for him had woven, Droops 'neath the baptism of affection's tears. And from our well-filled ranks we miss another, Who, in the golden glow of life's fair morn, Left us to go upon the holy mission Of pointing darkened souls to Hope's bright dawn. While she, who stood with him before the altar, And wore upon her brow the bridal crown, Bows her young head and weeps in deepest anguish. That she has seen her life's day-star go down. To light the lonely sepulchre's dark arches, The Eastern mourner hangs a lamp above ; So we'll illume their graves through all life's journey. With the soft star-light of a brother's love. And when our pilgrim feet shall cross the river Whose gloomv waters hide a radiant shore. May we not hope in that fair land to greet them. Where antxel chorus ceases nevermore. 107 SUNSHINE. Our little, restless, rollicking boy Is full of the mischief all day long ; Now he is breaking his last new toy, And now is singing a cradle-song. He pulls from his foot the dainty shoe. And, fixing upon it a tiny sail, With roseate lips and breath of dew He floats it across the water-pail. He comes at evening with weary feet To lisp his prayer and go to bed ; And soon is lost in a sleep so sweet, He seems a cherub by cherubs led. Rarest of jewels, our household joy, How will it be in the great world's strife? Good angels lead thee, my darling boy. Through pathways green to a higher life. 1 08 HAVE CHARITY. Why cast them off though stained with sin ; Temptation came in evil day ; Each has a soul to lose or win, Have charity, and ever pray. If he alone who has no stain Can only cast the primal stone, Our criminal courts would sit in vain. As proof of sin could ne'er be shown. The gentle word and kindly tear Are precious to the erring one; They sweeten life in sorrow's year, And gladden each revolving sun. If ever thus we gently deal. Nor spare the magic words of love. The wounds of sin may quickly heal, And many saved for worlds above. 109 SUSPENSE. I'm waiting for the railroad train With great anxiety, For wife and children ever dear, Who make my home, from year to year. A paradise for me. I'm waiting for the railroad train A full hour overdue ; I walk the platform, up and down, And try my rising fears to drown, But tears my cheeks bedew. I'm waiting for the railroad train, I list the welcome sound. But only hum of neighboring mill, And distant song of whippoorwill Upon my ears resound. I'm waiting for the train, and in Imagination see no Suspense. A frightful wreck, and everywhere Are hands upraised in wild despair; Extended pleadingly. I'm w'aiting for the tardy train, I hear the whistle shrill ; And now the engine's glowing light Illumes the track on left and right And makes my pulses thrill. I wait with joy the railroad train's Approach with stifled hum ; And now fond arms my neck entwine And dewy lips are pressed to mine ; The loved ones all have come. Ill PANTRY SCHOOL. I'm thinking of the schoolhouse, Ned, Where, sitting side by side, We studied Webster's spelling-book, And laughed o'er Gilpin's ride ; And traded jackknives now and then, When not engaged in play, And got our jackets nicely warmed, How often I'll not say. I'm thinking of the roadside green, Of every tree and nook. And how, in sultry hours of noon, We swam in Pantry Brook ; And, when upon the casement came The ruler's tattoo loud. How each of us in passing in Took off his hat and bowed. 112 Pantry School. I'm thinking of the benches rude, And desks so broad and steep, On which we left our autographs, In letters wide and deep ; And of my first new writing-book. Without a stain or spot. So soon adorned, on every page. With many an off-hand blot. I'm thinking of the "Old Slough," Ned, Whose waters dark and cool So often laved our sunburnt feet, 113 Pant?-)' School. While on the wa}' to school ; On whose warm rim the tadpoles lay, In spring-time, many a score. While golden lilies richly bloomed In summer, near the shore. Tm thinking of the forest hoar Where fir-trees densely grew, And tired feet in mosses sank, While hunting gum to chew ; And of the pleasant meadows, where, On many a scattered tree. The red-winged blackbird sang in spring. His love song, "Quonk-a-ree." Fm thinking of the hour-glass, Ned, With sands so white and fine. On which our teacher smiling gazed, As neared the hour to dine ; But feel my sands ar wasting, Ned, For oft the children say, While fondling them upon my knee, "Papa, you're growing gray." 114 CHILDHOOD'S THRONE, Though vacant is the old arm-chair, In memory's glass I often see A little boy with flaxen hair, And upturned face on Grandpa's knee. He lists to stories quaint and old, Of Crusoe's home in southern sea, Of Joseph by his brethren sold, While sitting on that loved one's knee. Though lightnings flash across the sky And angry clouds hang o'er the lea. He never thinks of danger nigh, When safe enthroned on Grandpa's knee. On that dear face he loves to gaze, But oft the scalding tear can see, As memories come of early days, When others sat upon his knee. 115 ChilhooiVs Throne. Dear mother! at the mention of Thy blessed name, there comes to me The sweet tiicught that, in childhood's 3^ear, You also sat on Grandpa's knee. The old arm chair is vacant still, Yet, oft in memory's glass, I see A dear old face lit up with smiles. While dandling loved ones on his knee. ii< THE PARTIAL JUDGE. A FABLE IN VERSE. In very ancient times, there came A Farmer to a Lawver's door, Expressing great concern of mind For what had happened just betbre. "•A bull of mine your ox has gored. Kind sir," the Farmer trembling spake, "And I should be most glad to know How I can reparation make." "Thou art an honest man," replied The Judge, "and will not, sure, decline To make a speedy settlement By giving me an ox of thine." "It is no more than justice," quoth The Farmer, "as I plainly see, — But I mistake, — It is voiir bull That's gored a costly ox for nie.'''' 117 The Partial yitdor. "Indeed! ahem!" the Judge repHed, "That alters very much the case; I must look into the aflair, And //^— " {h.^ said with puzzled face) "And //'" the Farmer sternly spake, "There would have been no ij] I tind, Had you in simple fairness let An equal justice rule your mind." ii8 THE GENITING TREE. It stood beside an old gray wall Where eastward slopes the orchard-hill, Its crooked trunk and pensile boughs Of luscious fruit I see them still. There was the winding path we trod, Worn smooth by little sunburnt feet; In seeking fruit the codling moth Made ready in the July heat. And there, upon the mossy wall. We saw the squirrels go and come ; And often heard in thicket near The partridge beat his "throbbing drum." Full forty years have passed and now I seek again the dear old tree, But find a mouldering stump which brings A flood of memories back to me. 119 TJic Gcuiliii