raws Fn3 5f I Bnnlr ~R5l5~F CopightK .- R £ o COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. A FARMER'S MUSINGS Copyright 1920 Alfred Llewellyn French ©CI.A576876 OCT 13 1920 ALFRED LLEWELLYN FRENCH A FARMER'S MUSINGS Boems OF ALFRED LLEWELLYN FRENCH 1920 Edwards & Brouqhton Printing Co. RALEIGH With every passing year comes brighter, truer, stronger glimpses of the character of her to whom this little book is dedicated. MY MOTHER My Mother — In whose veins there flowed, strong and unadulterated, The blood of those who, through privations grievous — Through cold, famine, pestilence, and harassed by savage foes — Gave birth to the greatest nation earth has ever known, A toast to you. My Mother — Who, while yet a girl in years, gave me birth; Loved me as only those with courage strong can love; Taught me three things: to be — honest, clean and courageous. Strengthening precept by the mighty power of example — With love ever new. My Mother — Who, when came sickness, poverty and times most sore, Gave not a sign of feeble weakening, But with head high, and mind alert, battled for her own, And through it all ceased not to be her merry self — Strong through and through. My Mother — Who, when to young manhood's years Vd come, Did not sit by with folded hands, and let me go) But with rare tact and wisdom, almost akin to fbresight, Did encourage, shame and argue to keep me in her way — You were all true. My Mother— Who, when thieving death, in passing by, Snatched all, save one, of hers most dear, Did not leave all to mourn her grievous loss, But sought in others lives the place that hurt, to soothe the pain — 'Tis well with you. Contents Part I Nature Thoughts Part II . . Flirting with Mother Eve Part III . . . Stories and Other Poems PART ONE NATURE THOUGHTS Nature, in her moods and passion, Gives us food for thought each day; Carries us to heights at sunrise When her lord assumes his sway; Thrills us, when at eve in glory, She bids him take himself away; Soothes us with her cheery raindrops, Her April showers and rainbows gay; Teases from us adulation When on green fields shadows play; Awes us, when before her fury Forest monarchs must give way; Filches from us grudging homage, While floods rush past so angrily; Gives to snowclad mount a grandeur That tunes our hearts to joyful lay. 12 A Farmer s Musings THE OLD SPRING From underneath a rough built casement, Formed of rocks from out the creek bed, Comes a stream of purest water Gently ever bubbling lip. Shaded first by strands of ivy — Twined about like arms of lovers — Then by stately swaying pine trees, Lies a battered rusty cup. After hours of tedious riding Under sun of southern splendor I, with sighs of satisfaction, Drink there like a thirsty pup. Then I stretch me on the greensward Midst the bugs and toads and beetles, And, with naught a care or sorrow, To meditation give me up. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 13 A SPRINGTIME THOUGHT This springtime night at Sunny Home Makes me wish to take my staff and roam Far afield, where meadows green — Washed by dashing showers and gay — Seem not a thing of grass and clay, But more a living carpet robe Set there to hide a naked globe And make it seem the thing it's not ; A playground that the gods have bought And called their minstrels from afar To sing a line, then chant a bar, Where Winter grim, with frost and snow, Held pride of place a month ago. Methinks that on that hill of green — Where night has set its kindly screen And stars alone stand guard — There might come to my mind a thought Of the riches grass and grain have brought; And I might perchance find simple words To tell how, with grass and grain and herds, Other hills now bleak and bare Might some measure of this richness share And become a joy to passers by — Glad beauty spots to fill the eye — Instead of, as they now appear, Poor, cold, desolate and drear. 14 A Farmer s Musings DROPS OF RAIN Music sweet you are to me, Dripping from each roof and tree; Life blood of the growing grain, Sparkling, cheering drops of rain. Kisses cool for parched blade Nestling on a heated glade; Carrying beauty in your train, Precious, priceless drops of rain. Baptism to a waiting earth, Keen to bring new plants to birth ; Holding hope for barren plain, Welcome, alway drops of rain. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 15 THE YELLOW DAFFODIL When old winter keeps on coming At the time he's done enough Crowding back the springtime With its liberating stuff, One needs for patient waiting Some reminder that the days Of April showers and sunshine Return again always. The Master of creation — Realizing need of human hope — Knowing how all humans suffer If deprived of some such "dope," Has provided this reminder That he's caring for us still. You can't guess it, so I'll tell you, 'Tis the yellow daffodil. Shooting up along the hedgerow Or other warm abandoned place, This happy winter chaser Lifts to us her smiling face. Standing by belated snow bank, Caring naught for frosts that chill, She's a hardy little beauty, Our plucky daffodil. 16 A Farmer s Musings And when her work is finished, When she's tided o'er the span And turned a human " critter" Into a smiling joyous man, Then she takes on somber colors And retires from off the hill For she knows her place — this^beauty- This early daffodil. SPRING Softly wooing comes the Springtime Swiftly crossing hill and dale, Gently coaxing bud and leaflet, Heeding not Old Winter's wail. Raindrops falling through the sunshine Urging young things on to grow, Making green the barren places, And in the sky a gorgeous bow. Lambs so sportive on the hillside, Wild flowers blooming 'neath their feet, Song birds cooing to their nestmates, In tones so tender, low and sweet. Love we all the gladsome springtime — Earth's re-robing gentlest day — Time for strenuous work of building, Time for thoughts of love and play. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 17 SUMMER Laden with the breath of roses, The sweet perfume of meadow poses, And songs of birds in swaying tree. You come my Summer day to me. Carrying on your face a smile That shortens many a weary mile, And bringeth joy to those who see. You come my Summer day to me. Or if you come with face in tears, You're but carrying out the plan of years When thus, with cheer to blade and tree, You come my Summer day to me. And if you come with tempest wild — Cause shattered tree and billows piled — 'Tis thus to make me strong to be. You come my Summer day to me. 18 A Farmer s Musings AUTUMN The Summer's charms have gone their way. The perfume of flowers and new mown hay Have passed along with the songs of birds. A chill at night wakes the drowsy herds. The Summer's hopes with us remain. The tasks performed, the mental strain Brought their reward of shock and stack, So who would win the summer back? And the Autumn's joys, who can deny? The scarlet leaf 'gainst a pale blue sky, The hush of the night, the frosty morn. The bay of the hound at the call of horn. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 19 WINTER A sweep of the north wind O'er valley and hill; A grip on the waters Of river and rill; A storm cloud, low lying, Well laden with snow. Good-bye now, fair Autumn. 'Tis your time to go. A stirring of life-blood. A quickening of pace ; The children so merry, And keen for a race; A battle in progress, With snowballs for shells, " Hurrah!" shouts the school boy, "Some Winter, ,, he yells. A blaze in the fireplace, A low, easy chair; Corn cribs well laden. And hay stacks to spare. Real troubles, not many, And blessings, not few; So Winter, at farm home There's a welcome for you. 20 A Farmer s Musings MAY DAY May Day! when blossoms gay Bedeck the trees and invite away To orchard-lanes, Where nectar sweet, in flowered cup, Tolls bees and other insects up, Pledging to each a tiny sup; Asking of each, if he doesn't mind, To leave some pollen there behind That he has brushed from other flower On his gay trip this morning hour. May Day! few other days so fair, Nature all in best repair In wood and field, Song birds nesting in the trees, Clover swaying in the breeze, Grain crops well nigh to the knees, Promising a bounty soon That will cheer the harvest moon And ensure to humans and to kind A happy, merry winter time. May Day! May many yet Come to cheer lest we forget Kind Nature's gifts, And fail to render as her due Homage high and pure and true As life's field we travel through; Or cease to think of her as friend From Springtime to the old year end Nature, that, on this May Day Has carried us from self away. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 21 THE COMING OF THE DAWN From out the night a paleness grows, Like candle light or far-off snows, Then shades of gold their places seek, As faintest blush on maiden's cheek. More swiftly now as chargers gay, Come the harbingers of day, Each in its turn more glorious — bright, 'Till all abroad is God's sunlight. 22 A Farmer s Musings FALLING OF THE SHACKLES March 26th Falling now from blades the shackles, Winter's cold had thought to keep; Emerald tints to grain and meadows. Coming swiftly while we sleep. Brown and sere through months of freezing, Struggled on the plucky blade, 'Till at last the smile of springtime Brought relief o'er hill and glade. Tender as a mother's nursing Comes the balmy zephyr's call, Vieing with the touch of sunshine Lest the tender blade should fall. Cheered on by "knee deep" of bull frog — Making merry half the night — The gentle blade looks up serenely And takes dew kisses as her right. What more sweet in all earth's story — Told with each recurring spring — Than the blade's strong struggle upward, Beauty and great wealth to bring? Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 23 EARTH'S RICHES Mother Earth holds stores of riches, Of some of which I fain would tell— Riches that are sadly needed To regulate the H. C. L. ; Riches not of mine or forest, Not of factory or mill, But riches that are closely hidden In fertile field or grass-clad hill; Riches that the reaper gathers As it breasts the golden waves, That the meadow yields up gladly As Summer sun the mower braves ; Spoils the kine delight to gather On their march o'er hill and vale And give at morn and nightfall To fill to brim the foaming pail. Massive ears the maize plant quarries Bit by bit the Summer through, As it digs deep in the brown loam In storm or when the skys are blue ; Products that the garden fertile Holds within its warm rich mould; That do their bit to cheer in summer Or later, when the days grow cold. 24 A Farmer s Musings All of these, her hidden treasures, Our mother holds in bounteous store And grudges not to one her riches, Who's willing to unlock the door. But by the door she stands majestic And says to all the human race, "Before you enter here to gather Show me the sweat upon your face. Think you not to bring a brother And, pointing to his toil-stained hands, Say, "Mother Earth, here's a good fellow I've thought would do to till your lands. I'm a gentleman by nature, Used not to toil of hand or brain, So, when he has toiled a season, I'll be on hand to take the gain." Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 25 THE "MEADOWS ">•> Not once, but many times, IVe wished That more could view the "Meadows" fair As it lies, this day in May, An undulating piece of God's best work In making soil of Southern clay. It would, methinks, cause other hearts To beat a livelier tune and merry be, Could they but glimpse the fields of grain, The pastures fair, the meadows green, And — coming down the hill — the evening train. Andjstrange must be the man or maid, Whose joy would not the stronger grow, Could they but sense the charm and thrill That comes when " Bonnie Blacks," or kine With faces white, come drifting o'er the hill. Then, as the evening shadows fall O'er town and valley, while I look, The hope gains voice that more may taste, And learn the joy that comes to him, Who, sowing grass, reclaims a barren waste. 26 A Farmer s Musings FAIR LESPEDEZA Gentle creeper, Lespedeza, Greatest all among the Legumes Sent to earth to save the Southland, Sent to heal its broken hillsides, To bring riches to its valleys And a robe to sun-scorched plain. Queen you are, Fair Lespedeza, Among the plants, that all unbidden, Awake from out their winter slumber, To bring verdure to the pasture And a mantle to the roadside, Where the Frost King's hand has lain. Stronger yet, our Lespedeza, Have you grown in times more recent Since we've learned to store your richness- Gathered from the rain and sunshine — To make glad and tide the season 'Till the spring has come again. Sweep on, modest Lespedeza, 'Till all out land from the Potomac To the Father of the Waters Has felt the strong rejuvenation Of your nodules and your humus, And our poor soil curse you've slain. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 27 WHERE THE TENDER BLUE GRASS GROWS If you wish to feel the morning In all its beauty and repose, Greet it out among the mountains, Where the tender blue grass grows. And could you forget a springtime Seen in its most winning pose, Out among the mountain valleys, Where the tender blue grass grows? The Summer, too — as I recall it, Offers much of joy to those Who, on pleasure's quest, go larking, Where the tender blue grass grows. And the splendor of the Autumn, As with brilliant tints it glows, Should be viewed from off a hilltop Where the tender blue grass grows. And when hill and vale and mountain Are robed with fleecy, glistening snows, Grandeur then has reached its fruiting, Where the tender blue grass grows. 28 A Farmer s Musings A PASSING DAY The day that's done was of wondrous brightness, Ushered in at the East with a blood-red flame. Then the great golden disk — with the world's swift gay turning — Was started upon its age-old scorching game. Higher it rose and hotter its breath came, 'Till the leaves and grass lost their sparkle of dew; The cattle sought shelter 'neath the wide spreading oak tree And song birds with sadness to seclusion withdrew. The tender wee blades, that all night had been smiling With the kiss of the dew that gave freshness like rain, Were withered and drooping and well nigh heart broken As the Sun-god blazed forth full master again. Now a change has come o'er the face of all nature, A respite, and we smile at the sun's mighty power. We're turning away from his fierceness and anger; For the day is far spent, 'tis the calm evening hour. A great moon is rising far out in the heavens, And soon will it throw soft shadows around. Crickets and katydids and other gay night folks Proclaim that much gladness at night times abound. A sweet languor warns that the night is swift passing; The moon looks down calmly and invites us to rest, The tasks of today will look small with the morning, When greater are shouldered with courage and zest. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 29 THE GIFT OF THE MORNING From off the Blue Ridge Mountains Came a cloud, low swung, black and gray. As a monster bird it came swooping, Blotting out the fast fading day. Swift came the night of winter As a silent soft footed beast. Not a bough that stirred, not a sound was heard As the cloud made its flight to the East. Then came the snow, fine, sifting Down through the coal-black night — As a ghost unchained on its nightly jaunt — ? Till the earth had a mantle of white. From out of the East swept the morning As a bride to her wedding so gay, And brought as a gift to earth creatures A marvelous jewel display. Over each hill and deep hollow; O'er each bending blade and each tree Lay a mantle of white, diamond studded, A sight worth a fortune to see. 30 A Farmer s Musings WHEN THE RHODODENDRON BLOOM I know a dark, secluded valley, O'er hung with vine and spreading tree, Where a noisy spring stream tavels, Hustling on with crazy glee. Wild fllowers in the spring grow rampant On the spots the sun makes warm. Here too, one sees the lizard darting, And the " cotton tails" neat form. Song birds to their mates coo softly, Making homes midst boughs of green, Far back in the depths of woodland Where they hope to stay unseen. June brings charm to any valley, But to mine a feast 'twill bring, For 'twill order "open sesame" Where buds of rhododendron cling. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 31 Then will fall a cloak of beauty, O'er the valley like a shower, Giving to those rugged hillsides A taste of Nature's mighty power. June will bring to field and valley, Pastures fair and ripening grain, Meadows, and the charm of reaping, Cattle grazing on the plain. But all these will be forgotten, When kindly shower and season brings Life and beauty to those hillsides, Where the rhododendron clings. 32 A Farmer s Musings THE RAINBOW The sun is making its beat to the west A spatter of rain passes by; The dart from a sunbeam pierces a drop And behold, a great bow in the sky — A thing of such beauty but seldom beheld The work of a great God on high. Its blending of colors no painter could match, No architect its plans could supply. A bow of perfection, no flaws for detection In this work of the Maker on high. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 33 THE FLOOD From morn till nightfall Then from night till morn again, Descended the rain on mountain and hill, A steady, swift downpour from dark leaden sky. The song of the rivulet Met the roar of the waterfall; The lashing and crashing in forest and thicket Was drowned by the forces that battled on high. Down the side of the mountain And from off every hillside Rushed great sheets of water colored with clay, As though all things human it were bound to defy. The night fell with darkness Like unto the region Where dwell all creatures eternally damned, Water only, made tossing, was discerned by the eye. Came again the glad morning And with it the sunshine, Lighting up a strange world with water made mad — Every creek a broad river rushing on swiftly by Down into the valley, With its meadows and corn fields, Swept a thousand swift torrents from out of the hills Like a burst of wild cursing with none to reply. 3 34 A Farmer s Musings The broad placid river, In the heart of the valley Raised like a serpent its great glistening head And covered the face of the valley well nigh. The spring brought a covering Of green to the valley And again smiled the stretches of meadow and corn But God only can find the dead where they lie. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 35 DIXIE WINTER Fickle art thou, Dixie Winter, Promising one hour the Springtime — With its dashing showers and rainbows — Then forgetting e'er the nightfall And go flirting with the North Wind Changing all to gloom and gray. Will you not e'er learn the lesson, Taught by cousins in the North-land, Who have studied through the ages — Tutored by the hoary Frost King — How a modest, comely Winter Should maintain her dignity; How when once she'd clothed the green fields With a mantle white and fleecy; Changed the river to paved highways And the earth to granite hardness, She should rest then on her laurels 'Till the springtime comes her way? Still we love you, Dixie Winter, As half springtime you go sporting Pelting us with sleet at evening — Then— as if to make atonement Or but, perhaps, to see us smiling — Pour floods of sunshine all next day. But when comes your mood repentant — Fields so green and sky all cloudless Frost at morn and starlight evening Filled between with warmth and sunshine — Then you bind us with your shackles And can lead us where you mav. 36 A Farmer s Musings SPRING AGAIN Comes again now the gay springtime, With its flashes of bright sunshine Through the teardrops from the heavens, Bringing joy to blade and flower. Again is heard the cooing lovenote Of the songster in the willow, Telling yet again the story Of his fondness for his mate. Gentle zephyr lashed to madness, Then subsiding to a whisper As the shades of night time gather Over greening hill and dale. All the night folks in mad revel, Each his happiness proclaiming, Each a separate story telling Of the joy the time has brought. Grass and flowers and birds and insects Sweetly smiling or exclaiming O'er the blessing of the springtime That's returned to earth once more. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French . 37 OLD YEAR ADIEU-1913 Old Year, you've been a partner true, Given each of us some work to do; Caused each to think of faithful friend, And for thought gone wrong to make amend. Taught each to do some kindly deed, Give aid to fellowman in need, Warned each that time is on the way, And tasks best done are done to-day. Indeed, you've been a partner true. So now we bid you fond adieu. PART TWO Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 41 FLIRTING WITH MOTHER EVE Mother Eve in an early day Stole Father Adam's heart away, Made him eat an apple ripe and red, The juice from which went to his head. These lines were penned lest we forget She's at her tricks still — even yet. 42 A Farmer s Musings EYES OF BLUE Men rave of the blue of an evening sky With its fringe of gold and gray; Of the blue of a lake midst the mountains high Where sunbeams make merry all day; Of the wealth of blue of a summer sea, At eve when the ships steam away, But the blue of the sky or the blue of a lake, Or the blue of a summer sea, Mean naught to one who has seen the blue In two eyes that look up at me, Those eyes so blue, kind, sparkling, true; In them almost heaven I see. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 43 ST. VALENTINE Above the sordid things of life Are realms where thoughts are prone to stray And feel a touch of heaven's delight Though all around be cold and gray Foes of the heart may curse and rave And seek to force an entrance here Where — in halls of gilt and white — Are treasures that our souls hold dear. But hate and other sins unnamed See but a cloud of darkest night And go their way on hell's own road, When just o'er head are stars and light. One key alone — a golden key — Gives access to this treasure store; Love lights the portals and makes plain Where hangs the key above the door. This mystic home of heart's delight — Where joy is host and serves love's wine — Has a guardian staunch and true, Known as good St. Valentine. 44 A Farmer's Musings THE TAR HEEL GIRL In an inland Tar Heel City Dwells a lady, charming, witty, Brighter than a Summer morn, More gentle than its breezes borne. Fair her cheeks as springtime roses, Sweet her lips as wildwood posies, The beauty of her spirit gives A taste of Eden where she lives. Not all her world is filled with play But boasts some service every day. She's more precious than any pearl This bewildering, puzzling, Tar Heel girl. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 45 A SOUTHPORT VALENTINE Where old ocean murmurs soft and low, Or bellows, fiercely, with blow on blow, Where live oaks rear their heads serene, And dull sad winter clothed with green; Where sea-gulls wing their merry flight, 'Twixt sea and sky as streaks of white; There, in a town above the quay, Dwell mesdames fair and maidens gay. For these this wish is truly mine, That each may be a valentine. 46 A Farmer s Musings EYES OF GRAY Through Summer heat or Winter cold The gray eyed girls, with courage bold, Will march straight on and win the prize O'er girls with brown, or pale blue eyes. For vision goes with eyes of gray, Obstructions on life's broad pathway Are brushed aside as feather tossed, And vantage gained is seldom lost. In eyes of gray, too, lurk much fun And when the sterner tasks are done — When life takes on a holiday — Then watch out for those eyes of gray. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 47 THE MEANEST THING I EVER DID What's the meanest thing I ever did? Well, it happened when I, only just a kid, Was sleighing one cold December night, With a sweet little girl with eyes so bright. By some means she'd seized the chance To make Old Jim hop, skip and dance, When — on the run along a hill — We struck a rock and took a spill. Then over the hill we youngsters shot, And the pace we set was plenty hot, The swiftest bird in its merry flight Could have learned from us that Winter night. Stopping at last in a monster drift I pulled her out with a tender lift, Thinking that all was then serene With never a thought of anything mean. But as she stood below that hill — With much snow down her collar still — She, with a look, began to talk, And I stood like a country gawk. And with ears tingling and eyes aflame Said "Hush! for you were all to blame. For you it was who were driving, see, And now you're laying it onto me." Oh ! could I have had the wit to say, "Just wait till those tears I've wiped away And brushed the snow from your beautiful throat," I might then have been in a different boat. 48 A Farmer s Musings LOVE BY PROXY Tales of love are most unfitting From men with hair turned silvery gray, Theirs to find a quiet corner — Near a blazing wood fire say, Or on a path through smiling valley, With mountain peaks not far away, — There to dream of long past frolics When youth made life a holiday. But should Old Father Time in mercy Forget for just one passing day And me slip off for once the knowledge Of the debt old age must surely pay, Methinks that words near kin to love words Might from my lips be winged away To a charming neighbor lassie, Coming four years old some near by^day. But alas, alack, 'tis but a fancy Time plays not jolly trick that way The hand of time grows never weary And dogs grown old have had their day. Still though it might be worth the trying To joke Old Father Time some way. How would this work, to take some youngster And teach him just the words to say? Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 49 To teach him how to tell the story Of eyes that haunt one all the day; Of lips that tempt one and beguile one And cause one's will to swerve and sway. There's just one thing, though, as I see it Might make my work like sodden clay Those lips he might attempt to smother And she not wish to say him nay. EYES OF GREEN In the sandy Eastern country, Where grows the long leaf yellow pine, There dwells an earnest lady teacher Who stimulates like rare old wine. Crowned she is with dark brown tresses, Her eyes she vows are shades of green, But to me — well versed in such things — They're most the finest ever seen. 50 A Farmer s Musings A VALENTINE I wonder if my lady fine Would care aught for a valentine From one who thinks most wondrous fair Her bonnie eyes, her dark brown hair; Her lips that tempt one to despair, Her cheeks the color of the dawn, Her form as graceful as a fawn? If so, this is her valentine, For she's a partner true of mine. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 51 ADVICE TO ONE WHO WINS A WIFE A man who wins a little wife Need never think he's done with strife, For, first one thing and then another Will make him wish to "run to cover." But when he's near where cover was — About to whisper sly ha-ha's — What will his discomfort be To find his cover "up a tree." And wifie on a lower limb, Smiling her sweetest down at him, Just hoping her suggestions fine May with his notions be in line. "Oh yes! yes, yes! just so, just so!" He might as well let the matter go. And let his joys play a minor part. To wine's joys from the very start. 52 A Farmer s Musings THE FAIREST FLOWERS Not in country lane or garden Does one always find the flower That to him appeals most strongly In his recreation hour. But ofttimes in lonely village, Or even midst the citiy's roar, Will he find a fragrant blossom That will appeal to him far more. Nor do we find the flower most lovely Always in some shaded glen, But more oft in field or garden, Where mad storms and sun have been So, too, is it with our fair ones — Those we're pleased to call our " betters "- Some of these do madly chatter, And others write the sweetest letters. But, kind sir, these are but samples Of how ladies fair may grow When they lack the poise and purpose Of real, true, women here below. Thought and work give to our fair ones Eyes that speak a language stronger Than do the eyes of helpless infants Infants, though in arms no longer. So here's to the thinking fair one, She with eyes that sparkle brighter Because her brain is like a bee hive While she bangs on her typewriter. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 53 A VALENTINE From out the land of Long Leaf Pine My heart cries out for those of mine At " Sunny Home" — where fields are green, Where streams run deep and swift and clean, Where cattle low and lambs are gay, Where Summer brings the scent of hay. To those this simple note of mine Reminds of good St. Valentine. EYES OF BROWN Here's to the girl with eyes so brown, Her word is law to the lads in town; With lips so — well, so very sweet, The one safe course is swift retreat; With cheeks so wondrous fair, That dimples leave with jealous stare, But return again and claim the place Of the most bewitching in the race. 54 A Farmer s Musings THINGS WE FEAR AND THOSE WE FEAR NOT The tasks we've done Are those we fear not — Hate, perhaps, or with joy recall. But those same life tasks, When once we know them, Are like whiskey punch at an Irish ball. The feats that daunt — Before which we tremble — When on life's path they loom ahead Are those our ignorance Has clothed in wonder. Than these aught else we'd choose instead. The pains we've known We can bear tomorrow. But let the morrow its portion mete And we'll, as staunch Soldiers of ill fortune, Take what's our due with courage replete. The joys we've known — Were they joys most truly — We would meet again some other day. We would take of life A portion double Of the elixir that drives old age away. But the loves we've known — Ah! those loves, my laddie — They've led us many a fearsome way, But still there's that In their elusive sweetness That calls us back when we think to stray. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 55 CHERRIES Cherries, plucked in early morning, While on each fruit a night kiss lingers; Cherries to their stems still clinging, Plucked for you by friendly fingers. Cherries red and firm and juicy, Fresh from out their orchard bower; Cherries — fruits the gods prize highly — Plucked for you this morning hour. LUCY DIX AND MISS ESTELLE In an old Virginia village, Undisturbed by train or bell, Dwell two charming, dark haired maidens, Lucy Dix and Miss Estelle. Blithesome, gay and happy ever, Eyes deep blue — 'tis truth I tell — Can one find a pair more lovely than Lucy Dix and Miss Estelle? Studious, kind and wondrous clever, Cheeks that fairly cast a spell, Not soon again will we find the equal of Lucy Dix and Miss Estelle. 56 A Farmer's Musings BLOOMING AND FRUITING When some years hence — some April day — These cherries bloom and festoons gay Hang from each limb like balls of snow, Should all go right you then may know That among the boughs some day e'er long Will sound the note of the robins song. 'Tis then you'd best send Peter out And order him to "turn about" And pick those cherries ripe and red Before the robins get ahead. Note— Sent to a lady with a bundle of cherry trees. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 57 FOUR TOMATOES In a wondrous sunny garden, Up above the valley Dan, Stalked a fair, determined lady, Carrying in her hand a pan. Stooping often, ever searching, All along a fruiting row, At last she pounced upon a treasure, A great big, fleshy tomato. "That," she 'lowed, "is just the checker. If find three more I only can I will take them as a present To that shaking, chilling man." They came, those great, red, husky beauties; Came and conquered in a walk, And in conquering filled the shaker So he scarce could even talk. But his mind kept working smoothly After speech had all but failed, And thoughts of her who brought the "tomats" Were the ones that most prevailed. 58 A Farmer s Musings A WIFE'S VALENTINE A valentine I send to you, Across the hills o'er waters blue, From eastern sands to Piedmont hills, To you whose love my whole life fills. A valentine, a loving call, To you across the hills — that's all. Note — Written on the North Carolina coast, 1913. PART THREE Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 61 STORIES Simple stories gathered daily From life's rose or thorn-strewn way; Events we've had a hand in shaping While at tasks both stern and gay, Joys we've known and laughed o'er gaily As they've met us face to face. Pains we've felt when friend and kindred Have fallen out in time's swift race. Things we've seen that left us mirtlr filled Or gave to hearts a flood of pain; Hopes we've had for fellow toiler As he fell then rose again. 62 A Farmer s Musings SONGS TO BE WRITTEN (November, 1918) From out the wild year That has passed and gone Have come stirring events To preserve in song — Stories of love And stories of hate; Stories of letters That came too late. Tales of shot And bursting shell; Of deeds that shamed Even blackest hell. Of fights that were fought In sleet and rain; Of suffering endured — On trucks or train, In prison camp Or in trenches deep — Where in mire and filth Only dead men sleep — In hospital tent Or under the stars — By Doughboys young Or blue clad Tars. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 63 Of events that transpired In "No Man's Land," When foe met foe Fighting hand to hand, Leaving their dead In the mud where they fell; Pressing straight on — As though courting hell — Midst scenes lighted up By the strong lurid glare Of rockets exploding High in mid air. Of King men who fought O'er the clouds high hung — Only God to witness When their work was done; Or when, foeman conquered, He was dashed to earth On the graves of the dead Or on war-ruined hearth — Brave men one and all, Whether foeman or friend, Who flew through the heavens And fought to the end 64 A Farmer s Musings Of mothers who prayed Every night and all day, For the loved ones of theirs From homes far away; In war-tortured France, Or on the wide sea, Their petition — tear freighted : Bring him back safe to me; Bring him back 'cross the water, 'Cross the sub-ridden sea; When he's finished his mission Bring my soldier to me. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 65 THE BORDER BOOK CLUB On border where the North State Meets Virginia's verdant hills; Where the hum of loom and spindle Vies with laughing rippling rills; Where pastures green and meadows Spread serene on every hand — Enhancing e'en the beauty Of the Eden Garden land — There's a band of charming women, Matrons fair and maidens gay, Of whose work, with words of music, Am I asked to speak today. Banded as "The Border Book Club," A score of years almost ago; Seekers after social pleasures — Men folks left at home you know — Or delving in the mystic caverns Where dwell the ghosts of great ones gone- Men who've taught the world a lesson In statesmanship or work or song Or with masterstroke on canvas Fixed the vision of their age. Or of others, none less able, Word picture writers for the stage. 66 A Farmer s Musings Then to ease up on the gray stuff — Just to fluff it up a bit — Dive then into fiction's water, Such an earnest plunging dip. Rising to the surface calmly With some writer's scalp to land Make him wish he'd kept to plowing Instead of taking pen in hand. Then some other — whose real genius Marks him as a great pen fiend — May sigh and thank his stars so lucky That he's escaped from being beaned. Then anon, back to the present, With its task but started well. The rise of nations all astagger From out the depth of war's mad hell Sneaking, bolshevistic horror — Child of madness and decay — When should reign calm, sane, reason That leads us civilization's way; That gives to every human creature, With God's plain mark upon his brow, The right to visions from the hilltop, With none to thwart or question how. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 67 Lucky Border, Lucky Eden, Lucky all, I well may say, When within our charming quarter, Working there so forcefully, Bides this band combining wisdom, Social charm — degree untold — Helpfulness to those about them, Promptings of their hearts of gold. Storms may gather, small or mighty, Evil reign, while bad men gloat But this club along the border Methinks will steady hold the boat. 68 A Farmer s Musings WHO KNOWS I stood on the sands of Carolina's Coast At the close of a Winter's day, And watched the sun sink away to rest And the dolphins sport on old ocean's breast And the sea gulls dart and play At my back was the river where it meets the shock Of the ocean waves rolled high, And the fort at my left, where the evening gun Boomed forth the call that the day was done And the night was drawing nigh. To my right was the town — made so old and gray By the sun and storms so grand — And the live oaks tall that lined the street And the footprints, small, made by children's feet In the deep light yellow sand. 'Neath my feet was the wreck of an ocean craft That had passed the long, long way. And the hopes she held as she plowed the waves And the brave men she sent to watery graves. Who of us that know today? Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 69 FROM BOONE TO BLOWING ROCK Out from Boone the road leads, winding Past shady banks and gurgling springs; Past rock-faced hills, so bleak and staring — Save where the rhododendron clings. A fine road this, through old Wautauga — A good man's proof of work well done — The winding way from out the Blue Ridge Toward the land of rising sun. Traveled once — past orchard, meadow; Past rock-faced hills and fertile plain, O'er rushing stream, through smiling valley — The traveler longs to come again. The moments pass one all too quickly As mile on mile he leaves behind; Then presently from out before him There breaks a view almost sublime. Few other roads throughout the " North State" May boast such beauty, by the way, And none there are can show at ending Such wide, magnificent display. A hundred miles of grass green valleys, Tree clad hills and rolling plain. A million years of beauty making Lying within one's vision's range. 'Tis this one sees beneath him lying As on the " blowing rock" he stands And if e'er place can show more beauty It's not been seen in Eastern lands. 70 A Farmer s Musings THEODORE ROOSEVELT (26th President of the United States) One of earth's great ones At the time when his mind Was reaching above toward Its zenith of power, Faltered a moment In his journey last night, Then his soul rushed away Toward the mansion of light. The world is in mourning, And good cause have earth's people To be bowed in deep grief O'er the event of the night, For all men are made poorer By their loss, in a way, Of the strong valiant warrior, Whom we're mourning today. Death, with his sickle, When cutting his swath Through the ranks of the great Has many laid low. Oft times has he taken His toll from our nation Men mourned for themselves And because of their station. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 71 But seldom in stalking Abroad on his mission Of gathering the great From the ends of the earth, Has he chose such a sample Of man earth would keep, As this patriot, this world man, Who's now fallen asleep. We're mourning today, Will more on the morrow When we learn the full worth Of him who has gone. His power of uplifting, His vision, his kindness, Will dispel as by knife thrust Our meanness, our blindness. So while he is absent He's still ever with us; His life an example To leaders of men. His spirit left with us As a sword from high heaven Will guide us and guard us And the whole lump will leaven. 72 A Farmer s Musings MOTOR BOATING IN WINTER For Salem our party made a start, With laugh and jest and merry heart, While yet the day was young and fair, And the salt sea breath was in the air. The little open motor boat Called loud for wraps and overcoat, For the winter morn was clear and cold To mariners, both fair and bold. When out upon the river broad Naught else could one do save applaud The gallant little river steed That rushed us on with steady speed. For twelve long miles o'er waters blue The engine did her duty true, And not one time did she rebel, So outward bound no harm befell. At 4 P. M. — the good byes said — The party to the wharf we led, And turned the little boat to run Homeward toward the setting sun. And none a straw in her path did lay For 'twas bitter cold at the close of day, And every one, each saint and sinner, Had mind set on mine host's good dinner. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 73 But soon the engine seemed nonplussed, We wondered not that ladies fussed, Declaring they "just couldn't wait A mile from shore and it getting late." We cranked her, primed her — cussed her, too — But still she couldn't or wouldn't do And finally we poled her back to shore, Another hired, and deemed trouble o'er. But when we got to water deep The new boat failed her word to keep And left us worse off than before, For now we were two miles from shore. And cold the night and dark and drear And dinner time gone past us clear, And we, sitting in that open boat, Wondering what had the engine's goat. Then all at once, no reason giving, She started off toward better living, Then smiles and jokes began to play And trouble fled from us away. And we talked about a fine milk stew, Then have some fried and a good tea brew, And a sirloin steak, and a bit of fish, And about every other restaurant dish. So after all 'tis not so bad To have your boat turn out a cad, For it ensures an appetite, Which, satisfied, makes one all right. 74 A Farmer s Musings WAKEMAN'S HUNDRED YEARS (1817-1917) Came five strangers one glad springtime, To where a river silvery glows Between majestic elms and beeches Bending from their stately pose; Bending till their sweeping branches Kiss the water as it flows. Came those strangers from the eastward, From a rocky barren land. A sturdy band, courageous, willing, Strong of heart and head and hand; Strong to meet the perils many Lurking in the forest grand. Strove they well with axe and cant-hook Reared them cabins hewn from log, Cleared a space and planted gardens, Raised their meat with gun and dog; Raised a living for their children, Made their law the decalogue. Fought their wives the battles bravely That come to every pioneer. And as the years moved slowly onward Kept their vision strong and clear; Kept the vision of the broad life — For their children prized most dear. *Note — The author's great-grandfather, Silas French, was one of a party of five who made the first settlement at Wakeman, Ohio, in 1817. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 75 So came a schoolhouse in, the forest, Simple as the cabins all, And gathered there the children ever With the coming of the fall; With the coming of the harvest, When was heard the blackbird's call. Others came, and yet still others Came to join this sturdy band To make their home, to rear their children In this fertile western land; In this land where suns are kindly To aid the farmers skillful hand. Came a church, too, in due season, Built beside a giant oak; Modest — for these were modest people, These sons of staunch New England folk; These men who to their God bowed meekly But spurned the thought of human yoke. And in this church each Sabbath morning, From week to week and year to year, Were taught those truths — those simple doctrines — The true New Englander held dear; The doctrines that through all the centuries, Have brought their gift of hope and cheer. 76 A Farmer's Musings So flowed the lives of these strong people, As flow the lives of workers ever; Planting, reaping, trading, building, Pushing onward, idle never; Pushing toward a higher standard Singly or, more oft, together. Then came to these, as come to others Across our wide and favored land, The call to arms to save the nation Their sires had vowed should ever stand; The call of Lincoln — stern, herioc, With heart of love and courage grand. How well these men, these sons of woodmen, Served their country all know well. Four years of battle, camp and prison To many tolled the parting knell, To many brought the long, sound slumber — A story sad indeed to tell. Then came those years — those fifty golden, Fruitful, happy, precious, yfears — When workers strove with faces forward ; Time for naught of idle fears ; Time for ringing blows struck squarely Against those wrongs that harbor tears. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 77 Wakeman's men, at work, in business, Themselves have proved the best man's peer; Her women though have been her fortress Through guarding well the home life dear By standing guard beside the fountain, To keep its Sowings pure and clear. Their sons have gone to East, to Westward, South where the cotton blooms so fair; Have built their place with Yankee courage Facing grim odds with a bonny air; Facing the world with calm assurance, Because of the sturdy blood they bear. You builded well, men from the Eastward, Your work was done long years ago; But 'twill live in this good country So long as waters gaily flow. So long as men love right and courage Your work will live, God wills it so. 78 A Farmer s Musings THE TREASURE PART A backward glance across the years When we're on life's hilltop standing Gives a measure true of the things worth while Of the thoughts that were worth thinking — If we hold the heart as the treasure part Of the house in which we are living. Not a day that past on the journey up Through the year's resistless forcing But holds a gem for our treasure store, But recalls a past we would live again, If we held the heart as the treasure part, Of the house in which we were living. Blown from the waste of straw and chaff By the breath of the years in passing Comes the hopes we held for our fellow man As he faltered and fell but climbed again, If we held the heart as the treasure part Of the house in which we were living. A glance ahead toward the journeys end With the past enlightened vision Should reveal the chance for a life made great Through faith and work and courage strong If we hold the heart as the Treasure part Of the house in which we are living. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 79 WHAT MEANS OUR FLAG What means our flag — As unconquered still Waves its stripes of red And its stars of white O'er our broad rich land from sea to sea — What means that flag to you and me? Does the sight of the flag Our fathers loved And for which they fought In years gone by Inspire in us the purpose strong To guard that flag from every harm With our wealth, our men and our strong right arm? Does it mean the same As in years that passed Before our men — some millions strong — From factory, shop, office and farm, Steamed away across the wide, deep sea To preserve a nation for you and me? Does it mean as much As it ought to mean Since our flag was raised On the soil of France With the stern resolve it should not be furled 'Till we'd paid our debt to a Hun cursed world? 80 A Farmer s Musings Will it mean the same In the years to come When we feel not the spur Of our present task. Will our blood grow cool and our minds forget That e'en a greater work is before us yet? Will our heads be bowed In unmeasured shame As we see our flag Trailed in the mire And all that's past become as naught Because we shirked the task we early sought? No, it cannot be — O'er sea and land With steady heart And strong courage We'll build a nation that men may know Will protect its own where'er they go. And in the years to come Whate'er betide — Should the world go mad With lust and greed — Men will find in ours a nation strong, For she feared but God as she forged along. O'er this favored land Between the seas A flag shall wave Its colors strong And proclaim that men both fight and pray In the United States of America. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 81 THE NAMELESS WRECK A battered, shattered hulk she lies On the beaten sand so high, Her name? 'Tis a secret of the sea, And with the sea will die. Long days and nights of calm or storm — While a stern fate drove her on — She rode the waves a cold sea corpse, Like a wraith from the great beyond. Spar by spar and plank by plank, She gave to the hungry sea, 'Til her heart lay bare to the cruel waves, Then they cast her off with glee. Storms now may rage and waves roar on, She scorns their taunting boast, For she lies at rest, in her grave of sand, On our North Carolina coast. 82 A Farmer s Musings STOLEN FRUIT 'Twas the morning hour, And with laughter gay, We drove past the oaks, And were well on our way, Towards the wood on the hill Where the scaley barks grow And fall, sprinkling the earth As with pellets of snow. Our road was some gullied And bordered with briars, But Trixy was willing, And our rubber tires Rolled smoothly along And no harm befell, Though how we got lost once, I perhaps ought to tell And of how we wandered, Without purpose or rule — Ever followed about By Aunt Anna's old mule — Among stumps and through gullies, And ugly thorn patches, Which Trixy took bravely, Though covered with scratches. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 83 Soon, though, we righted And were off with a dash, Through corn field and pasture And through branches kersplash Past a herd of fine cattle, At rest in the shade ; Past flocks of gay backbirds, In wild serenade. Now, by great stealth, Must we farther proceed, And to ever strange noise Stop and give closest heed; For we're now in the realm Of the scaley Bark King Whose rule is that pickers Must the half to him bring. And some may have followed This rule to the letter, But for us we'd a plan We thought would work better. It was this, And I ask if you think it not good, Just to gather our share, Leaving his in the wood. And this plan we followed, For an hour and a half Picking and sacking, With a joke and a laugh, And stopping a minute, When we got most too hot, To crack a few scaley barks, Right on the spot. 84 A Farmer s Musings She filled her hat full, And I likewise my lid, And I told her true stories Of how, when a kid, I got into devilment, As only boys can; How once I stole melons From a poor swearing man. And she told — no she didn't; For it just isn't done, Thought it 'twere I've no doubt, 'Twould be very good fun To learn of the frolics And flirtations withstood, By the Lady who traveled With me to the wood. She had promised her hubby We'd be back by midday And as time had been speeding We must "up and away" So down through the pasture, Where much cattle roam, We took our way gaily The longest road home. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 85 BACK, WAR GOD (1914) Back! thou stern, relentless War God, Keep thy grip from off my land, Naught hast thou, save sorrow only, Carrying in thy gnarled hand. What hast thou to mankind given, jj|In the ages that have past, Save a torn and shattered manhood? A work that has e'en hell outclassed. Not content with plain destruction Of the present sturdy breed Thou dost damn all future peoples With a weakened, puny seed Gold we would not withhold from thee Would give it o'er with but a sigh; Our men, though we prize more highly For them we'll fight you 'till we die. Back! give heed to vioces many, Murmuring prayers from sea to sea, Back! or by the Lord eternal, Humanity shall deal with thee. 86 A Farmer s Musings CHAPPEL MILL POND In the country of my boyhood, Where blue grass covers bluff and dell, Flows a famous large sized brooklet, Named by Indian "La Chappel." In the boy days of my father, When the farms were newly born, The waters of this creek were harnessed And made to grind the farmers' corn. And how well do I remember — Oft-times I've met it in a dream — The remains of an old mill dam, A staunch, protruding old "big beam." Hewn from heart of oaken monarch, While yet Red Men roamed the wood, This beam, for half a century, Marked the spot where the mill had stood. Down below the great thick sill beam, In the days when I was young, Was the dark and silent "deep hole" Where many a sturdy lad was flung. For those were lads of hardened muscles, Those lads, who, at the close of day, Gathered at the Chappel Mill Pond, To wash the grime of toil away. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 87 And woe betide the timid youngster Who on the beam would hesitate, His case was called by one next to him, 'Twas useless to expostulate. In the winter Chappel's waters Would be frozen hard and fast And sometimes well into April Have I known the ice to last. At last would come the time long looked for — The water feeling warm and good, To fingers calloused hardened, From carrying corn and kindling wood. And the word would go forth quickly Over hills from farm to farm, That the sun smiling on Chappel And ushered in its time of charm. Pride of place was claimed each springtime By the lad who, hot of blood, Would be first in all the region To plunge into the ice cold flood. And when he with eyes a-popping, Emerged from out the depth of cold, The next in line must follow quickly, Or give his place to one more bold. 88 A Farmer s Musings Competition for first honors, Was one spring extremely keen, And two lads — just little fellows, Appeared quite early on the scene. Standing on the great beam shaking, From the chill of April air, Straws were called on to determine Which should first the water dare. The younger laddie — fat and rugged — When to him the portion fell, Struck the water like a rocket, And how it hurt would never tell. With goose flesh his skin fair wrinkled, But still he swam and dove about, Until the older, slimmer laddie, Had made his plunge with nervous shout. Then out he scrambled, up the creek bank, Crossed the pasture clear and wide, For distance now was all could save him, And were he caught then woe betide,. Flow on Chappel, flow on good waters, Give other* sturdy lads at play The same good times you gave to this lad Who's now a thousand miles away. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 89 WORK Work! at break of day, When the day grows hot Then make work play. Work! Strive! still work When the shadows fall. Yes, work! 'tis drones who shirk. Work at desk or plow; Make your life work count — Care not just how. Work! Life is a field All beauteous white, Yes, work! only weaklings yield. Work at a comrade's side Or strong and alone — For the world is wide; But work with a will With eyes to the fore, Yes, work! 'tis rust that will kill. Work with a merry song, Though the task be hard And the day grown long. Keep the thought in mind 'Tis a game I play Yes, work! don't be left behind. 90 A Farmer s Musings A TALE OF COWEE MOUNTAIN Toward the West of Carolina — Where flows the Little Tennessee — There stands a grand old Mountain, Known to all as the Cowee. Tales are told of this old Mountain Weird and wild as tales can be, But one and all are her scars now hidden By her beauty of rock and tree. This beauty at dawn is all compelling And bids one's sould set trouble free, Her beauty at eve is a burst of glory, Inspiring in its majesty. Many a love has Cowee fostered, In her coves so fair and free, Undisturbed by the world's distractions — Loves strong and pure as loves e'er be. Hates too may perchance be hidden In Cowee's more rugged wilder way; Hates that smoke and burn and flame If left to draw a hates true pay. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 91 Long ago 'twas told of Cowee, That along her dark secluded streams Curls of smoke would at times be noticed, Rising through the foliage green. And to the modest mountain cottage, Nestling at old Cowee's base, Would come the deadly, stealthy serpent — The same old one with smiling face. Sad faced then were the Cowee women And poorly clothed did the children be, Farms neglected, cattle wandering Along the banks of the Tennessee. But better times are now on Cowee — Times that make her people free — Curbed has been the whiskey demon And backward on the run is he. Triumphant now stands Cowee mountain, Guarded well her children be ; A grander, stronger, happier Cowee Than when she first was known to me. 92 A Farmer s Musings THE CLOSE OF NINETEEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN (Christmas, 1918) At the end of the world's most tempestuous year — When the earth was clothed with a fullness of fear; When the sea was filled with silence of hate When the sky learned tales no tongue can relate — Comes a peace, that months have grudgingly held; Comes a peace our doubts and fears has dispelled; Comes a glorious peace, with victory crowned, Bringing hope and good cheer the wide world around. Oh, praise to the God who brought peace to the earth, Who dispelled the war storm and gave freedom rebirth, Who fought on the side of the lovers of men And from chaos brought honor and order again; The same mighty God, who long years ago Gave his son to the earth — a prince here below — Gave him a free gift — a God gift indeed — Who will stand at the bar and for us intercede. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 93 A TALE OF LONG AGO In a humble vine-clad cottage Close beside a rushing stream, Dwelt a gray haired melon grower, Owner of a spanking team. None in all that famous region — Where melons reach their best estate — Could a finer fruit deliver, Or a better tale relate. And had you, in hurrying homeward, Thought to pass his Arab steeds, You'd best have taken a second thought, For Otis was a man of deeds. And no one, whate'er his calling, Or what his great apparent rush, Could slip on by that team of Arabs Without the hottest little brush. Otis' faults — Oh, yes, he had them, Though not of the basest sort — Consisted of a knack for cussing, And of mighty sharp retort. The boys about — I ne'er would tell it Were it not long years ago — Would manage ways to hecter Otis, Just to hear him cuss and blow. 94 A Farmer s Musings One night in windy cold December — They bound his wheels with lock and chain, And then laid low to hear what happened, I promise you 'twas some profane. "Boys will be boys" — you've surely heard it— And Otis claimed they'd be it twice, And other things he said about them That were filled with truth and spice. There'd been a deal of melon stealing — A thing that Otis couldn't stand — And he vowed he'd catch the youngsters And they'd feel his weighty hand. So he fixed him up a goods box, Close beside the melon field, And — with his trusty muzzle loader Crouched within quite well concealed. But his years played him most scurvy, Though of this he'd never peep, And, instead of watchful waiting, He fell into the soundest sleep. Then up crept two sturdy youngsters, Faces spoiled with evil grin — And upset the mighty goods box, Prisoning Otis there within. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 95 Then with zeal — the sort most common, Where some fun is recompense — They weighed down the goods box firmly, With rocks from off a nearby fence. Now, do not think, not for a moment, That Otis had been calm this while, Far from it, hot streams of cursing Were issuing from beneath that pile. And very soon the midnight silence Was shattered by an awful blast, The muzzle loader was in action, And that report was not the last. For Otis, wild with shame and anger, Vowing he'd settle soon and good, Fired toward each sound of snickers, Until that box was kindling wood. The neighbors, attracted by the firing, Came on the run to Otis' aid, Then when they had heard his story, Other compliments were paid. Little heed was given these rantings By youngsters struggling through the loam, Their thoughts were on the lights that beckoned From their distant home, sweet home. 96 A Farmer s Musings THE MISER At the foot of a frowning rock-faced hill Stands the wreck of an old time flouring mill Where, in an early pioneer day, Lived a miller strong, though old and gray. Of the miller, little was ever known Save that he lived at the mill alone ; A silent man who owned not a friend, Who worked for gold and no other end. One night there passed that lonesome way A sailor man from a ship in the bay — A gay young lad with his life before — And 'tis thought he stopped at the old mill door. When he left his ship that day in May He carried with him full six months pay, ' The stock of gold he had worked to save As he rode his ship o'er the bounding wave. A hundred years almost have flown Since the sailor went to the mill alone, And though search was made for miles around No trace of him or his gold was found. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 97 The years rolled on and the miller gray Passed over the river on the dark highway; Hit the trail that leads to the miser's end And was buried alone in the river bend. Another miller repairing the mill Found a door beneath the great main sill, And in a box, made gray with mould, There lay the miser's hoarded gold. He had lived his life without a friend Was thought to have caused the sailor's end, Had naught to show for his life all told Save a buried box of muddy gold. 98 A Farmer's Musings THE MAN ON THE LAND Down the path of the years That our country has gone On her quest of an ideal Or when righting a wrong, When on the crest of the wave Or in deepest distress, When fighting for self Or for brother oppressed, There has stood at her back With her fate in his hand, As a rock in the storm, The man on the land. His tasks ever heavy, His enjoyments too few; The weather his comrade Or stealing his due; His labor uncertain — If labor he's had Save labor of self, In good weather or bad. His life isolated — Almost alone does he stand, This saver of nations, The man on the land. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 99 He has fought evil doing. As a class he has stood For measures that enacted; Helped his country make good, He's grumbled at times, When good reason he's had, But when unable to change it Looked for good in the bad. Just look up his record — In my opinion 'twill stand — And you'll value more highly The man on the land. A demand he will make In the time that's to come For a just recognition Of the work he has done : Of the place his work holds Among the things that endure His motives unselfish Powerful and pure. For 'tis proved that nations Will fall or will stand By the position accorded The man on the land. 100 A Farmer s Musings No favors are wanted, But he's standing four-square For the same honest dealing Sought by men everywhere : A chance at the markets In every free land At the just price accorded To supply and demand. And then in his buying On this platform he'll stand: No extortionate prices To the man on the land. Give him in his business The justice that's due, And no need to worry O'er the course he'll pursue. For with cash in his pocket And respect in his soul He'll work out his problem And come to the goal With a life so well rounded And so well held in hand That all will do honor To the man on the land. Poems of Alfred Llewellyn French 101 CHRISTMAS INV0CATI0N-1914 Kingly God child — gift from Heaven — Thy day of birth we hail this morn,. Breathe on us thy christening spirit,, Bring joy and hope to those forlorn. Kingly God child — gift from Heaven — ■ With majesty and glory crowned, Charge us with thy loving message Of "peace on earth" the wide world round. 102 A Farmer s Musings THE HARVEST The harvest moon of 1918 sheds light on scenes such as human eye has never before looked upon, and the glory of the harvest lighted up, means more to humanity than have any of the harvests that have gone before in all the ages. A billion human beings and their descendants may be made free by the harvest that is now upon us, or be bound with the autocrat's chains, depending upon how turns the harvest. Ten million soldier boys and millions of men and women who, while serving humanity with every waking thought, with all the power of lives consecrated to as great a cause as ever moved men since the coming of the Son of God, are looking with hope to the ripening of the golden crop, every grain of which is more pre- cious than grains of purest gold. Great generals — minds freight- ed with the supreme effort of their lives — watch with the utmost anxiety the spreading of the golden wave o'er hill and valley from sea to sea. The commander in chief of the armies of the greatest nation God has yet allowed to grow to manhood's es- tate is looking off to the wheat fields of the New World for the succor they alone can give to the brave men under his command. Mothers who have consecrated the life of their lives, the blood of theirs, to the gigantic struggle — the purpose of which is to set humanity free from blood sacrifice — are praying for a harvest bountiful. Fathers, whose hopes of posterity have been laid on the altar of freedom, are pinning their faith to Almighty God, and the golden harvest that is at hand. The lives of millions of little children — who know not the meaning of grim war and who we trust will never again have cause to look upon its desolation — are hanging in the balance that marks the difference between the bountiful and the meager harvest. God in Heaven — the God of our fathers, who spread manna in the desert — swell that harvest and strengthen the decimated ranks of the reapers, that this swelling tide with the golden tinge may sweep on to victory the forces of right. )V~~