lit llliteiiiiiliiiiiiliilii LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Chap. Copyright No, Shelf...A.5.S ? 1- 4S<}J UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 'm \ / TWO cwr<^ ^nmviiy RIFTS IN THE CLOUDS POEMS WALTER M. HAZELTINE ^ CAMBRIDGE iPrinteU at X\z EiDerfiitrc l^xtm 1897 1 \ TWO CrtP'iPS t^fWKIVEO ^ * Ts 3^1 r COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY C. HAZELTINE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED n6 TO MY DEARLY BELOVED SISTER THESE SONGS STRAY THOUGHTS, CREATIONS OF IDLE MOMENTS ARE LOVINGLY INSCRIBED Had the author lived the foregoing dedication would have been used in a volume he was preparing for publication. It was his wish, should he not live, that the same dedication be used in any volume published by his friends. THE GOAL Sweet the songs of the reaper^ When the harvest is gathered in ; Sweet the sound of rejoicing When the victory we win ; Sweet the dreams of the sleeper, Sweet the faith of the soul When it nears the brimming river, God, and its infinite goal. In weaving his thoughts into song, the author snatched many a happy hour from five years of enforced idleness and suffering. The selections which appear in this volume, taken from many others, may not be in all cases such as he would have chosen, and many have been omit- ted which possibly the author would have considered his best. CONTENTS PAGB THE MASTER I THE BESTEST FOURTH 3 JES' BEFORE CHRISTMAS 6 SQUIRE STEBBINS'S REMARKS 9 THE tramp's soliloquy I3 sleepin' in the attic 16 A tramp's song 19 THE IMP-HAUNTED POOL 22 WHEN THE BOOGIE-MEN CAME ROUND .... 25 WHEN THE COWSLIPS START TO GROW .... 28 THANK-TIME AN' LOAFIN'-TIME 30 BIRD-SONGS AND RIVER-SONGS ^^ UP an' down THE RIVER 36 THE END OF THE ROAD 39 MY DEAR OLD ATTIC ROOM 42 HOW-DE-DO 45 eifty odd winters and more 47 ho! bonny boy! 51 whereaway 53 vacation 55 the little red schoolhouse 57 sing a song of happy 59 just to be a boy 61 if you will 63 GOLLY, don't you CARE 65 SUCCESS 67 WHEN I WAS A BOY 69 X CONTENTS SING, HO y^ SING A SONG OF DON'T VOU CARK 75 AIRSHIPS -jy SING, HO ! MY FRECKLED ROVER 79 THE HUNTER DISMAYED 81 COME UP FROM THE SWEET BEGUILING .... ^^^ VACATION IS OVER 85 the country stage 87 Cupid's miss 89 TROUBLE 91 fun here in new england 93 "handle with care, else the stitches will fall" 95 let them pass 98 breaking out the road 100 spring, gentle spring i02 in the scenery of dreams i04 when the race is through i05 love's EYES 106 THE USES OF ADVERSITY I07 EARTH MUSIC I08 A NAME 109 IN AUTUMN TIME HO CONSCIENCE Ill MEMORIES 112 THE MOUNTAIN SPRING IIJ THE WINTER ROAD II4 IN THE YOUNG WINTER II5 EXPECTATION II6 youth's HOLIDAY II7 AN APRIL DAY I18 BUT A PART 119 ALL IS GOOD 120 A WINTER TWILIGHT 121 THE CHIDE 122 LINES CONTENTS xi '■n OH, THE OBSCURITY I24 A WISH „ 125 THE NATURE — CHANGE I26 IT IS BETTER I28 THE GOAL 129 MOONLIGHT I^O 131 THE HEART . . A GAME BOARD 132 HEART MUSIC I^^ MY PRAYER 134 DO AS Y'OU MUST 1^5 ASPIRATIONS 1^7 don't WORRY 1^8 DREAMING I-^n FALLING SNOW 1^0 MORNING 141 TO-MORROW 142 OF THE FUTURE I^-j WHEN FOR ME I44 IN AN OLD BARN I^e THE SONG 146 god's GRACE T47 WORDS THAT LIVE I48 WHO? . . . BY THE LAKE 149 150 TO HER BEAUTIFUL DEAD HE IS DEAD 151 152 A DAY ir, TRUTH 1^5 SUNSET 156 THE DAY .... THE DUTY OF DAYS 157 159 A VISION OF HOPE 161 THE NEW YEAR IN 165 xii CONTENTS AN AUTUMN SONG 167 IN SEPTEMBER 169 DECEMBER 171 THE GRAY GULL l^2 A DAY — ARIZONIAN 1 74 A MORNING-RISE 175 IN THE TIME OF WANING AUTUMN 177 NOR YET FORGOT 179 THE MOWERS 182 THE WOODSMEN 183 THE PASSING OF THE YEAR 186 SITTING ALONE IN THE TWILIGHT 188 THE BEST OF ALL THE DEAR OLD SONGS . . . I9I WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS 194 OVER THE BROW OF THE HILL 196 THE FIRST THANKSGIVING I99 THE LAST THANKSGIVING 202 A MOOD 204 OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST 2o6 THE SONG 208 THE OLD HOME 209 THE CRICKET IN THE WALL 211 TWILIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN LAKE 213 AS OUR FATHERS DID OF YORE 215 THE poet's birth 217 AN EVENING WALK 219 OLD SONGS AND YEARS 222 THE SONG OF THE STORM 226 SONG 228 TWO SONGS 230 the answer of the rose 232 "chatter, chatter, it's no matter" . . . 236 pithy sayings 239 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PORTRAIT Frojitispiece ^"^""^ ^ THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY .... Facing ^age 14 . WHEN THE BOOGIE-MEN CAME ROUND .... 26 «• AT THE END OF THE ROAD , . -„ FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE. (Youth) ... 48 FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE. (Age) .... 50 . WHEN I WAS A BOY »q ' THE FIRST THANKSGIVING 200 ' TWILIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN LAKE 214 POEMS THE MASTER Ah, ancient is my harp ; for many a day It hath lain idle, and its strings have grown Rusty with little use, mayhap the way The mind grows rusty when it dwells alone. Unpracticed are my hands, ay, e'en un- taught. And little do I know the wondrous strings ; Yet how my heart doth beat with glad- ness fraught, When I can listen while the master sings. 2 THEMASTEK I brought it forth, attuned it to my heart, And idly o'er its strings my fingers strayed ; From high to low, yet trembling in each part, They stumbled, stopped, and seemed to be afraid. The master touched a chord, — anon there grew A wealth of harmony without and in, Like wine drunk sparkling of an olden brew ; Time was and was not, yet had heaven been. THE BESTEST FOURTH THE BESTEST FOURTH On th' morning of hurrah day, when th' toot-horns blow, I went down to Jimmie Nolan's, where they had a show. An' raggy men an' women, an' a peddler with a pack, An' a band an' a procession, with faces painted black, An' Injunses an* gypsies, an' a wagon full o' girls With flowers an' white dresses an' little things an' curls. An' men 'at chased a greased pig an' tried to climb a pole. An' tried to race in washin' tubs on Jimmie' s swimmin' hole ; An' there was flags a-flyin' an' toot-horns goin' toot, An' snap crackers bangin' off, an' pistol guns to shoot, 4 THE BESTEST FOURTH An' popcorn an' peanuts an' molasses candy, too, An' more 'n a million people, an' hardly one I knew ; An' a man 'at played a organ jes' as sweet as you can think. An' a monkey 'at would bob an' bow an' scratch his head an' blink ; An' when the dark came, fireworks an* rockets 'at went whiz, An' red fire an' yellow fire an' whirligigs 'at fiz. An' then a cannon went off bang ! An' all th' people round Cheered an' throwed their hats up, an' th' boys rolled on th' ground ; Then th' rain began to patter an' th' folks began to run, An' ma, she said, " There 's always some- thing comes to spoil the fun ! " An' then she put her bonnet underneath the wagon seat ; An' pa, he said, he thought this Fourth o' July beat Any Fourth he ever see, an' I said I thought so too ; THE BESTEST FOURTH 5 Er a barrel full o' monkeys all a-eatin* oyster stew ; An' ma, she said she want to know where I heard such trash ; An' I telled her 't was th' peddler man 'at pocketed th' cash Th' folks paid for handkerchiefs an' grease-eraser stuff, An' plays the banjo once 'n while when folks don't buy enough ; An' pa, he said, " Get up ! " to old Dob- bin, an' he run ; An' th' Fourth o' July 's over, an' I 'd had th' bestest fun. JES' BEFORE CHRISTMAS JES' BEFORE CHRISTMAS Pa says 'at when he 's a httle boy like me He 'd always mind his papa, an' was good as he could be, An' jes' before Christmas was better 'n anything, Jes' 'spectin' every minute what Santa Clans would bring ; Toot-horn-day wan't half so good, he says it wan't, as this. An' he was jes' as good, he says, so Santa would n't miss. So night before Christmas I set by grandma's knee. An' she tells a lot o' stories 'bout a little boy like me, 'At was borned in a manger, an' how some men were led By a star 'at shined in heaven to his rough an' humble bed ; JES' BEFORE CHRISTMAS 7 An' then she tells o' Santa Claus, an' of his beard of snow, An' how goodest boys in all th' world is all he wants to know. An' then I hang my stockin' by the chim- ney, an' pa, he Helps me hang it, an' laughs, an' has as good a time as me ; An' then I go to bed up in th' attic, an' I creep Down in th' clothes an' try to stay until I go to sleep ; For I think of all th' funny things 'at come at night up there, An' when I listen careful, I can hear them on th' stair. Sleepin' in th' attic jes' before Christmas comes, Dreamin' o' sleds an' things, an' imps, an' skates an' drums, An' fairies, an' Santa Claus, an' books, an' candy cats, An' listening to noises o' creepy things an* rats, 8 JES' BEFORE CHRISTMAS An wonderin' if pa, when he's a little kid, Knew 'at Santa's always watchin', an saw everything he did, — Makes you glad when morning comes, an' when th' firstest light Comes peekin' in th' window, an' keeps a-growin' bright. You grab your clothes up in your hands, an scoot down stairs. An' creep in beside your mother all trembly with the scares — I tell you what, it 's jolly, when you bring your stockin' in. With nuts an' sweets an' oranges, an' books an' everythin' — An' pa, he laughs a-watchin' you, an' says he 's glad at he Has got a little feller to give presents to, like me. SQUIRE STEBBINSS REMARKS SQUIRE STEBBINS'S REMARKS It was on my last vacation, Up among the Vermont farms, Where nature is most prodigal With all her wondrous charms, While I 's at Farmer Stebbins's With the baby and my wife, Enjoying every minute And forgetting city life, I noticed, with amazement And a feeling of alarm. No boys or girls were left to help The old folks on the farm. So I questioned Farmer Stebbins, And what the old man said Has for months been wrestling On the inside of my head. " No, there ain't no boys to speak of, As you have jest remarked ; They 've all gone to th' city An' in business have embarked. 10 SQUIRE STEBBINS'S REMARKS Some are runnin' hoss-cars, An' some are in th' stores ; Some are on th' steam-cars, An' some are doin' chores ; Some are clerks in restaurants, Some work in th' shops ; Some are loafin' round, I guess, But none are raisin' crops. They 're in every kind o' business. As near as I can larn, Exceptin' raisin' eatin' crops An' workin' on th' farm ; Why, there 's William Henry Harrison — An' that 's my youngest son — Comes up here every summer With his fishin' pole an' gun. Rigged up in striped trousers An' patent leather shoes, A white cravat an' collar on. An' head chock full o' news. Well, he gets, he says, twelve dollars A-workin' in a store. An' says how he 's expectin' A couple dollars more. SQUIRE STEBBINS'S REMARKS I '11 allow that 's rousin' wages, With two weeks a year to play, An' all the time a-gettin' That two dollars every day. Then there 's Peleg an' Josephus, Samuel, Theodore an' John, A-gettin' jest sich wages. An' all workin' — off an* on ! But mother 'n I keep at it In our slow an' easy way, A-workin' when th' sun shines, An' when it rains we play. Sometimes we send a present Down to the boys, you know ; Like a barrel o' potatoes, A peck o' beans o' so. Sometimes we get a letter A-statin' times is bad, Which means about ten dollars From th' pocket o' their dad. Why, dum it, mother 's sent 'em In good, clean solid cash — Not a-countin' pork an' taters, Butter 'n' eggs, an' all sich trash, [2 SQUIRE STEBBINS'S REMARKS But in good, clean hard-earned dollars Got from the stuff we 've sold From this 'ere old deserted farm — More 'n a tater sack would hold. What puzzles me the most is, How th' boys will get along When th' farm is sold et auction After we are dead an' gone." THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY When the buttercups come in the med- der an' make it all yeller like gold, An' the daisies out'n the paster grow white as they slowly unfold, An' the robin says it is mornin', an' the yeller bird gladdens the sight. Or the sun overhead says noonday, or the whippoorwill says it is night. When the breezes softly meander out over the medders which give Back the perfume of spring joinin' sum- mer, oh, then it 's a blessin' ter live An' dream as the hours slip by, An' deep in the clovers lie To wait for the dreary rustle o' the brown leaves by-an'-by. Oh, folks may call me lazy, an' good for just nothin' at all 14 THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY But ter lie out in the mowin'-lot where the daisies rise an' fall, An* nod an' blush, a-murmurin', " Good for nothin' " ! — but just Loafin', takin' life easy while others gather the dust ; But when roses borrow a fragrance from the air, distil it an' give It back with a double sweetness, oh, then 't is a blessin' ter live Down midst the flowers so dear, In the summer time o' the year. For while others are ploughin' 'em under, I 'm lovin' the daisies here. Yes, I 'm penniless, maybe, an' holes may laugh in my coats. But if I 've had little for breakfast I 'm full of the magical notes O' the bobolink an' the sparrow, an' I 've drank o' the mystical sweet O' the summer air grown drowsy, an' hid me out o' the heat In the shade o' the beeches an' maples, where elves do the biddin' o' men. f#*^''^-^:?f'f-J'-^'^ THE TRAMP-S SOLILOQUY THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY 15 Closin' my eyes an' whisperin', '' Let 'em think what they will, an' then Let 'em wander out over the lea, With you an' the birds, an' see If ever again they '11 wonder how a lazy tramp can be." l6 SLEEPIN' IN THE ATTIC SLEEPIN' IN THE ATTIC I REMEMBER when my pa said, " Jimmie, go to bed," A lot o' funny kind o' things went scootin' through my head ; For I slept in th' attic, where scare-things come at night, Where goblins grow from rafters, an' impses hide from sight, An' wait to jump out on yer when ye 're most asleep, An' where there 's funny crawlin' things 'at creep, creep, creep Up on th' bed, an' grab yer throat, an' make yer cry an' groan. All jes' because yer have to sleep up attic all alone. An' I remember pa said he thought most any kid 'Ould like to sleep up attic, — leastwise he always did. SLEEPIN' IN THE ATTIC 17 An' when yer hear th' rats a-runnin' round at night, An' yer think perhaps they 's bogie men with long white teeth 'at bite, An' then th' moon comes in an' lays a white streak on th' floor. An' yer go to sleep an' dream about th' bogie men some more. An' th' cobwebs on th' rafters look like fairy castles — most — An' yer think perhaps th' moonlight is Jimmie Nolan's ghost — For Jimmie when he worked here said 'at ghosts lived in th' house. An' they was big er little like th' moon- shine er a mouse. An' so I tuck my head down where the bogie men can't see. Right in th' bed, an' that 's th' way fer little folks like me. An' once at night, I know, I see a funny thing an' screamed, An' pa came up an' laughed, an' said he guessed I only dreamed ; But it wa'n't a dream at all, I know, fer over by th' wall i8 SLEEPIN' IN THE ATTIC A yeller man hung by his neck, an' he was awful tall, An' he kept movin' back and forth an' kicked his legs at me ; An' pa said if I 'd look there in the morn- in' I would see 'Twas jes' th' yeller corn 'at hung a dry- in', nothin' more ; Then he went out with th' candle an' shut the attic door. An* then I see him shake again, th' yeller man, an' crawl, A-hangin' by his neck there in th' dark upon th' wall ; An' then I tucked my head down in th' clothes an' could n't see, An' th' first I knew 't was mornin' an' pa was callin' me. ATRAMP'SSONG 19 A TRAMP'S SONG Wanderin* in the June - time, down around the river, Outen hearin' o' the world, a-dozin' under kiver O' the alders an' the willers, all a-drippin* in the water, Kinder seems to me like livin' ; but they tell me how I 'd oughter Be in the sun a-workin', 'stead o' watchin' daisies growin', Be a-whettin' up a reaper, an' a-sweatin', an' a-mowin' Of 'em down to dry ; But I 'd somehow rather watch the beauties bobbin' an' a-growin'. But I can't tell why. Wanderin' in the flower time, up 'long the valley, Watchin' all the grasses grow, an' Nater's gorgeous rally 20 A TRAMP'S SONG From the wind-storms o' winter ; med- ders growin' yeller, The brooks a-singin' happily, the sky a-growin' meller, Catchin' up reflections o' hues the earth 's a-brewin', Kinder gawkin' at 'em meetin* in the dis- tance an' a-wooin', Or a lovin' here to He, Listenin' to the pigeons a-nestin' an' a-cooin', But I can't tell why. Sneakin' up an' down the creek, a-peekin' at the fishes, Runnin' over in my head a lazy lot o' wishes — Nothin' much to talk about — wish 'twas always summer, Er every skeeter et I 'd catch 'd turn a partridge drummer — Then jes' a-layin' dowh again, hands flap- pin' in the river, Outen hearin' o' the world, breathin' bless- in' s to the Giver A TRAMP'S SONG O' the earth an' meller sky, Contented Hke an' happy, jes' to watch the water quiver. But I can't tell why. 22 THE IMP-HAUNTED POOL THE IMP-HAUNTED POOL There *s a river flows down by Jim No- lens's house, Jimmie said last spring when he 's here, With a big deep place 'at 's as still as a mouse. An' a rock what they jump from into the hole, An' a sandbar where they splash water an' roll. An* I want to go down to see Jim next year, An' pa said if I 's good 'At I could. An' there 's lilies an' rushes an' cat-tails an' more Than a million tadpoles an' fish Grow there, so Jim says, an' sweet flag on the shore ; An' there 's fairies 'at sing on the mist-covered rocks, THE IMP-HAUNTED POOL 23 Where the foam dashes up, an' a gob- lin that talks In the night when it's dark, an' I wish I could go an' see Jim An' could swim. An' Jim says there *s alders grow by the deep place, An' there's impsies 'at live in the stream. An' when yer lay down on the bank, in yer face Yer will see them look up all wiry an' dance. An' squirm in the water, an' tumble an' prance, Jim says, an' I see it last night in a dream. An' 't was all jest as true, I tell you. It 's bully, Jim says, where a broad river flows. An' there 's mussrats an' turtles to see, 24 THE IMP-HAUNTED POOL An' you lay in the shade of the willow 'at grows Close down by the bank, with your feet in the cool Sleeping lily-strewn brim of the Imp- Haunted Pool, An' Jim 's there, an' pa says 'at maybe I can go there some day, An' can stay. THE BOOGIE-MEN WHEN THE BOOGIE-MEN CAME ROUND When I 's a little feller, about knee- high to a toad, An' went to see my grandpa on the farm, I remember how it lay there, like a snake, the country road, Among the mountains winding like a giant's mighty arm ; I remember how my grandpa, with his glasses in his hair. Used to take me up an' ride me on his knee, An' tell me of the boogie-men that used to live out there. An' of fairies that might come to visit me ; Then in the dreamy twilight, when the purple shadows fell Across the road, an' covered all the ground. sd WHEN THE BOOGIE-MEN An' I was tucked all snugly in the great goose-feather bed, It was then the boogie-men came roam- in' round ; It was then the boogie-men danced on the bed, An' the sprites an' fairies danced about my head. For in the night they 'd be Grinnin' down at me. Till I covered up my head an' could n't see. The house was long an' lowly, an' the clapboards rough an' gray. Where the northern winds had pelted them with snow ; But the attic was my fairyland, where I loved to play Till the twilight came, but then I had to For it grew so still, I wondered if there 's boogie-men up there. An' I looked behind me when I started out, ^^v CAME ROUND 27 An' I crept along on tiptoe, all breathless, to the stair, Then I scampered down them quickly, with a shout ; But when the night came prowling, with the shadows in his hands, An' the moonlight scattered gold upon the ground. An' they tucked me up all snugly in the soft goose-feather bed. It was then the boogie-men came roamin' round ; It was then the boogie-men danced on the bed. An' the sprites an' fairies danced about my head. For in the night they 'd be Grinnin' down at me. Till I covered up my head an' could n't see. 28 WHEN THE COWSLIPS WHEN THE COWSLIPS START TO GROW When the mayflowers in the spring Come bloomin' an' a-shakin' Perfume over everything, An' the year is wakin' From its sleepy, dreamy way, An' the gray On the hills begins to grow Greener as the moments flow. An' the pussy willows dance In the mellow breeze, an' prance, — I go down the meadow brook. With a line an' pole an' hook. An' a worm That will squirm Jes' enough to call 'em out, Shinin', whoopin', speckled trout. That 's the fun, I 'd let you know. When the cowslips start to grow. I START TO GROW 29 When the show-time o' the year Goes up the hill a-sneakin*, If you 're round you '11 hear me cheer Like a wild March meetin'. When I take my fishpole out, Every trout In a dozen miles — they tell Rushes to an' fro pell-mell, For they know they soon will see Lots o' bait, but none o' me ; As slyly floats my hidden hook Through the rapids o' the brook ; With a curl Through the swirl ; Underneath the hanging rock, Then an eddy an' a shock. An' the reel begins to whirl. An' the line begins to curl. As I bring him slow an' strong Up the bank — ten inches long. That *s the fun, I 'd have you know. When the cowslips start to grow. 30 THANK-TIME AN' LOAFIN'-TIME THANK-TIME AN' LOAFIN'-TIME Fun here in New England now, layin' by th' river, Watchin' where a trout lays hidin' under kiver ; Mud-turtles on a log close where that catbird screeches ; Sandpiper struttin' yon, where that bit o' beach is ; Sun so hot you 're thankful like jes' for a bit o' shadder, An' watchin' o' th' lilies bob makes you glad an' gladder. Kingfisher on a stub, still, like he was sleepin', Watchin' for a fish to come round his way a-creepin' ; Don't keer much for fish to bite, nor really think they oughter, 'T would hurt 'em so, an' catchin' 'em would rumple up th' water. THANK-TIME AN' LOAFIN'-TIME 31 Lazy like an' lovin' it, 'ithout a bit o' frettin', 'Cos sometime next October, like, I '11 get a pesky wettin'. Fun here in New England now, layin' by th' river, Or in th' corner uv a fence, hidin' under kiver Uv a alder bush, or apple-tree, or maybe uv a wilier. For a couch th' grass that's green, a boulder for a piller ; Snakes a-wigglin' in th' grass, hoppers hoppin' 'round you ; Kingbird screechin' overhead to show th' world he 's found you ; Buttercups an' daisies, an' th* tipsy-nod- din' clover. An' sky of blue with jest a few white clouds a-drif tin' over ; Day dreams an' loafin', an' a thank- prayer to th' Giver O' th' shadder o' th' willow hedge, an' alders by th' river ; 32 THANK- TIME AN' LOAFIN'-TIME Greetin's to th' meller breeze singin' as it passes Through th' branches overhead, an' th' medder grasses. Thank - time an' loafin' - time, an' day dreams an' sleepin'. Fish -time an' wish -time, an' twihght- time a-creepin' Up along the mountain side, over hills an' ridges, Shuttin' out th' flowin' stream, valley, road, an' bridges. BIRD-SONGS AND RIVER-SONGS 33 BIRD-SONGS AND RIVER-SONGS I Dreamin' in the mowin' lot, rompin' in the medder Where the daisies nod an' bhnk, growin' red an' redder ; Flashin' with the mornin* dew, tiltin' with the clover ; Tipsy in a mazy reel, up an' down an' over. In the corner of a fence, zigzag, bushy growin', Reelin' like a lazy snake, or a creek a-flowin' ; Out an' in among the brakes, out an' in an' under, Fillin' up a sleepy head, dreamy - head with wonder. 34 BIRD-SONGS AND RIVER-SONGS II Jes' to dream, an' jes' to loaf, an' see the world go round you : Sprawlin' where the willow is, glad the shadder found you ; Layin' where the water flows, peekin' at the fishes. Curious to know jes' what a turtle thinks or wishes ; Wonderin' if the peep-birds love the sandy beaches, An' if yonder cat-bird thinks it 's music when he screeches ; Listenin' to the sleepy drone of the bee that passes In an' out among the flowers, honey bloom an' grasses. Ill Oh, yes ; I know I 'm lazy, an' it ain't the way to do If you want to raise a rumpus, an' split the world in two ; But I somehow rather roam about like the truant breezes. BIRD-SONGS AND RIVER- SONGS 35 Goin' northward when it 's hot, southward when it freezes, An' let the world roll on its way, an' never trouble trouble : Or get myself into a fret about a burst- in' bubble : But layin' here contented like, dreamin' by the river, Not complainin' over-much, an' takin' what the Giver Has to give, an' thankin' Him for the perfumed roses : Bird - songs an' river - songs an' silent songs of posies. 36 UP AN' DOWN THE RIVER UP AN' DOWN THE RIVER Jes' about this time o' year, lawsy, how I love it, Sneakin' in the mowin' lot, knee-deep or above it, With pink-white clover noddin' up, dew blinkin', you a-grinnin' An' kinder turnin' red an' wonderin' if folks would call it sinnin' To be where you 's a week afore, the time you went a-fishin' And did n't get no fish — because, well, jes' because you 's wishin' 'At you could catch 'at muskrat on t' other side the river, 'At jumped jes' when you threw your hook an' scooted under kiver, An' jes' because 'at maybe 'at you 's too lazy, sorter. An' did n't fish particular, an' did n't think you orter, UP AN' DOWN THE RIVER Z7 An' I calculate as how, maybe, th' alders looked invitin' An' how th' skeeters likewise did th' biggest share o' bitin', Jes' layin' there full length, your feet a-floppin' in th' water, Kingfisher — wished, b' gosh, wished as how you 'd brought a Gun ~ up an' scoots, an' you, — well, you 's glad you had n't brought it. For you 'd had to lug it home again, an' 't would n't fit your pocket. The river looks so cool like in the shadder, jes' to think it Any sweeter coolness an' you'd surely have to drink it. Sun so hot you kinder wish 'at all th' world was water. Or you 's a fish or turtle or a muskrat or an otter. All th* world tired like, sleepy like an* lazy. Air a-growin* hotter, too, dreamy like an' hazy, 38 UP AN' DOWN THE RIVER An' you, jes' you, there by th' river dozin'. Wish you had a pocket full of river 'at was frozen. Catbird gone to sleep, tired an' sick o' squallin', Mud turtle on a log a-kinder sort o' fallin' Into th' river like, as if 'at he 's a-boatin'. Wish 'at you 's a turtle, too, in your shell a-floatin'. THEENDOFTHEROAD 39 THE END OF THE ROAD I WAS born way back at th' end o' th' road, 'Twas there my remembrance of things first was, An' there I Hved, played, worked, an' growed, Jes' natural like an' jes because I lived At th' end o' th' road. At th' end o' th' road 'twas much th' same This day or that — except 't was play When up from th' turnpike some one came, An' jest as long as they happened to stay An' talk. At th' end o' th' road. 40 THE END OF THE ROAD If I Strayed away I was glad to get home To th' little red house, where mo- ther an' dad An' I had a little world all our own, An' jes' as good as any one had. Out there At th' end o' th' road. From my attic window I 've looked amazed Hour after hour at th' turnpike's way, A yellowish streak, till I grew dazed, Wondering where an' in what long day I'd be At th' end o' th' road. Where did they come from, th' folks that would go Jogging along th' old turnpike ? An' most all strangers that I did n't know ; An' over th' hills — what was it like, Somewhere, At th' end o' th' road ? wy^ :Sfc' w. :■-.:■ ■ T -■t 4 ->. 'm ^ii<*^f^ AT THE END OF THE ROAD THEENDOFTHEROAD 41 One day me an' ma an' dad Started off with th' old gray mare, On th' longest ride I 'd ever had, An' 't was almost night when we got there, I thought. At th' end o' th' road. When I got up next day an' see The road still winding, winding down, *T was th' biggest world, it seemed to me, From where th' end was, through our town. Up home. At th' end o' th' road. I 've travelled that road now many a year, An' I 've found some good an' known some bad. Been up hill an' down, an' I 'm not clear If I '11 be sorry or I '11 be glad. To get At th' end o' th' road. 42 MY DEAR OLD ATTIC ROOM MY DEAR OLD ATTIC ROOM Dreamin', a-lettin' my thoughts wander back o'er the path of time ! Jes* layin' here an' contentedly lettin' old memories rhyme ! Jumbled all up together like — lettin' 'em come at will — Up through the years o' that quiet past, grown misty like, until They reach far back to the village street, an' a house as used to be Nestlin' there so quietly, an' I somehow seem to see My dear old attic room. A queer old place, that attic, with its rafters webbed an' gray. An' it kinder seems as if I was a-lyin' there to-day. On the sweet husk-bed by the winder, watchin' the sunshine fall MY DEAR OLD ATTIC ROOM 43 In tangled, silver stretches over the floor an' wall ; A-hearin' the robins singin', an' a-hearin' the soothin' play O' the brook close by in the medder — jes' dreamin' the hours away In my old attic room. Jes' lettin' the drowsy murmur o' the bumble-bees an' flies Awake the fond remembrance o' that dear loved one who lies A-restin' there in the Acre, that the Lord claims for his own. Where He lays his weary ones to sleep an' rest alone ; An' out there across the valley, on the hillside, day by day. The white stones gleam in solemn rows, as the sunshine dies away From my dear attic room. What, there once more as I used to be, this drowsy afternoon ? I dreamily rest upon the bed, an' listen to the tune 44 MY DEAR OLD ATTIC ROOM The bobolink is pipin' out there in the mowin' lot. It 's real, but — but I 'm onsartin whether I 'm there or not ! Off there 's the city's steeples an' chim- ney-smokes that creep Into the heavens ! No, I'm — j es' dream- in' myself to sleep. My dear old attic room. HOW -DE-DO 45 HOW-DE-DO Say "how-de-do," an' say "good-by," Meet an' shake, an' then pass by ; Ain't much difference twixt the two, Say "good-by " or "how-de-do." " How-de-do " with chilly heart, Ain't much difference meet or part ; Jest a look, an' jest a bow, Sometimes only jest a " how ; " Ain't much difference which they say, " How-de-do " or t' other way. Meet a friend — yer grasp his hand. An' jes' stand, an' stand, an' stand — Glad yer met an' hate ter part. Kinder trembly in the heart. Neighbors, lived on " Moody Hill," He was " Tom " an' you was " Bill," Kinder stop an' look an' say " How-de-do > " an' then " Good-day ! " 46 HOW -DE-DO Been away from home a spell, Swing the gate back, stand, an' well. Kinder don't know what ter do, Heart thumps like 't was bustin' through. Said " good-by " a year afore — Betsey 's standin' in the door — Said '* good-by," but "how-de-do" Seems the strangest o' the two. Brace right up an' waltz right in, Shake the tremble from yer chin, Betsey 's waitin' there for you : Waltz right in with — " How-de-do ? " IMI'TV ODD WIN'J ICKS AND M O I< K 47 MFIV ODD WIN'I'KKS AND MORE 'Iv.Li. yc oi wli.'il, I w;is lliinkiij'? Now really there ain't much to tell ; I 's settin' here l(jokii»' at Mandy, an' thinkin' of, — Ihinkin' oj, well, I 's thinkin' we 'd lived here together for fifly good winters, an' more, An' neitlier, like some I could mention, has grown to think t' other a bore ; An' I thought o' that tangle, divorces, where people that chank at th' bit, Go to law with all rnanjicr of stories, for gettin' their hitchin' line split ; An' I thought how we 'd worked in th' harness a-lovin' each other th* more, r'or kiiowin' that neither was perfect, an' knowin' what t' other one bore. Yes, Mandy an' f in th' forties started out to travel this road 48 FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE An' we did n't start out without knowin' that each one had shouldered a load; Nor we did n't start out on th' journey a-smirkin' and thinkin' we 'd done The cunnin'est thing in creation, with a future all honey an' fun ; An' we did n't start out in a mansion with a mortgage some twenty feet long ; But we shouldered our load an' looked happy, an' mingled some work with our song. Thinkin' of ? Well, I was thinkin' that Mandy, who used to be fair, Is fairer now with her wrinkles than she is in that picture up there ; Fairer now in th' autumn, with her tresses all drifted with snow. Than she was as a pink an' white maiden, some fifty-odd winters ago. An' that was n't all by a jugful ; somehow there 's a picture I see Of me when first I saw Mandy, an' Mandy when first she saw me : — An' then as time journeys onward, I can see her one night at th' bars. FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE (Youth) FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE 49 As I passed by with a greetin', and her eyes wandered off to th' stars ; — An' then th' picture gets jumbled, an' all I can see is her face Crowned with a heavenly halo, a God- given message of grace. An' after that life was in earnest, an' its burdens were not over light. But we both gave a hand toth' tow-rope, an' measured our hearts with the fight. So th' years passed on, — they were merry, with sometimes a good bit of sad, But we never thought much of com- plainin', an' we could n't found time if we had. — Thinkin' of? Well, I was thinkin' that Mandy, who always was fair. Was never so sweet as this minute, with th' snowdrifts laid in her hair ; An' I 's thinkin', — I 's thinkin' that maybe if I was to go th' long road Ere th' Lord saw fit to call Mandy, 't were a pity to double her load ; 50 FIFTY ODD WINTERS AND MORE An' then I was thinkin' how maybe that Mandy might journey ahead, An' leave me alone in my sorrow, alone with my beautiful dead ; An' then I could n't help praying that maybe th' good Lord would see It was best that He call us together, my Mandy, my sweetheart an' me. HO! BONNY BOYI 51 HO! BONNY BOY! Ho ! bonny boy, with cheek of brown, In the river wading. What the dreams within your head, Slowly, slowly fading ? Vacation 's nearly gone, you say. With school-time growing nearer, And every moment of the day. Is growing sweetly dearer. Slowly summer steals away, Vacation joys are fading. While every moment is so dear, In the river wading. Turtle sleeping on a log, Sand-peep where the beach is ; Berries growing in the bog, Where the cat-bird screeches. But the river, bonny boy. Is not always sleeping ; 52 II ! B O N N Y B O Y I There is work for it and you, There is joy and weeping. Time in summer for your fun, Time to work in winter, For the race is always won By the fleetest sprinter. Ho ! curly head, this lesson learn, The world is only seeming To the boy who idly stands And wastes the day in dreaming. There 's a work for you somewhere, And a way to follow ; There 's a joy for every care, . A hill for every hollow. WHEREAWAY 53 WHEREAWAY Whereway, my bonny boy ? Bonny boy with eyes of blue, Tattered hat and curly hair, Curly hair just peeking through ; School is over, so you say ; Vacation 's at its height to-day ; But wherefore do you roam, I pray ? Whereaway ? Whereaway ? Whereaway, my barefoot boy ? Barefoot boy with freckled face ; Happy with your idle dreams, Idle dreams of distant place ; Dreaming of the rainbow's gold. Of the lamps which fairies hold ; Dreaming all the summer day. Whereaway ? Whereaway ? Listen to me, dreamy boy. Dreamy boy with jaunty mien. 54 WHEREAWAY While I tell you of a land, Of a land you 've never seen ; Where there 's work for you to do, Work for dreamy boys like you ; It 's the Future land, — but say ; Ho ! dreamer — whereaway ? Ho ! with your toad-skin-booted feet ; Bonny boy, what battles new In the dim Fairyland of dreams. Land of dreams are there for you? But he only casts his eyes Downward, looking dreamy wise. And I cannot make him say Whereaway ? Whereaway ? VACATION 55 VACATION Vacation is coming, you 're singing, my lad, Your heart 's brimming over with joy, And visions pass dreamily over the glass, Mingle and slip in a fay-fading mass, — With your toe in the sand and the dews on the grass. Bare-footed, tow-headed boy. School will be over; you're happy, my lad. Your head brimming over with fun ; There 's a river runs down by grand- father's mill. And fishing and boating and swimming until, — But there 's a little red schoolhouse here on the hill. And a week before school will be done. 56 VACATION Vacation is coming ; you know it, my lad, And your heart beats a tattoo of joy ; But visions are visions, and you '11 never see When the pleasures come how there ever could be So large a dream-boat on so small a sea, — I 'm thinking, my tow-headed boy. But the world rolls over too swift, my lad. To suit your notion of fun. While your sunburnt face and the rimless crown Of the hat you wear, and your feet of brown Will hint some night, when you lie down, That the race was nobly run. THE LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE 57 THE LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE There 's a little red schoolhouse I knew when a boy That stands where the winds blow chill — The clapboards dance in the winter's air And the broken windows grimly stare For a ghost of a school is keeping there To-night on the windy hill. Yes, the little red schoolhouse I knew when a boy, When the soft wind whispered low When the blue sky laughed from over- head At the birds, and laughed at what they said, And the great broad world stretched out ahead Out into the sunset's glow. 58 THE LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE For the little red schoolhouse Holds many a dream Woven into 'the might-have-been, With the happy hours and days so free, That, looking back through the years, I see Them gazing up with reproof for me And the road I Ve journeyed in. But the little red schoolhouse Has opened its door At last to the wind and rain. And a ghost of a school is keeping there, While the master stands by his ghostly chair. And the scholars bow their heads of air To the ghost of his old-time reign. SINGASONGOFHAPPY 59 SING A SONG OF HAPPY Sing a song of happy, Glad as I can be, Don't have much, but what I have Is quite a lot for me. When the clover blossoms I can smell the smell, An' when they shoot pop-crackers, I can whoop an' yell. When folks go to circuses I can see 'em go. An' when they drink pink lemonade I can see it flow. Holes are in my t rouses, — Many 's they will hold, An' every hole is worth to me Twice its weight in gold. 6o SINGASONGOFHAPPY No, I ain't no dudelet, Nor peacock in a tree, But what I be, I tell yer what, Is quite a lot for me. JUST TO BE A BOY JUST TO BE A BOY Sing ho, for happy times, Those days of old, Where every rainbow ended In a pot of gold. Where the river sparkled Silver in the sun, And the hours went laughing Past us on the run. When all the days were cheer days, And our troubles flew Out of hearing quickly. So the pleasures grew. Those were never-mind days, Days of thoughtless youth, When the hours went singing Dream songs of truth. 6i 62 JUSTTOBEABOY Those were the true days, When faith was deep, And the bees went humming Sweet songs of sleep. Those were the song days, Glad days of joy, When earth's greatest blessing Was just to be a boy. IF YOU WILL. 63 IF YOU WILL There's no use of sighing the whole year through, Not a bit ; No use fretting because it blows, There 's always sunshine after it snows ; And there 's no use treading on people's toes, Not a bit. There 's always a lot to be thankful for. If you will ; And people you can be thankful to. And plenty of things that you can do To make other people thankful to you, If you will. Just as easy to laugh as sigh Any day ; Just as easy to make folks glad. As to be always whining and sad, And wailing because your luck is bad — Every day. 64 IFYOUWILL So brush the cobwebs out of your eyes, And smile; Look straight in the face of the world, and grin ; If it knocks you down, just try it again, And don't dream over ** what might have been," But smile. GOLLY, DON'T YOU CARE 65 GOLLY, DON'T YOU CARE 6.00 A. M. Sing a song of happy, Hip, hip, hoop, hooray ; Bet you I 'm the gladdest Boy you will see to-day. Got some poppin' crackers, A flag and shooter gun, An' snake fire you throw at girls To make them yell an' run. A pocket of torpedoes. An* a couple toot-horns too. Tell you what I 'm happy, Don't you wish 't was you ? 6.00 p. M. Sing a dirge of sorry. Sore as I can be. Gunpowder in my eye So 's 'at I can't see. 66 GOLLY, DON'T YOU CARE Head it aches like bustin', Fingers achin' too, 'Cept the two 'at 's missin' Where they always grew. Trousers torn to flinders, Head patched here an' there, One arm broken twice in two, But, golly, don't you care. Sing a song of glory, Fourth of July 's through, An' I can't help a-wishin' 'At I was whole like you. SUCCESS 67 SUCCESS There 's many a road, My lad, you '11 find. To reach the town of Never ; There are byways steep, And highways long, Which you may travel With jest and song, To the ruined town of Never. There 's only a road Of up-hill work By the toll-gate of Endeavor ; And there 's study hard With little play, But you '11 find success At the end of the way. If you will but endeavor. So study, my lad. As the world goes round, 68 SUCCESS And shun the road to Never, By the steep decline of Pretty-soon, And the broad highway of By-and-by, — And take the up-hill winding track By the shining pool of I-will-try, And the toll-gate of Endeavor. WHEN I WAS A BOY 69 WHEN I WAS A BOY 'T WAS a wonderful thing, the river I knew When I was a barefooted boy ; And the swimming-hole near where the water-flags grew, With its sand-bar, was ever a bountiful When I was a boy, — But a boy. 'Twas a wonderful thing, and day after day I 've sat by its waters and dreamed, And watched it flow past in an endless way, Dancing from nowhere, to nowhere it gleamed. When I was a boy, — But a boy. 70 WHEN I WAS A BOY To nowhere it gleamed, yet the castles I built In that nowhere for beauty were famed ; And knights in bright armor had many a tilt With Robin Hood robbers and rob- bers unnamed, When I was a boy, — But a boy. And down where the alders grew by the deep place And the water spread out like a lake, There were imps, and I 've seen them look up in my face, Then wiggle, and dance, and squirm like a snake, When I was a boy, — But a boy. And when sister came, a wee little tot. All bald like a sawdust child ; And I asked where they got her, pa said that he thought 4 WHENIWASABOY 71 I 'd find her tracks down by the river, and smiled, When I was a boy, — But a boy. So the little one grew, till one summer day A cloud came over the stream, And the mother went out in the misty way The little one came, like a beautiful dream. When I was a boy, — But a boy. But days have sped since then, and the years Have passed like a cycle of dreams ; Beautiful dreams that have vanished in tears, So like those of old times that often it seems I 'm still but a boy, — But a boy. 72 WHENIWASABOY For somehow there 's left when the dreams disappear A ghost of a dream in their place, That beckons me on with a voice of good cheer, And a smile on its ghost of a face, Which says, you 're a boy, — But a boy. So I look down the years to the river and see It dancing the same as of old ; And I follow it up from the boundless sea Through the misty years to the years of gold. When I was a boy, — But a boy. SING, HO 73 SING, HO Sing, ho ! don't you care, What 's the use of fretting Because your neighbor over there All the plums is getting ? It 's his turn to have the pie, Sitting in his corner ; Time will pass, and by and by You '11 be Johnny Horner. Don't you care if weather 's cold, Summer 's coming later ; Silver 's passing, there '11 be gold For the patient waiter. Sing, ho ! for better days, Let the world roll over, It will never change its ways For snowflake or clover. 74 SING, HO Take things as they come your way, Let the world go humming, A donkey teaching it to bray But with a hop-toad chumming. Sing your song, and go your gait, And never trouble trouble ; — Life is passing, it won't wait. To-morrow is a bubble. SING A SONG OF DON'T YOU CARE 75 SING A SONG OF DON'T YOU CARE Sing a song of pretty soon, Let the world roll over, While we take it easy like, Loafing in the clover. Sing a song of by and by, In a year or two or so-so, — Let the minutes pass their way, And the great world go-so. What have we to do with woe } What to do with sorrow } Laugh and let the foolish ones All the trouble borrow. Never mind if showers come. Sunshine follows after ; Listen to the bobolinks And imitate their laughter. 76 SING A SONG OF DON'T YOU CARE Sing a song of don't you care ; For worry is a bubble, Full of wind and make believe, And if you '11 have it, trouble. But if you '11 charge it, with a grin, You '11 find it thin and hollow. And all you Ve got to do is laugh And half the world will follow. So sing a song of pretty soon. Let the world roll over. And take it easy while you can, Loafing in the clover. AIRSHIPS n AIRSHIPS In the twilight's dreamy glow, Gliding softly, airships go, Airships painted wondrous hue Of earth's gray and heavenly blue. Wove of filmy stuff that swings Where the night moth gets her wings, Wove of spider lace and mist, Opal, pearl, and amethyst. As the airships drift along, Earthward falls the dream of song Like the soft breeze through the white Apple bloom at noon of night, Like the whisper of a word By the dreaming lover heard. Like the echo of a kiss When a maiden answers yes. Wove of filmy stuff so thin Mortal sight they never win, 78 AIRSHIPS Wonder-whist and dreamy slow Drift the airships to and fro Through the deep sea of the night, With their cargoes of delight, To some harbor far, I ween, Only by the fireflies seen. SING, HO! MY FRECKLED ROVER 79 SING, HO! MY FRECKLED ROVER Sing, ho ! my freckled rover, Boy with the tousled hair, With dew on the grass. Your feet in the clover, Sing, ho ! and free from care. Vacation days are drawing nearer, Newer joys are growing dearer, River sounds are whispering clearer, Clearer as they pass. Sing, ho ! my jolly rover, Boy with the freckled face, With your feet in the dew. My little brown lover, Sing, ho ! with jaunty grace. All your dreams are filled with wonder, Robin Hood and pleasure plunder, Till the days are split asunder, Packed with joys for you. 8o SING, HO! MY FRECKLED ROVER But, ho ! my freckled rover, Boy with the tattered hat, Is there nothing for you, With your feet in the clover, But sunshine and joy and all that ? There's a nobler work than merely dreaming. There's a truer world than just the seeming. There's a world with love and labor, teeming With goodly hopes and new. So, ho ! my freckled rover, Boy with the dreamy eyes, Come up from the grass And the dew-gemmed clover, Where the rainbow treasure lies. Come up and sing of a glad endeavor, Of a will that 's strong and heart that never Will allow the will and work to sever As the watches daily pass. THE HUNTER DISMAYED 8i THE HUNTER DISMAYED I RAN away last Saturday With my pea-shooter gun, Down in the meadow by the brook, And had the bestest fun ! I played I was a hunter bold, Who sailed across the seas. And killed the big Jum-giger-booms, Beneath the Bum-bum-trees. I shot the great Cha-hoo-a-hoos While flying in the air. And caught a Wee-wah-fu-o-fum, With a line of giant's hair ; I journeyed to the northern pole Upon a Boa's back, And caught the Musk-o-do-o-dum, And put him in my sack. And when my ma came after me, And I was soaking wet 82 THE HUNTER DISMAYED (For I 'd fallen in the water When I fought the Fouin-get), And when she put the dingers on, And sent me off to bed, The glory of the battle slipped From out my dreamy head. SWEET BEGUILING 83 COME UP FROM THE SWEET BE- GUILING Ho ! bonny boy, with the freckled face, Freckled face and smiling ; Tattered hat and jaunty grace, Dreamy thoughts beguiling ; Down where the willows nod and dance, Down by the sandy beaches. Noting the rippling waves that prance, And the song the catbird screeches. Ho ! I say, with your dreamy eyes, Dreamy eyes and dancing. There 's a land out yon where the rain- bow lies. And the sunset gold is glancing. *Tis the land of Dreams, where fairies dwell, The land of Laughing Water ; But down in the vale, I 've heard them tell, Is the baneful land of Loiter. 84 SWEET BEGUILING So, ho ! my lad, with the freckled face, Freckled face and smiling, Lift your eyes from the haunted place, And the fairies' sweet beguiling. Come up from the river's willowed shore ; Come up from the sandy beaches, And lend your ears to the muffled roar Of the wind on the hillside reaches. For there 's truth in life, my boy, you '11 find, And dreams are the play of fairies That come to dwell in the sleepy mind Of the boy who only tarries. So, lad, come up from the loiter place. From the river and the willows, Up towards the morning set your face, And against the rocks and billows. VACATIONISOVER 85 VACATION IS OVER Summer is going, is going, my lad, My lad with the fountain of laughter, That wells in your eyes, where the mis- chief lies. And flows and follows after. There 's a little red schoolhouse upon the hill, And, lad, with eyes that wander Slyly in through the open door, Where the western sun scatters gold on the floor, Are you thinking of days that have gone before. Over the hill out yonder ? Come, curly head, why Hnger there, With brimming eyes that wonder ? Do you see where the sun's path stretches far, 86 VACATIONISOVER Over silver cliff and golden bar, Up to dreamland's flashing star And fear that the feet may blunder ? Gird with courage your loins, my lad, Sprinkle the days with pleasure. Gathering wise thoughts one by one, Gathering rays of the morning sun, That men may say when the race is run, " His life was a brimming measure." Think only of making the day that is Better than all preceding. The future is only an " it may be," — The past drowned deep in eternity ; To-day is yours, and we shall see By the record the boy succeeding. Summer is going, is going, my lad, My lad with the fountain of laughter, That wells in your eyes, where the mis- chief lies. And flows and follows after. THE COUNTRY STAGE S7 THE COUNTRY STAGE The old country stage was a wonderful thing, And strange were the journeys it made, As it daily passed with its clattering load. And a cloud of dust out over the road, Through the dreamy mists where the river flowed. And the sunset purple wavered. And the driver, too, with his flowing beard, Was a man of knowledge ever ; And I remember I asked one day, " Where do you go as you bowl away ? " And he smiled as he said in his cheery way, "Yon, into the land of laughter." And once I asked of my grandsire gray What lay o'er the purple ridges, 88 THECOUNTRY STAGE And he drew me close in his arms, and said, As he placed a hand on my golden head, " There are people, child, in that land of dread, — People and crime and sorrow." So one day I rode by the driver's side. To seek for the world's glad laughter ; But I found, as I journeyed day by day. And the mists of the morning cleared away. That the lives of men with sad and gay Are filled, a brimming measure. CUPID'SMISS 89 CUPID'S MISS When Cupid, with his bow and arrows, Came o'er the hills a-roaming, I stood with Peggy at the bars, Crying, " Co-boss, co-boss-co ! You must come, for we must go." Peggy looked so sweet, I know I trembled as I watched the stars In the early gloaming. I saw the fellow choose an arrow. As he came a-roaming ; The cows went past us through the bars, And I stood counting them, nor knew The number counted when all through, But I 'd found where Peggy's dimples grew. Looking past her at the stars In the early gloaming. When Cupid shot his mystic arrow, As he came a-roaming, 90 CUriD'SMlSS It hit a bluebird on the bars, And though it knocked the poor bird dumb, It never grazed my heart, I vum. For there stood Peggy chewing gum, Looking past me at the stars In the early gloaming. TROUBLE' 91 TROUBLE I hain't no patience with them folks that 's f rettin' all the time, Jes' 'cause th' whole creation don't walk to their chalk-line, Who go about complainin* 'cause Jim Jones or Thomas Snow Don't agree with them in politics, or to their meetin' go ; Who grumble et th' sunshine, an' grumble if it rains. Who grumble when they 're well th' same as when they 're racked with pains ; They grumble 'bout their breakfast, an' so on through th' day From dinner time to supper time they fret and scold away. Th* whole great world they seem ter think will stop a-turnin' 'round As soon as they, poor things, are dead an' six foot under ground ; 92 TROUBLE An' so they fret an' fume about an' try to regulate All mundane an' all heavenly things, th' little an' th' great. These folks hain't had no trouble, that 's how it looks to me ; They 're loaded up with self-conceit, real life they cannot see. No, these folks hain't had no trouble, misfortunes, sickness, death ; Their trouble was jes' born in them 'cause they have to draw their breath. FUN HERE IN NEW ENGLAND 93 FUN HERE IN NEW ENGLAND There 's fun here in New England when the sleighbells jingle jing, And the runners gliding swiftly through the crystals softly sing ; A steady nag for company, and a girl with cheeks aglow, A coon-skin robe about you, and the glisten on the snow ; Stars a-shining softly, eyes a-beaming bright. Fun here in New England on a winter's night, — Fun here when the sleighbells jingle jingle jing, Fun here when the runners through the crystals sing. When the stars are bright On a winter's night, Fun here in New England, jingle jing. 94 FUN HERE IN NEW ENGLAND II Fun here in New England when the backlogs glow, Joining in the music of the softly falling snow; Popcorn and apples, with the cider in the jug; Up and down the middle, close enough to hug ; Swing your partners, easy now, when the fiddle sings, Fun here in New England when the laughter rings, — Fun here when the sleighbells jingle jingle jing, Fun here when the runners through the crystals sing. When the stars are bright, On a winter's night. Fun here in New England, jingle jing. HANDLE WITH CARE 95 "HANDLE WITH CARE, ELSE THE STITCHES WILL FALL" In the basket carefully laid away, Grandmother's unfinished knitting-work lay. *' Handle with care, else the stitches will fall," Grandmother said, as I picked out the ball. Once more I sit by her old armchair. And into her work-basket look — and there Her knitting- work 's lying, needles and ball. I repeat, " Have a care, else the stitches will fall." For the years have come and the years have fled, And grandmother, dearest of friends, is dead ; 96 HANDLE WITH CARE Her work laid by, as a task well done, A life well lived, and a race well run. And I think, as I look, what a lesson is taught, What a beautiful sermon these needles have wrought, For there it lies finished — all but the toe — A soft little stocking for dimple-cheeked Joe, While finished and smoothly laid away, Its little mate in the basket lay. But who shall finish the toeless one, That grandmother's fingers so deftly begun ? Who can knit into each stitch and each row Grandmother's love for dimple-cheeked Joe? Who so patiently — if stitches shall fall — As grandmother gather them up, one and all ? HANDLE WITH CARE 97 Who draw up the stitches so close and so warm, To keep Joe's little soft toes from the storm, As grandmother would ? — alas, not one Can finish the work her love had begun. 98 LETTHEMPASS LET THEM PASS Across the sky at even float Myriad fairies in a boat, Shadows made of amethyst, Filmy wove and wonder-whist, Whither bound I cannot know, All so dreamy still they go, Like a breath of mignonette. Scarce the bluebells move or fret, Like the balm of apple bloom Drifting through the stilly gloom. This I know, at eventide Through the silence fairies ride, Speeding softly here and there. And with most bewitching air Knocking at the inner gate Of the dreamy boy's estate. Pointing to the rainbow's gold And to Spanish castles bold, — Pointing through the silence down To the genii wonder town. LETTHEMPASS 99 I would warn you, dreamy one ! Bold the fairies' gauntlet run ! Let the dreamships sail away Through the twilight of the day, Heed you not their voices sweet, Or the tripping of their feet ; Like a breath of mignonette, Let them pass without regret, Like the balm of apple bloom Fade and disappear in gloom. BREAKING OUT THE ROAD BREAKING OUT THE ROAD When the shadows longer grow, Creeping eastward thin and slow, And the night comes deep and still, Black and scowling, up the hill, Covering with a shadow gown Forest gray and sleeping town, Wrapping in a cloak of dun Moon and stars and earth and sun ; When the snow in feathery flakes Sings again through brush and brakes, Sifts and swirls in hidden nook. Building castles by the brook, Where the flakes like dancing sprites Whirl about in giddy flights — Then we know the day will bring Work to do Breaking out the old hill-road. When throughout the silent night Swirls the blinding storm of white, BREAKING OUT THE ROAD loi And the snow against the pane Dashes, then falls back again Unmelting, adding to the hill That piles upon the window sill, Till morning comes with hoary face, Changing each familiar place ; Where the spring was, now looks up A fairies' crystal drinking-cup ; The old woodpile lies white and still, Curbed and curving like a hill ; And where the highway through the woods Drifted winds, with tasseled hoods The trees bend down, and so we know There '11 be fun Breaking out the old hill-road. SPRING, GENTLE SPRING SPRING, GENTLE SPRING In the spring our nimble fancies Lightly turn to warmer days, Skies of blue, and moonlight rambles, Dreamy noons, and shady ways ; Till the mercury, still climbing. One day reaches that dear spot Where your best friend stops and asks you, " Say, old fellow, ain't this hot ! " Nimble still, our wayward fancy Tacks and reefs and swiftly turns To the land of icy valleys And the home of frozen ferns ; Still the mercury keeps climbing Higher than Jack's beanstalk grew, And you faint when some one mur- murs, " Is this hot enough for you ? " SPRING, GENTLE SPRING 103 " Hot enough ? Ye gods and fishes, Would some wild west zephyr blow From the land of Kansas blizzards, Where the little snow seeds grow ! " Thus you murmur till next morning. When a chill east wind sweeps by. And you take a plain lung fever, And, kicking still, lie down to die. 104 IN THE SCENERY OF DREAMS IN THE SCENERY OF DREAMS In the scenery of dreams there are plays, Where the softest golds and grays Are displayed ; And arrayed, By their sides are deepest jet, Reds of brightest hues, and so Is life's panorama set For weal or woe. WHEN THE RACE IS THROUGH 105 WHEN THE RACE IS THROUGH In the blue uneven distance, Where life's white road dusty lies, Melting in the dreamy silence, Withered out beneath the skies, Withered out and disappearing Somewhere in that after land. Where the future greets the present, And they journey hand in hand, It will be our bidden fortune To lay down our load and rest, To forget the road was weary. And remember that the best Of this life comes with the ending. Knowing, when the race is through, That, with all our sad misdoings. We have done the best we knew. io6 LOVE'S EYES LOVE'S EYES The moon, a golden crescent, floats In yonder depths of blue. And Time with fitful shuttles weaves A veil of sombre hue About the day ; the night, grown deep, Bids hallowed thoughts o'er mortals creep. A million eyes from yonder dome Look through the night at me ; One heart looks out through misty space, And wonders what will be. One heart looks out and sings of love ; A million planets shine above. And if those million eyes should fade, To never twinkle more. Mankind might still his onward course Continue as before ; But if the eye of love grow dim. Earth were a waste, unpeopled, grim. THE USES OF ADVERSITY 107 THE USES OF ADVERSITY Some souls are born to bleed, they say, Nor wonder why it 's so ; Some hearts are born to suffer pain. Pierced deep with thorns, to know the gain That others cannot know who reign Where pleasures flow. io8 EARTH MUSIC EARTH MUSIC There 's a music dwells deep in the heart of the world, And some seek with pleasure and find it; And some dwell alone with the woe of a day, Nor hear of the music nor mind it. A NAME 109 A NAME 'Tis oh, to make a name, no matter when. Now for a day, forever after then ! My love, my hate, and my ambitions first ; Watch how the bubble grows — behold it burst ! IN AUTUMN TIME IN AUTUMN TIME In autumn time when leaves are red, When songsters to the south have fled, When through the valley far and near The plover's call salutes the ear And all the summer world is dead, I love to roam where fancies led Me ere the woods were turned to red. And ere the fields grew lone and sere In autumn time. So when the days of youth are sped, From what the years may hold, ahead, I turn me back and tune the ear To catch the music sweetly clear Borne from the past ere fancy fled In autumn time. CONSCIENCE CONSCIENCE A SONG came out of the sky, Sung by the night wind there, — " Do right, my boy, And the grace of joy Will help you banish care." The song grew into a heart, The heart of a tempted one. And he said " Maybe, — But who could see If the ill were deftly done ? " And a voice came from within, Like a bloom that waited long, " I 've a conscience clear. And it can hear. And winnow the right from wrong.' MEMORIES MEMORIES Down the aisles of Time, ghost-haunted, Soft echoes come up out of Eld, — Dreams that old Sorrow has flaunted, And memories Pleasure has held. THE MOUNTAIN SPRING 113 THE MOUNTAIN SPRING Like some huge genii drinking-cup Crystal brimmed, the spring looks up ; Curbed, and curving out to where Eerie snowflakes fill the air. ti4 THE WINTER ROAD THE WINTER ROAD Where the highway through the woods Drifted winds, with tasseled hoods The trees bend down, hke monks who wait. Praying at the cloister gate. IN THE YOUNG WINTER 115 IN THE YOUNG WINTER In the young winter : — Blossom time in spring ; In the young winter : — Summer 's truly king ; In the young winter, Ah, but that is joy — Skates, a frozen pond, and a boy. ii6 EXPECTATION EXPECTATION On the sweet mid-morrow We shall have such joy ! When ? On the sweet mid-morrow, O stupid boy. YOUTH'S HOLIDAY 117 YOUTH'S HOLIDAY Keeping company with the flowers, Idling with June's blossom hours In the sun ; Sleepy when the morning flushes, Dreamy when the twilight blushes. Where the meadow-lark swift brushes Dew from whispering reeds and rushes ; Days that run Softly, like the dreams that pass Dim before the magic glass Of youth's holiday. AN APRIL DAY AN APRIL DAY A BANK of cloud in the upper blue, A gossamer mist below, While all day long the rain, rain, rain Plashes and beats the window pane, Eating the rags of snow. The robin sits in the mountain ash And warbles a mournful strain, While the brooklet runs in a torrent down Across the meadow and through the town, And laughs at the April rain. BUT A PART 119 BUT A PART If out from the depths of my heart I could form but one Une That would live to tell, but in part, What hopes have been mine, I could most gladly close my eyes When the sunlight dies, And sleep — could I tell but a part. ALL IS GOOD ALL IS GOOD I It is pleasant to lie by an orchard wall, Watching the branches rise and fall ; It is pleasant to hear through the perfume float The sad sweet sound of the phoebe's note ; Watch slantwise slip through the spring's sweet breath Petals, showing the life in death. It is good to be here ; it is good to know The way men come and the way men go ; The rose's bloom o'er a grave may teach That a soul, like its scent, is beyond our reach. But the soul is there and the perfumed breath Of the rose may teach there is good in death. A WINTER TWILIGHT A WINTER TWILIGHT The sun bows low beyond the western wood, Where lonely buntings their plaintive chirpings hush ; The purpling sky beholds earth's beauties good; God bids the darkness come to hide the blush, And over fields of white Sails high the moon, fair goddess of the skies, And this is night. THE CHIDE THE CHIDE Light through the shutters flashing Like dashes of molten gold, Writing a chide to the whirling snow, The storm and cold. Writing a chide for the outcast there, Crouched where the gold bars lay, Freezing the life of the beggar girl, As false gold may. Frozen, starved, in the reach of wealth, And golden bars of light. That write a chide in the hand of God On earth's black night. LINES 123 LINES When the lamp is broken The flame goes out into night ; When the words are spoken The Ups will lose their delight ; When the harp lies shattered The soul of the player is fled ; When the dreams are scattered The hope of the dreamer is dead. II When hearts have commingled The pleasure of love is their own ; When fond hearts are singled One enters the tempest alone. O Life, why thus have you chosen ? Is love the great goal ? Some hearts forever are frozen ; Then life is the soul. 124 OH, THE OBSCURITY OH, THE OBSCURITY Father, comfort me Now in my sorrow. As I look up to thee, Out through the sometime, - The silent to-morrow, — In the depths of eternity Falters the vision, Lost in obscurity. Father, I cry to thee. Comfort me, cherish me. Lend me the strength to be Strong in decision. Lend me the ken to be Near to thee, true to thee, Clearer of vision. A WISH 125 A WISH Just to lie in the woods in June With a Hfe that 's bubbUng free, With a will that 's strong, a heart in tune With the hope that used to be. 126 THE NATURE — CHANGE THE NATURE — CHANGE Ay, friends, make merry, for the day is nearly sped, And with the midnight tolHng of the bell Some will whisper softly as they gather, "He is dead." Ay, friends, make merry, it is well. Dead, friends, dead ? It is nothing to be dead. Only the ceasing to beat of a human heart, Only the ceasing to breathe. Only the natural part For a man to play. Why, then, make moan ? Am I alone in death — Am I alone ? Nay, friends, make merry and gather round the door. Bring in the flagon, pour out the wine and say, THE NATURE — CHANGE 127 *' We lose another, he goes out to-day ! Let 's rouse the echo with old songs once more." Morning and night gather old friends, and sing Our dear old songs, and let the rafters ring. Gather once more, your oldtime stories tell, Turn down my cup and whisper, " It is well." 128 ITISBETTER IT IS BETTER It is better to love and be loved, And go out in the springtime of life, Than to know but the cold hearts of men And sorrow of strife. It is better to love and be loved. And pass with the sunshine on In the early spring, than to live Till love is gone. It is better to die and be loved Than to live for a thousand years, And know but the cold world's shock And biting tears. THE GOAL 129 THE GOAL Sweet the songs of the reaper When the harvest is gathered in ; Sweet the sound of rejoicing When the victory we win ; Sweet the dreams of the sleeper, Sweet the faith of the soul When it nears to the brimming river, God, and its infinite goal. 130 MOONLIGHT MOONLIGHT Iridescent in the west Surge of colors radiate, Interlacing, flexile-wise, Filmy, yet inseparate, Kissing now the sleeping tarn, Weaving in and out and so, Like a knot of tangled yarn, Fading in the afterglow ; Streaming out the shadow hair Quivers in a shaft of light Which the moon in passion throws At the demon of the night. THEHEART 131 THE HEART Deep within the mind's recesses There are mirrors clear ; Laughing eyes and golden tresses Oft are pictured here. But as perfumes are the dearest For the bloom that 's gone, So the heart loves best its mirror When the years pass on. 132 AGAMEBOARD A GAME BOARD What is this world but a game board ? What is this hfe but a die ? You cast, and luck is the number, Again, and hope is a lie ; If lucky, the world laughs with you. The universe trembles with song ; If ill turns up, you 've a bitter cup. And the span of each failure is long. So cast, there is naught in choosing ; Shake, as you 're bid to do ; There is fate in a lucky number, Who knows but it 's meant for you ? You 've a blind man's chance at winning, What more would you ask, you clown ? If luck goes wrong and the road looks long, You 've had your chance, step down ! HEART MUSIC 133 HEART MUSIC There are hopes which are born to die, Like thoughts unexpressed ; There is music dwells in the soul To the harp unconfessed. There 's a love that eyes only know, Of which hearts have no token ; But there never is love in the heart The eyes leave unspoken. 134 MY PRAYER MY PRAYER If I should die to-night, If the stilled pulse and pallid brow In the young morning Showed that I was dead, Would all be just the same as now With the first faint light ? Would there be no tears shed, Would there be no words said Of tender memory ? Whatever be, Be this my prayer : — When I go out Let it be lightly, Lightly, mother. Let it not be like the harsh awakening From some grim nightmare. But one by one let down The bars of my prison, MY PRAYER 135 And let me go out gladly. Let the curtain as it falls At the ending of my play Drape round me lightly Like the gown of a sleeper And a dreamer of fair dreams. [36 DOASYOUMUST DO AS YOU MUST A SONG came drifting, floating Down through the space of night : ** Do as you should, And not as you would, And the burdens soon grow light." And the stars whispered together Softly an answer-song : — " Do as you hear. In a conscience clear, That winnows the right from wrong.' And into a heart that suffered They sang with a voice of love : — *' I '11 do my best. And then leave the rest To the will of God above." ASPIRATIONS i3r ASPIRATIONS I KNOW not if the cadences of song, That swept my soul Uke some strange, living thing, Were on the breezes of the sea air borne along Half hid where broken cloud-wreaths petals fling. Or if the mocking-bird, assuming fay-like part, / Taught unheard music to the trembling heart. I know not whence it came, but out and in A strange desire and satisfaction played, — Satisfaction for what had never been, Through life's eternity crushed and de- layed ; It may be that, aspiring from the sod. One spark of ego met and knew its God. 138 DON'T WORRY DON'T WORRY For what of it all — The fret and worry ? The love of man, or the tears of woman ? The kiss for kiss, or the word of passion ? The hate of hell, or the love of heaven ? The coming in, or the going out ? What of it all ? The tides go out, The nights speed on, the days come in, While the river sings in a monotone, " Whatever has been shall be again ! " DREAMING 139 DREAMING Motherhood in fancy dreaming, By her side a happy lass ; — " Hi ho ! mother, what is seeming ? " ■" Visions in a looking-glass ; Shadows of the wild moss-rose Pictured where the pool's repose Flashes back to maiden face Traces of a wondrous grace ; — That is seeming, lass, my lass, — That is seeming, lass." Pondering still the maiden, seeming Lost in thoughts ideal and new, — " Tell me, mother, what is dreaming ? Is it love, and is it true ? " " Dreaming is the maiden's way ; Dreams the life of poets gray, Dreaming is the love that flows Where the youth's soft fancy grows, That is dreaming, lass, my lass, — That is dreaming, lass." 140 FALLING SNOW FALLING SNOW Feathery tassels on the pine Bring again this song of mine, June may come and June may go, But naught can match the falling snow. MORNING HI MORNING A THREAD of gold In the dun, — A crimson flood, Then the sun, A ball of fire that sips Sweet dew from willing lips Of flower, and leaf, and fern By hill and burn. 142 TO-MORROW TO-MORROW To-morrow's sunshine Will be so bright ; To-morrow's burdens Will be so light ; To-morrow's handclasps Will not be missed, For to-morrow we journey Beyond the mist, Beyond the trouble of life's strange way. Into the warmth of a clearer day ; For God hath said the haven's rest Is ours to-morrow — And He knows best. OFTHEFUTURE 143 OF THE FUTURE I TRIED to plan for the future When the thought came back ; The thought of the wondrous plan Came over the homeward track Like a reeling man. I tried to dream of the future When the curse loomed up ; The curse loomed up, and I said, As I looked at his hemlock cup, "There are many dead." I tried to dream of the future While the wick flame flickered low, But the demon came and spake, " Come, lad, it is time to go Ere the tulips wake." 144 WHEN FOR ME WHEN FOR ME When for me the last red sun has set, And yonder western hills stand glorified, I pray you, father, take my hand, and let Us journey closer, until open wide — The black cloud separates. Then fare you well, And though I silent lie. Let voices of your memory answering tell You that my love can never die. N AN OLD BARN 145 IN AN OLD BARN Spider laces, webs of gray, Draping with long festoon rare Rafters brown and huge and bare Where the gypsy sunbeams play ; By what mystery so airy, By what will of sprite or fairy, By what magic grace or power, Do you swing there, Elfin bower ? 146 THE SONG THE SONG Floating down under the silent stars, A song came out of the sky ; It was only this : — " For a blow a kiss ; And you '11 laugh in the by and by." The song grew into a childish heart, And the heart grew day by day, Till a love came there Which blighted care, And drove distrust away. GOD'S GRACE 147 GOD'S GRACE A WEE belated flower by the wayside growing, A snow-drop kissing its saddened up- turned face, The white frost over the fields his crystals throwing, Then the pure snow, token of God's grace. 148 WORDS THAT LIVE WORDS THAT LIVE Speak not the word that temper speeds To your quick Hps, The thrust is but the power that breeds The gall one sips. Look in the heart of men, you '11 find Such words live long, So when you speak let only thoughts most kind Conduct your song. WHO? 149 WHO? Who shall pick up the soul of a man When it's lost? Who by duty of love lift the one Tempest-tossed Up, body and soul from the mire and the sod, And make the twain one by the measure of God. [50 BY THE LAKE BY THE LAKE Softly sleeping, dreamy- whist, By the weeping willow kissed ; Not a ripple, not a sound In the blue of heaven gowned ; Lake and sky and melody Mingling enamoredly. Floating languorous a cloud Flecks the hyaline blue of lake ; Trailing fiuctuous the way On the desert moves the snake ; Floating fiuctuous and slow On the palpitating air As the dreams of spirits go In their dream-ships to and fro Shadow filmy here and there. TO HER BEAUTIFUL DEAD 151 TO HER BEAUTIFUL DEAD There are souls in which tremble, And long to be free, Songs that words would dissemble If men were to see. Thoughts the lips leave unspoken, For no words would shed The truth of Love's token For her beautiful dead. 152 HE IS DEAD HE IS DEAD Days came and onward sped, Till they whispered, " He is dead," And the leaves Browner grew, then passed away. And the breeze through autumn's day Sighs and grieves. A DAY 153 A DAY The sun came up from the sea, The blue came into the sky, A song came out of a sparrow's breast As she passed by. A breeze came over the moor, A chill came into the air, A heart was broke by a thoughtless word. But the noon was fair. Ill The moon was a silver bow. The purple faded to gray. The tide ebbed over the moaning bar With the dying day. 154 A DAY IV And the night came down apace, — Came jet-black with a will, — And there were tears in a woman's eyes, And a grave on the hill. TRUTH 155 TRUTH One taper lights a thousand fires To perpetuate its glory, And so one soul may humbly teach A world its perfect story. 156 SUNSET SUNSET Over the land of the afternoon The dreamy twiHght shps Its mantle of half forgetfulness, When deep in the west low dips The sun, girt round by fold on fold Of purple, amethyst, and gold. THE DAY 157 THE DAY The morning broke, a morning bright and fair, — Before I rose, I planned two deeds of good Which I would do that day with humble care, Do from my heart, just as a true man should. The twilight came, the lengthened shad- ows fell ; I drew a chair before the back-log's blaze. And brought the record forth to let it tell My soul its failings and my life its ways. The page was tarnished with a temper thrust, Whereby a friend was wounded deep and sore ; 158 THE DAY The deeds I planned to do were hid in rust ; The day had passed like wasted days before. And had the day been longer by a year, The good deeds planned had yet re- mained undone ; But had a minute spanned the day, I fear The temper thrust had stung the friendly one. THE DUTY OF DAYS t59 THE DUTY OF DAYS I SAW the sun this morning Rise o'er yon eastern wood, And I heard a song in the air, And the song was good. Crystals clung to the branches Of grasses, shrubs, and trees. As though the heavens wept last night With the sighing breeze. For the dear Old Year departed In the shadows as he came. And the New Year stands before us, New only in name. Only in name, for the future Holds what the past has wrought, And we must bow to the will of God, If we will or not. i6o THE DUTY OF DAYS Bow with a will grown sober, Fight with a hope that 's glad ; And drink as the New Year bids us Of the gay and sad. For to one Time bore new blossoms, Love came where it had not been, Came and knocked at the inner court, And was beckoned in. And one, with the New Year's coming, Stands at the open door, And grieves at thought of the dear dead one She will see no more. But the Old Year did its duty, And now the New Year takes The duty of days in its palm, and works For our dear sakes. AVISIONOFHOPE i6i A VISION OF HOPE 'T WAS in the early morning, when the night was old ; When day first broke upon the hill and wold, Sending a golden shimmer through the sky. When through the trees that seemed to bow and sigh — As slowly, through each dark green grove, A golden web of light the morning wove. Throwing fantastic shapes upon the ground — When from each tree and bush there came a sound Of music from the waking birds Mingling with the lowing of arousing herds, I had a vision. l62 A VISION OF HOPE In the far away, I heard strange music ushering in the day; I saw a maiden with long golden hair, Streaming and glinting on the morning air, Coming from the eastern mountain slope, And bearing in her hand sweet flowers of hope Which she had plucked, that morn, from where they grew, All gayly sparkling with the silver dew, Fresh from the land of Sweetest Rest. Ever and anon upon her way in quest Of weary mortals, she did drop below A flower of hope ; and everywhere a golden glow Lit up each hill and vale, each wood and glen. Circled around, wove in and out, and then It overspread a hamlet or a cot To brighten up some herdsman's dreary lot. And as the maiden with the golden hair AVISIONOFHOPE 163 Swept swiftly onward through the silent air, Anon, the sweetest notes came from above. Like the soft cooing of the turtle-dove. Or like the music of some heavenly choir, Or like the notes of an enchanting lyre, The soothing notes swept swiftly on ; Hope lit each cottage yard, each palace lawn ; And lo ! she paused above my head with simple grace. And love was written on her radiant face. Then she passed onward in her westward flight, And slowly in the east the shades of night Crept through each wood and up each silent vale. While o'er each winding stream a misty veil — Despair — crept softly into sight, And helped to hide the slowly dimming Hght ; i64 AVISIONOFHOPE But that enchanting harp still sweetly played, And gently to my ear the soft notes strayed. The vision passed, and took the beauteous maid. And I awoke bereft, and humbly prayed : ** Oh, fairest dream of hope — sweet maid, I pray. Return and soothe me with each coming day, Return, and with my earliest waking hour Acquaint me with thy presence and thy power ; Oh, bind me closer with thy golden hair. And with thy sweetness drive away dull care." THENEWYEARIN 165 THE NEW YEAR IN So the dear Old Year has vanished ! Last night I saw him there, With the moonUght in his fingers, And the shadows in his hair ; And he stood as one forsaken By the friendships he had known ; There were tears upon his eyehds, And his voice was sad of tone. For the dear Old Year was weary, But the dear Old Year was true, By the will of the Master doing The work he was bid to do. I sighed as I saw him hobbling Over the western slope, For though he was slow in granting. He was always free with hope. i66 THENEWYEARIN But the New Year came this morning, I saw him standing there, With the sunhght in his fingers, And laurel in his hair. And the snow on the eastern hillside Was gleaming and shining bright. And I said, " Huzza for the glad New Year," And girdled my courage tight. So let the dead past slumber, Huzza for the king that 's new, Facing the untrod future, And bidding the past adieu. ANAUTUMNSONG 167 AN AUTUMN SONG When a chill creeps over the meadow, and the gold comes into the west, When the robin sits in the mountain ash, trimming her mottled breast. When the squirrel chatters unceasing, high on a maple bough, And the farmer, turning the furrows back, follows the cruel plough, I wander over the meadow, wistfully over the mead, By the brim of the sleeping river, wher- ever my fancies lead. Red, and yellow, and purple, crimson, rus- set, and brown. Dancing hither and thither, the leaves come sliding down. Piling the woodland hollows, and dancing over the down. i68 ANAUTUMNSONG When the brown creeps into the grasses, and the gold spreads over the corn, When the yellow and purple of forests cast back the reflection of morn, When down from the point-capped pine- tree comes the sad wail of the year, And the leaves of russet slide downward, making a rustic bier Where autumn may come unchidden, and rest with a work well done, Under the snows of winter, and under the winter sun, I love to follow some zigzag, grass-covered lonely way, Forgetting the actions of ages, remember- ing only the day. Remembering only October, forgetting the beauties of May. IN SEPTEMBER 169 IN SEPTEMBER September reigns, the huntsman calls And whistles to his dog ; Along the winding stream the duck Splashes beyond the fog ; The painted leaves with crisped wing Come fluttering to the ground, And of the mossy stone-heap make A red and yellow mound. The plover pipes, the cricket chirps, Birds sing on every wall ; The salmon to the ocean bound Slips past the waterfall ; The sheep on yonder hillside graze. And all the world grows still. While dully from the valley comes The plash of the old mill. The sumac burns upon the hill. Red in an autumn haze ; I70 IN SEPTExMBER And round yon western mountains A purple halo plays ; Brightly the blood-red poppies gleam Over in yonder grain ; And the aging year moves ever on In summer's funeral train. DECEMBER DECEMBER Viewing this olive leaf, Spilling its beauty brief, Losing its glory, Here in the land of snow, Where the grim northers blow, Wilful and hoary. Far does the vision stray, Over the misty way, Through the December ; Into the land of flowers, Through the delightful hours Memories remember. 172 THE GRAY GULL THE GRAY GULL Over the foam of the breakers, flinging High their spray on the barren shore, The gray-white gull is swinging, winging^ Calling and calling o'er and o'er ; Calling his mate from the stormy water, Calling her up to drift with him Over and on, full tempest driven, Out of the clouds of twilight grim. How he whirls in the lower heavens. Dives and rises and dives and cries, Floats and turns and rolls half over. And rises again, and rising flies Straight for the land that breaker-riven Echoes harshly along the tide, — Then turns and swerves and diving down- ward Settles near to his mistress' side. Drifts and speaks with softer murmur, Floats a moment in her sweet care, THEGRAYGULL 173 Then with a cry and pinions curving Rises proud to the upper air. Glory is great, but love is greater, Greater as God has made it so ; And he dives again and with mad en- deavor Settles close to her breast of snow. 174 A DAY — ARIZONIAN A DAY — ARIZONIAN Over the west a golden glory, Sign of the setting sun, Opal and blue and a purple haze, Eve — and the day is done. Deep in the cloud-drift, star-eyes twinkle, A soft white glory about the moon ; Shadows and silence, and sleep and dreams — So passes night's high noon. Dreams, and into the night's deep azure Out of the east a shimmer of light — The sun, a gleaming shaft of gold. That pierces the coward night. Sun that burns over hill and mesa ; Mountains fading to dusky gray ; Bees that hum where the cactus blooms ; Dreams — and the noon of day. A MORNING-RISE 175 A MORNING-RISE Under the fringe of woodland shading, Tilting out a wavering line, Over the lake in the unseen fading, Tremble the shadowy stubs of pine. Flashing across the bay of shadow, A crimson sun-path wavers down. Where the ripples dance and toss and tumble, Opal and pearl and golden brown. Tiny waves that leap and sparkle. Catching the gold of the rising sun, Tossing it back to a cheerful measure, Losing it deep in a cave of dun. Out of the meshes of the sun-path. Tipsy, woven in changing way. The sudden leap of a golden beauty, — King of the mountain lake, at play. 176 A MORNING-RISE Only a flash, and the eddying circle ' Weaves away like a silver snake, Fading, lost in the perfect silence, Drowned in the mirror of the lake. TIME OF WANING AUTUMN 177 IN THE TIME OF WANING AUTUMN In the time of waning autumn, ere the first white snow sifts down Over the hill and valley, and in the country and town. To show to the earth the fitting of its new-made slumber gown, I love to wander at evening, out mid the russet leaves. And hear their rustle and chatter, while down in the branches grieves The wind of the falling evening, that coming, a destiny weaves. Ay, I love, I say, ere the winter, in the latermost part of the fall To wander alone, and to listen, while out of the past I recall A voice with its tender emotion, a love with its rise and fall, A love, more than love while it lasted, a love that was love when it died, 178 TIME OF WANING AUTUMN For that too was the love of the Uvmg, and loving the sleeping, it sighed, And turned to the past for requital, and hoping was never denied. Ay, I love, I say, to wander, drinking deep in the depths of the past. The days of a youth's bright dawning, which happy, journeyed so fast. The preparing to live was awakened, to find the pleasures had passed. To find how the frosts of autumn had blighted the blossoms of spring, How the flowers of summer were wilted, how the thrush had forgotten to sing. How white were the distant mountains, how winter was ruling as king. NOR YET FORGOT 179 NOR YET FORGOT I KNOW not if the birds bright plumage wore, Or rusty brown and ragged was the wing; I know not if the grasses of the morn Were deep with bloom, or brown and withering ; I know not if fair bloom swung pink and white Or if ripe fruit above was tempting red ; I know but this : you were in sight. And far away my truant fancies led. I know not if the moon swung in the sky, And spread soft radiance o'er a summer world. Or if soft clouds were drifting idly by, Or heavy storm-clouds o'er the stars were furled ; i8o NORYETFORGOT I know not if the world seemed young or old, I know not if mankind seemed weak or wise ; I only know our story was first told, And loving eyes looked love to other eyes. I know not how the days passed on their way. If swift or slow, or what they brought of joy. Or what of sorrow, when came night or day, Or if all one was passed without alloy. I only know the spring bloomed deeply fair. And know there seemed a halo round the sun ; I know fair bloom heaped high the altar there, On that fair day when you and I were one. NOR YET FORGOT i8i I know the days sped on with even flow, And happy years passed on with noiseless tread, Till I went once out where the grasses grow, A lonely mourner, following my dead. I only know the spring blooms as of old. And passes on ; while I my dreary lot Weave in and out, with thread of life grown cold, Awhile the shuttle creaks, *'Nor yet forgot." iSa THE MOWERS THE MOWERS Here are the mowers mowing, In the cool morning, FUcking the sparkUng dew In ruby drops to the sun. O mowers gay, What do the grasses say ? What song do they sing at the mowing ? What song do they sing to the scythe ? Rest — they sing as the keen blade passes ; And sleep — is the answer-song to the grasses ; It 's an endless song, O mowers blithe. The song of the grass and the answering scythe. THE WOODSMEN 183 THE WOODSMEN Here are the woodsmen, Here in the great forest, The great uncut forest of tasseled pine and spruce ; Here where the snow Hes deep over ridges, In valleys and hollows ; Here where the white snow is blown into billows. Changing billows tossed by the north wind ; Here are the woodsmen. With arms that are muscular, steady and swift. With hearts that are happy and blithe and gay, They cleave the air with their keen bright blades Till the mighty monarchs of centuries fall, i84 THE WOODSMEN Sway and fall with a mighty crash, A crash the mountain spirit hears And echoes back in muffled tone To the woodsmen chopping. Here in the Southland ; Here in the land of the palmetto ; The land of the orange, lemon, and fig tree ; The land of the Southern pine and red- wood ; The land of the cypress, oak, and hickory ; Here in the moss-draped swamps, slug- gish and fever stricken ; Here, too, are the woodsmen, Brawny and black and battle scarred, By broad lagoon and grim morass ; Where the brimming river broad and deep Cleaves the forest, a silver thread, A silver thread that weaves, and makes Like a snake in and out of the breaks. Here are the woodsmen, Strong and dreamy and steady and slow, High in the air the bright blade gleams, THE WOODSMEN 185 Low, with a sweep and a sudden sting It sinks helve deep in the yielding wood, Dull like the cry of a thing grown dumb, Or the startled cry of one asleep, Asleep in the dreamy air of June, Lulled to sleep by the redbird's tune, Or the mockingbird which half awake Turns, then falls to sleep again. i86 THE PASSING OF THE YEAR THE PASSING OF THE YEAR The Year is growing late ; At the purple gate Of the western sky he stands, With the red sun in his hands, Like an old man looking back Down a rough and tortuous track To the time when life was new, And hope's fair blossoms grew On the plain Delusion. For a moment stands he there, With the shadows in his hair, Mingled with drifts of snow ; While with his palsied hand He stays day's burning brand. To gaze on the earth below. Out through the land of men. City and forest glen, Land of pride and crime. He gazes to that fair time THE PASSING OF THE YEAR 187 When earth was newer ; Gazes back to the days When men were of simpler ways, When simpler pleasures grew, Nourished by sun and dew, And vain hopes were fewer. He speaks no word, but turns Where the western cloud-rim burns With a golden glory. And disappears from sight, Into the gloom of night. With his life's strange story. i88 ALONE IN THE TWILIGHT SITTING ALONE IN THE TWILIGHT I Sitting alone in the twilight of years and twilight of day, Watching the sun in the heavens sinking and hiding away, Watching the western hilltops, resplen- dent, glow with the gold Mist of the evening, as the air -shades, fold on fold, Thicken the dim growing landscape, plain, and valley, and hill. Till the very echo of silence, grown sweeter, paused and was still, — II Sitting alone in the twilight of years and twilight of day, I caught a sound like the music of a heavenly fountain at play ; ALONE IN THE TWILIGHT 189 Raising my trembling fingers over my heart of hearts, I tried to sing, but the jar, as when sud- denly parts The strings of a mighty organ, shook my trembling frame. And the heart which throbbed wa.s broken, now only a heart in name. Ill The music passed in the distance, no longer the fountain played, And pressing my hand to my bosom, idly my fingers strayed, Unthinking, restless, and weary over my heart grown weak. And seemed with a sudden impulse for a time half forgotten to seek Down through the chambers of has-been and the halls of memory For the songs the dearest and sweetest in the days that used to be. IV Sitting alone in the twilight of age and twilight of day, 190 ALONE IN THE TWILIGHT As the great sun hid in the shadows and the purple changed slowly to gray, The songs and the old-time music came up from the past to me, And I wandered once more with the days and the loves that used to be ; I wandered out through the twilight, grown deeper with heart's unrest, I drank from memory's fountain, and dreamed, and the days grew blest. THE DEAROLD SONGS 191 THE BEST OF ALL THE DEAR OLD SONGS The songs they sing, the songs they sing, Those half - remembered memories of ours, — How the hours with merry rhythm ring With all the world of dreamland clothed with flowers' Sweet melody, the singing of the old- time scythe, Sent whispering through the grass by mowers blithe — But best of all the dear old songs to wear Are the songs that came from grandma's rocking-chair. I half remember of an old-time spring, How clear the robins' first call seemed to ring, And how the snow, in merry singing way. 192 THEDEAROLDSONGS With feathery flakes made white the barren way, And how the brook went whispering through the dell, Singing words no tongue may ever tell ; — Those idle afternoons, those happy days, When I was but a boy with boyish ways — But looking back the best of all to wear Are the songs that came from grandma's rocking-chair. They are dear songs, the songs they sing, 'Those half-remembered memories of ours ; They make the air with merry cadence ring. And crown the Time - King with a wreath of flowers. The dreams of winter and the dreams of spring Make music sweet of half the songs they sing ; From lazy days, those days of idle joys, THEDEAROLDSONGS 193 When boyish-like I dreamed the dreams of boys — But best of all the dear old songs to wear Are the songs that came from grandma's rocking-chair. t94 WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS There 's a music that dwells in the heart of the stream, And a mystery breathes in its flow, For I often look back, and sometimes a gleam Of the castles I 've built will flit to and fro. And fade Where the river flows. And I 've dreamed as I Ve watched it go flowing along That a beautiful fairyland lay Afar in the midst of the hills where its song Is born, and I 've dreamed that some day I 'd find Where the river flows. WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS 195 Now I 've traveled along by the river for years, Till I 've come close down to the sea, And I 've found there is laughter born often from tears. Like the songs that rise from the mists, maybe. That float Where the river flows. But there are tears, sometimes, ere the laughter dies ; There 's a woeful shake of the head ; For some pass down where the water sighs, And all pass out with the dead To the sea Where the river flows. 196 OVER THE BROW OF THE HILL OVER THE BROW OF THE HILL Just over the brow of the hill it stood, The old red farmhouse of wood and brick ; The woodshed filled with winter's wood ; The barn close down by the meadow creek ; The maple-orchard, too, somehow Looked more inviting than it does now, When the wind comes scurrying down Ker-whiz ! Over the brow of the hill. The creek wa'n't pretty, to speak about. But the creek, a fishpole, and one small boy. At the end of the line a flopping trout, Was a combination to give one joy ; But joys were joys in those old days, When the boys were boys with boyish ways, OVER THE BROW OF THE HILL 197 When the wind came scurrying down Ker-whiz ! Over the brow of the hill. But now, some way, when the year grows late. And the cornfield is stubbled and brown, When a creaking comes to the garden gate. And the heads of the goldenrod bend down. It don't seem just as it used to do, When the heart was quick and life was new. And the wind came scurrying down Ker-whiz ! Over the brow of the hill. But one I know, with a freckled face, A tattered hat and tousled hair ; A boy with an awkward sort of grace, Who never dreams of years or care ; Who never dreams of the world that lies Beyond the west where the daylight dies, 198 OVER THE BROW OF THE HILL As the wind comes scurrying down Ker-whiz ! Over the brow of the hill. But the old gray hill and the house of red Are just as grand to this lad I know, As they were to me ere fancy fled, Back in the dreamy years ago ; But I wa'n't so particular then as now, And I did n't mind so much, somehow. When the wind came scurrying down Ker-whiz ! Over the brow of the hill. THE FIRST THANKSGIVING 199 THE FIRST THANKSGIVING The sighing wind of the twilight dip- ping, Kissing the salt sea's lips of gall, Whirling out past crag and beacon, Bearing afar the gull's harsh call : — Pause you now in your mad endeavor, Pause and hearken once forever, Hearken close to the song that over. Over and under, and out and over. Through the blinding snow to the dew- gemmed clover Girdles the earth like a diadem. For they were a band of chosen people. Chosen by God to suffer wrong. To suffer and bear as the chosen suffer, Singing their silent martyr song ; Singing alone to the world that, ever Lost to the good of a man's endeavor. Hears but the wild, false nature beating, Echoing back, and the cry repeating. 200 THE FIRST THANKSGIVING Mad with the kist of ages fleeting, Dying only to Hve again. Boldly braving the billowing ocean, Casting their bread on waters grim. With naught to cheer but the gray gull's calling, Seeking the way to follow him. They dreamed maybe an enchanting vision, Of isles of peace, and of fields elysian. But the curse came too, and the dreams were broken. Broken and crushed ere the thought was spoken, And the bounteous sea was the only token . To prove their God had been true to them. Before, but the trackless waste of waters ; Behind, but the curse and pride of men ; The storm-trod rocks were a welcome haven THE FIRST THANKSGIVING 201 With the right of a freeman born again, And the days came, and the world rolled over. With the snow, and the rain, and the dew-tipped clover ; And they thanked their God for the bold endeavor That had led them up and had slackened never. And they blest their kind, and prayed that ever His love and a crust might satisfy. THE LAST THANKSGIVING THE LAST THANKSGIVING Once a year there comes a day In the chill November, When the year grows gray with rime, A day we all remember ; Though loud the northern winds may blow, Chill be the autumn weather. The laughter rings when 'round the board Meet kith and kin together. The laughter rings, the stories pass. The mirth grows high and higher ; The cider in the glasses brown Sparkles blush-songs at the fire. While grandpa, in the honor seat, Smiles shyly at another Across the board, the blessed one, The mother, the grandmother. THE LAST THANKSGIVING 203 The feast is through, the laughter hushed, The heads are bowed together. And slowly speaks the gentle voice So soon to hush forever : — " Great God, we thank thee for thy love So freely to us given ; Have mercy on the saddened ones, By storm and tempest driven. " Though poor, we ask thee, for thy sake, Grant mercy to their sorrow. And pray thee hold them in thy palm, To-morrow and to-morrow. Watch the wanderer from the way. And guard his footsteps ever ; Lay not thy hand in wrath, O God, Upon his weak endeavor, " We thank thee for thy mercies great, And for thy patience golden ; Accept us as we are, O Lord, By his sweet promise holden. Together here we bow our heads, This one day in November ; United by thy will, O God, Thy blessings we remember." 204 A MOOD A MOOD What would I do ? you ask me, Could I have my own strange way ? What would I do ? Well, truly. This, could I have my say, — This were the greatest of pleasures : To wander alone through the halls Of the years that have been, and to listen While echo on memory calls. With a voice of sorrowful sweetness Up through the past, and then I would bathe in the lucid quiet Of some half-forgotten glen. Not from the unknown future. Not from the present time. But out of the past I would beckon A year when never a rhyme Broke in on the limpid quiet, When never a deed of man Was greater than deeds of another, When everything quietly ran, — A MOOD 205 Days drifted like the dripping of honey, Sweetening the dregs of the earth, Forgotten, unknown, and unnumbered ; When nothing died or had birth, Not even the flowers of the garden. Or the bird on the orchard bough ; When even the maid to her lover Forgot to whisper a vow. From the depths of that year I would gather A day the fairest and best, Unknown, forgotten, unnumbered ; Alike would we journey to rest, Lulled by the music of waters. Fanned by the sweet tipsy wind, Dream in the silence contented. With never a thought or a mind But forgetting the actions of ages, Forgetting the journey of time. Forgetting, unthought of, forgotten, Enchanted, list to the rhyme That flows from nowhere forever. Weaving around me the hours And the peace of an opal morning, Alone in a forest of flowers. 2o6 OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST Old friends are best friends, Don't care what you say. Stand by a fellow longest When his hair is gray. Stand by a fellow longest When there 's trouble near, An' 't seems as if the whole great world Was mostly out of gear. Old friends are best friends, And the old songs, too. Tremble longest on the lips When the heart is blue. Old songs and old ways, And homes we used to know, Lighten up the now time Like an afterglow. Old songs are cheer songs, And old loves are best ; OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST 207 Like the wine that 's mellowed long Since it first was pressed, — Like the wine that 's mellowed long, Like the morning dew, Are the friends of that old time, When the world was new. 2o8 THE SONG THE SONG River, as you flow along Through the fields of waving grass, Take with you this simple song, Sing it to the fields you pass. Sing the song as I to you, Sing it lying on your breast, Sing it to the ferry crew Lying by the shore at rest. Mingle with my words the tune That the willows love to play, Nodding on your shores in June, Dancing in the twilight gray. Sing the song my heart has wove, Idling here upon your breast, Simple song of bird and grove, River, God, and rest. THEOLDHOME 209 THE OLD HOME Snow besieged and ruin captured Stands a house I know full well, Where in bygone years, enraptured By a misty, dreamy spell I have watched the seasons' changes. And the years ring out their doom ; Where I 've lived, and loved, and honored, Through life's sunshine and its gloom. There it was my baby cooing First a mother's fancy woke From the old dream of the wooing. To the new dream left unspoke : To the dream of hope and sorrow, To realities unthought. To a faith sublime, eternal. By a wordless prattle wrought. There it was as boyhood drifted Down the years to man's estate, 210 THEOLDHOME With no palmist's vision gifted, First I learned to hope and wait. Gazing out across the hilltops, Through the purple haze of thought, I beheld a world of glory. In a dream of splendor wrought. So I journeyed once, and coming Where the city's strife is loud, Joined my tapping with the humming Of the great machine-drilled crowd ; Here I 've lingered, rested, dreaming Of that home in days of old, When all love and faith were measured By a higher worth than gold. THE CRICKET IN THE WALL 211 THE CRICKET IN THE WALL When the year from dreamy summer Into crisp ripe autumn wakes, And the wild duck flying southward Haunts New England's crystal lakes ; When the wild grape's purple clusters Hang sun-kissed on the wall, — Then we hearken to the music Of the cricket's lucid call. When the poppies blush bright scarlet In the waving fields of wheat. And fond memories of summer Make the latter days complete ; When the partridge drums are rolling, And the plover bugles call, — Then we listen to the fiddle Of the cricket in the wall. When all the world is blushing At its own rich beauty rare, 212 THE CRICKET IN THE WALL And the livery of forests Lends a softness to the air ; When a crisp is in the morning And ripe mellow is the noon, — Then we listen to the cadence Of the cricket's sleepy tune. TWILIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN LAKE 213 TWILIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN LAKE Blue of the sky above us lifted Higher than thought can span, Amethyst cloud, rimmed with purple, Scarlet, silver, and tan. Twinkling rushes of golden sunlight Dancing into the dim unseen ; Fringe of green, and a bay of shadow, — Shadow kissing the tender green. Tinkling flash of unseen waters, Troubled shade, and foam afloat. Dimpling eddies join the laughter, Lending only a silent note. Tiny waves that leap and sparkle. Catching the gold of the setting sun. Tossing it back to a tipsy measure, Losing it deep in a cave of dun. 214 TWILIGHT ON A MOUNTAlxN LAKE Out of the dimmest depths of silence The sudden splash of a speckled trout, A flash, a gleam, a shower of rubies, Golden eddies circling out. Out of the meshes of the sun-path, Tipsy, woven in changing way, A gleam of saffron, pink and yellow, A sparkling tinkle of falling spray. The blue above a fringe of emerald. One lone cloud-boat drifting by ; Love song of the mottled wood thrush Sinking into the depths of sky. Gathering gloom, like a dream forgotten. Sleep, with never a ray of light ; Lake and valley, and wood and mountain. Fading into the realms of night. AS OUR FATHERS DID OF YORE 215 AS OUR FATHERS DID OF YORE When the frost is on the maple, And the grass is brown and sear, And a crisp benumbs the sunhght Of the evening of the year ; When the bins are full to bursting, When have passed the harvest days, Then we gather in communion To praise Heaven for its ways. Thus each year we come together. Sire and matron, youth and maid, Gathered round the harvest table With the harvest bounties laid ; Gathered to give forth thanksgiving As our fathers did of yore, When a band of starving pilgrims Gathered on a sterile shore. Gazing o'er the billowing ocean Towards their former fatherland, 2i6 AS OUR FATHERS DID OF YORE Loud their hearts cried out thanksgiving For the bounties of God's hand ; Sore their troubles and privations, Strong their hearts in faith sublime, Who for a crust of bread were thankful On that first scant harvest time. So, when frost is on the valley, And a hush is on the hill ; When the carts go heavy laden To the clatter of the mill. Gather we with hearts of gladness, Thankful for the battles won In His name and by the token Of His promise through the Son. THE POET'S BIRTH 217 THE POET'S BIRTH In the land of Poco Tiempo, In the land of By-and-By, Where the twilight blushes golden, And the purple shadows lie ; Where the streets are paved with silence, In the land of Pretty Soon, Once there came a troop of fairies, Bringing in a wondrous boon. Strange the land of Poco Tiempo, Dreamy all the people seem ; And the fairies entered boldly. Passing like a perfect dream Up the lonely street of Silence, Turning off down Tired Lane, Till they came to Future Alley, Turnpike to the land of Bane. Here they halted, where a cottage Stood within a garden spot, 2i8 THE POET'S BIRTH Growing deep with wasted moments, Dead, deserted, and forgot. Here, within a silent chamber, On a cot there slept a child, Dreaming of fair Poco Tiempo, By its witchery beguiled. I'hrough the cottage romped the fairies, To the chamber came, and there Gathered round the dreaming sleeper. Sang the Dream-Fay's mystic air; Where the leader of the fairies, Standing in the moon-drift white, Touched the child with wand of magic — Blessed him in the silent night. So it was in Poco Tiempo, In the land of By-and-By, Where the twilight blushes golden. And the purple shadows lie ; Once a fairy legion journeyed. And they touched a sleeper there. And a poet blessed the sunshine, Sang to free the world from care. AN EVENING WALK 219 AN EVENING WALK I HEAR the rustling garments of the wind Sweep past me in its flight, It moves the nodding flowers and bids them speak A varied language of the coming night. For it is summer time, in pensive mood I 've wandered to "this restful solitude. Midway up a mountain's quiet path With grasses twined together on its top. With vines and bushes growing on each side, I wander in a dreamy mood, or stop And look around me on the vale below, And on the far-off hills, and watch the sunset glow. 220 AN EVENING WALK I see beneath the thatched roof of the path A rabbit spring and disappear from sight ; The partridge drumming in the neighbor- ing wood, And all around the voices of the night Make sweet harmony that delights the ear, And hallowed make this time of day and year. I watch the brook go wormling, murmur- ing on. Half hidden by the grasses on its brim ; Kissing now a lily's perfumed cheek, Now hidden by a thicket on its rim, Now darting 'neath a root, now gliding on. And singing in strange language a weird song. From just across the valley bending deep. Comes the soft clear tinkling of a bell, AN EVENING WALK 221 Mingled with the looing of the kine, And the " coo ! coo ! " of the cowboy join to tell That night has come, and from afar I see the faintest trembling of the even- ing star. Slowly from yon shining village spire, Liquid notes are drifting through the air ; Calling to the honest rural folk To meet and worship in the house of prayer. But mists arising from the murmuring stream. Close round me like the meshes of a Tempean dream. OLD SONGS AND YEARS OLD SONGS AND YEARS I The old man mused, With head bowed low, Thinking of the long ago. II As I look back along life's cloudy way, O'er the good and evil of a man's short day. The things I best remember are somehow The ones I most dislike to ponder now ; Some little word that I in anger said To that dear friend, who now long since is dead ; Some little act regretted soon as done. Intended maybe — like a joke — in fun ; OLD SONGS AND YEARS 223 But which, alas ! I learned a bit too late, Has changed a valued friendship into hate! The sunshine never has seemed just the same ; The wild-wood blossoms never quite so tame ; The brook has never sung so sweet a song; The hold on life is never quite so strong ; The robin's call has not so clear a ring ; The swallow never has so swift a wing ; The snows of winter are never quite so white ; The moon's soft glory never quite so bright As in those times, full fifty years ago, When days were all good days, and life was so. 224 OLD SONGS AND YEARS But there are memories which somehow steal Into our lives, and make us old folks feel, When looking back along life's busy road, That we have shouldered but an average load. Our fancies wing from those lost days to these. And bring the old-time green into the trees -, The old-time songs, the songs I used to know, And used to sing in misty long ago. Ill Aye, for the old songs, Those songs were best ; Aye, for the old days, Those days were blest ; Those were the prime years, Years of my youth ; OLD SONGS AND YEARS 225 Those were the true days, When love was truth ; Those were the dream songs, When life was joy ; Those were the hope days, Free from alloy. IV Softly to his lips this tune Came like apple bloom in June, Came and went, while slow in rest. His head bowed lower to his breast, The old man slept — And dreamed. 226 THESONGOFTHE STOR THE SONG OF THE STORM The wind comes riding out of the west, That keen swift messenger of old ; He rattles the blinds as he gruffly goes, Marking the pane with fingers cold ; Riding along through the winter's night, Over the world in the chill moonlight, With never a thought of the where or way, With never a care if night or day. Only to ride at a boisterous rate. With a knock at the door and a pull at the gate. The wind comes riding over the moor, And rattles the sash in his hasty flight ; He combs the beard of the tasselled pine, And over the fences drifts the white Shifting snow in changing heaps ; While from within the firelight creeps THE SONG OF THE STORM 227 In thin chill bars through shutters cold, Telling the story so oft retold ; Writing in letters of gold a chide To the wild bantering wind outside. While I a wanderer, alack ! Musing hear. In language queer, This song from the tamarack. Whew ! whew ! say I, As away I fly Over the housetops and down the street. Lifting the snow Only to throw It into the faces of those I meet. I paint soft roses On cheeks and noses As huffing and puffing I go my way. While the children shout At each merry bout As together we merrily laugh and play. 228 SONG SONG Sweet daisy, when he plucked you there In yon meadow low, And placed you in my knotted hair, Did you, tell me, did you know What his thoughts were then of me ? What his thoughts will ever be ? II Sweet daisy, oh, thou fairest flower That e'er the meadows show, Does he love me on this hour ? Tell me, daisy, do you know ? When he pressed his lips to you, Did he say he loved me true ? Ill Did he whisper in your ear, Tell me, daisy fair, W^ords that I would like to hear, When he pressed you there ? SONG 229 Did he whisper soft and low Words that I shall sometime know ? IV Dear flower, lie here on my breast, And, oh ! tell me, say. Will he sometime too there rest ? Daisy, tell me, pray, Will he sometime come again, And love me dear, as he did then ? Oh ! tell me when you 're old and sere, And my locks are gray, Will he love me, year by year. As he did that day ? Oh, daisy, why not answer me ? Oh, must I, too, wait and see ? VI Must the long days, one by one, Come and slowly go ? Must God's will be always done ? Tell me, daisy, if you know, Must a maid love, oh, flower fair, Yet never say nor who, nor where ? 230 TWO SONGS TWO SONGS HER SONG The wind one day blew out of a cloud ; Though it blew nor long nor hard nor loud It moved the grasses at our feet And softly kissed the violets sweet Down where the river flowed along — Sang to us in a voice of song And on the soft green tufted bank Into the grasses rose and sank. One lone daisy pink and fair You plucked and placed it in my hair, While the birds sang merrily, Merrily, merrily, merrily. HIS SONG Ah, more than that, my love, my lass, More than plucking from the grass A daisy of a dainty hue — I plucked my heart and gave it you. TWOSONGS 231 Breathed a blessing on your head, Breathed a hope that never fled, Kissed your finger tips and then Blessed and kissed you o'er again While the birds sang cheerily. Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily. 232 THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE A MAIDEN walked in a garden, Humming a quaint old air, While the whippoorwill joined in the chorus, And around her everywhere The apple blooms from the branches Showered down over her head. And she wandered slowly, gladly, Wherever her fancy led. The sun through the western treetops Was slowly sinking from sight. And dimly, but brighter growing. Sailed higher the Queen of Night. Slowly she strolled to the seashore, The maid with the simple gown. And there as the tide flowed outward, She wandered up and down. And gazed at the sky above her. And gazed at the sea below, THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE 233 And thought of its ceaseless motion, And thought of its ebb and flow. She took a rose from her bosom, With colors all faded and dim. And raising it, fondly kissed it. Murmuring sweetly of *' him ; " For a moment only it lingered. And then, with a cry of joy, She threw it into the water, To float as the ocean's toy. Thus she spake in her gladness. As she hurled it through the air ; " Oh, beautiful rose, go wander. Go wandering everywhere, — Float thou over the ocean. Under the sad-eyed moon. To the land of the fair Caucasian, To the land of the Octoroon ; To the land of the Hindoo princess, To the land of the Indian maid ; See those of the Turkish harem In costly gems arrayed 234 THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE " Fair rose, wherever thou roamest, Float in on the flowing tide, And find thou a waiting maiden, And close in her bosom hide, And wait when her lover cometh, To hear the sweet words he may say. And Usten, sweet flow'r, oh, listen. And hear when he goeth away. " When thou hast wandered and wandered To the uttermost parts of the world, Travel thou back o'er the ocean. And again in my bosom be furled. Nestle there, rose, in thy fragrance. And prithee look up to my eye, And listen, oh, listen, dear flower. To say if thou hearest a sigh ; Then taste of my lips, sweetest blossom, And say if thou foundest so plain The print of a heart on another. As my lover on my lips hath lain." The sun through the western treetops Had finally sunken from sight. And brighter and brighter growing, Sailed higher the Queen of Night ; THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE 235 And a voice called up from the shadow Made by a moon-kissed wave : " Oh, maiden, love cometh truly When love lieth hid in the grave." 236 CHATTER, CHATTER ''CHATTER, CHATTER, IT'S NO MATTER " Deep within the wooded border Of a vale I strayed, one day, Drawn on by the sweetest music Wafted through its shady way ; *' Chatter, Chatter, It 's no matter," Was the song it seemed to say. As I wandered, grew the music Yet more clear and sweet to me, Till I found a bubbling brooklet Gliding onward to the sea ; " Chatter, chatter, It 's no matter," Gliding onward, fresh and free. In a pool its waters tarried, Silent, by a mossy bank, CHATTER, CHATTER 237 Where the weeping willows drooping, Singing rose and dripping sank ; '' Chatter, chatter, It 's no matter," Breeze-kissed branches rose and sank. Standing on its brim I pondered, Dreaming on its perfect glass. Till I seemed to see beside me. Gazing down, a joyous lass ; '* Chatter, chatter. It 's no matter," With the pool her looking-glass. Then the years seemed swiftly fleeting. Once again, but aged, stood. The woman now, a-looking backward. Thinking of her maidenhood ; "Chatter, chatter, It 's no matter," In her long past maidenhood. Far out from the wooded valley. Then I journeyed to the sea, 238 CHATTER, CHATTER Where I heard the tides a-beating, Crooning now a song to me ; " Beating, beating, Time a-fleeting," From the brooklet to the sea. PITHY SAYINGS The longest life does not always con- tain the most suffering or happiness. There are some days so short they seem never to have been, still they live in some man's memory. Some days are so long they seem to extend even into to-day. These too are in memory. If the days are short and speed swiftly, so much more reason have we to sing throughout them. Over against the night is darkness — yes, so over against the morning is light. Eternity is not so long but that some men are willing to suffer throughout it if only they may satisfy their passions for an hour. Joy and sorrow are passions, and both are satisfied by a greater one, — love. 240 PITHY SAYINGS There is more true religion in the per- fume of one simple rose than in all the hollow spoutings of a hypocrite. What I love you may dislike, therefore do not deem my religion wrong because it does not suit your taste. Bad is bad, good is good. Can the difference be all in opinion ? It is good to love, bad to hate, and worse to deceive in either. The heart is a little thing, but the love of it and the hate of it rule the world. Love and Sorrow are strong. How can it be, then, their offspring. Tears, can be weak, for they are her parents. What we are that we are : is it for the gossip's tongue to change us by speaking good or ill ? Let the dream we are dreaming be no nightmare, but one long happiness, honey for the lips, and perfume — roses and lilies — for the nostrils' breath. Birds sing in the early spring. Young birds sing, Love — only love. P I T H Y S A Y I N G S 241 What then ? They build their tiny homes and rear their young. The winter's chilKng blast — Perhaps they separate. But with the warmth of spring again their happy notes pour forth. Let no chill winter wind Break in between our hearts ; Let spring bloom always With love — only love. A great many people in this world can't appreciate a point unless it be a thorn in their own flesh. History is the record of mistakes cor- rected. Joy and sorrow are of one mother love, but they are strangely different, and yet withal so alike. Religion is not the word of God ; it is the every-day life of individual man. It has not to do with creeds and hollow, high-sounding prayers and sermons, with churches and church sociables, but with man's every-day concerns and with the home life of all the people. 242 PITHY SAYINGS Talk not to me of the barbarities and ignorance of the dim, forgotten past, but help me to live truthfully in the present. Wherein is the beauty of well doing but that others are made happy thereby ? Can heaven be more than this ? And as for the evils of man's acts, they follow him, and what is that but hell ? If the young housekeeper was to cast her bread upon the waters it would not return to her after many days — it would sink. And about charity — it is a long time appearing over the mountain crest, but with faith we may hope for it in the future. A flower in bloom is like the benedic- tion of a holy man, filled with the spirit of God. When a man quibbles over the right or wrong of an act, it is safe to reckon on a weak conscience. In the land of By-and-by there are many fancies of wondrous weaving, but a man may spend his whole life chasing them and where is the profit ? PITHY SAYINGS 243 There is a bright light in the far heavens which but few men can see ; it is reason coming over the mountain peak. If we love our neighbor as ourself and he hunger, what do we, give him a stone ? And if it be the Sabbath-day and he thirst, do we say, " Go, wait until to-morrow " ? There are such. Too much freedom is the worst curse with which a man, a state, or a nation can be afflicted. If a man hungers give him bread, not a stone ; if his soul hungers, give him the truth, not a rock-bound, copper-bottomed, double-riveted creed. If your employer says. Do this, is it for you to do that, although the fruit of your labor may be of greater profit ? As for the land of discontent, it is in a deep valley and easy to reach, but the climate is misty and unhealthy and the fruit sour and poisoned at heart. The dead past is dead. Why then trouble it with murmurings of discontent ? ^ As for the future, may it not prove a de- 244 PITHY SAYINGS lusion and a snare? Why then trouble the Maybes with worrying ? Darkness surrounds us, and the dawn- ing light of science is the only true guide to future truth and perfection. Be wise to-day ; to-morrow may be too late. A man having said he was once in a place where every one minded his own business, was naturally doubted, but proved his statement by adding the place was a graveyard. Every doctrine is more or less dog- matic, and is at some time a fact to some people. But just so soon as it has been a fact, or is, just so sure it has been or will be disputed and proven wrong. God is the perfection of all that is just and good and the highest possible standard of love and charity. Opinion, reason, facts, these are know- ledge, and knowledge is one thing to- day ; to-morrow opinion is changed by a change in reasoning which makes con- trary facts. PITHY SAYINGS 245 One generation is kept busy correcting the errors of the past, except when it is making errors to be corrected by the next. If they have the inclination, most men will if they can ; and this they call pre- destination. To some people this life is like a terri- ble nightmare ; this is generally because they have overloaded the stomach or their conscience. He who continuously strives to do right in all things comes in time to have the reputation of a right doer, and as such is honored by men. xA-s we are, let us act ; as we think, let us speak, but let our actions be moderate and our tongue not too glib. He who is fed by the raven is a thank- less fellow if he does not feed the ant in his turn. Unlike iron, the temper of one's tongue improves as it softens. If the rain never came how would we learn to appreciate the glory of the bright sun } 246 PITHY SAYINGS A man is a man just so far as he treats his brother as a man. When he begins to treat him or to look upon him as less, he sees through the eyes of the animal he is looking at. When the will is weak, morals are gen- erally questionable. A man who fails in little things will surely fail in greater ones. If people could only learn that life is made up by a mingling of the ideal with the real, and that it is, when rightly lived, like a beautiful painting, varied, grand, and pathetic, with deep and softer col- orings commingled in a most harmonious whole ; if we could remember it is as much to live sympathetically, generously, with glad reason, as it is to do the rougher work, then would the great riddle be completely solved, and conditions, not aspirations, would more largely prevail for happiness. Few things are so trying to the aver- age person as forgetfulness in little things ; the great faults can be dealt with PITHY SAYINGS 247 easier and with more forbearance than the trifling thing which merely vexes for the moment. One of the first lessons for a person to learn in life is that it is not what is done for him, but what he does for him- self, that benefits him. As the boy learns so will the man know. If he is taught to fight his own battles with patient thoughtfulness, the man will have no other thought, but will be self-reliant in all things. Don't let vexations of the past creep out in future murmurings of discontent ; the dead past is dead with its sorrow. A man who gives with his hand from a rankling heart but half gives ; he who gives his heart, though he have nothing else, gives all things. In the round of a man's daily life are many little vexations which must be trampled under the force of a constantly trained will, for it is only when he feels himself capable of meeting with calm- ness these trials that he can do his full 248 PITHY SAYINGS share in adding to the brightness of home Ufe. Don't poison your neighbor's cat to spite the man ; that is spiting the Creator. It is the duty of every person to make this hfe beautiful ; and the only way to do this is to make each day and hour beautiful as it comes, that when it goes its way we may not wish to call it back to blot out some little action here or add a kind word there in place of careless negligence. Don't believe everything you hear about a neighbor because you dislike him ; if you do believe it don't repeat it. The home is the kindergarten of life, and the child is the highest trust of the parents. To every man the degree of good to which he has attained is in proportion to the selfishness he has overcome and the evil he is able to resist. The personal love of self, self-glorifi- cation and self-comfort, is in reality ego- tism, and causes more unhappiness than can well be imagined. PITHY SAYINGS 249 In the true home there is no individual or selfish world or motive, for there must be unity of purpose and desire to beget happiness. Selfishness is the essence of all sin and all sorrow, while a perfect patience and strong will is the opposite. The home is the key to the interpreta- tion of a man's life and character. There is more in manner than we generally imagine and less in the actual words said; and nowhere is temptation to find fault so easily yielded to, nowhere is so little thought given to the manner of speech, as in the home, the very place where from the fact of like desires there should be most help and encouragement. Unity of spirit, love of right, and bro- therhood of man. That is the motto which should be learned to-day and fol- lowed by every would-be Christian.