Book : 4-Uc 
 
 Copyright N ! 
 
 COPYRIG'fT DEPOSIT. 
 
%ike shadows they have passed the dreams of long ago." 
 
LIFE PICTURES 
 
 IN PROSE AND VERSE 
 
 BY 
 
 SCOTT WOODWARD 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 LOUISE HOWARD 
 
 COPYRIGHTED 
 
 1911 
 
 TRAVERSE CITY, MICHIGAN 
 

 CI.A292G94 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 My Guardian Angel - - - - 9 
 
 Ho ! For Seattle - - - 12 
 
 Duncan - - - - - 14 
 
 My Rival - - - - 17 
 
 Don't You Forget It - - - - 21 
 
 Repentance ----- 23 
 
 The New Quarter Day - - - - 27 
 Just Let Me Hang Around Here Till Spring 32 
 
 Darkness ----- 33 
 
 The Office Seeker - - - - 35 
 
 When the Dimples Went In - - 39 
 
 Mountain Dew - - - - - 41 
 
 A Sweet Little Dimple Like You - - 45 
 
 The Night Police - - - - 46 
 
 A Cheerful Liar - - - - 51 
 
 Dinna Forget - - - - - 52 
 
 Carolina - - - - 53 
 
 Dreamland - - - - - 57 
 
 The Musician - - - - 59 
 
 The Miller's Bequest - - - - 61 
 
 Loss of the Kimball 63 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Cowboy's Dream - - - - 65 
 
 A Vision (By a Bachelor) 71 
 
 A Query - - - - - - 73 
 
 The Naughty Dolly 76 
 
 Zera ...... 77 
 
 Poor Jim ----- 79 
 
 The Maniac - - - - - 81 
 
 Tommy's First Christmas - - 84 
 
 TheVag - - - - - 86 
 
 Mikey McDoogan 92 
 
 The Old Miser - - - - - 96 
 
 Toast to St. Patrick - - - 98 
 
 The Battle of Manila - - 99 
 
 The Last Pine 101 
 
 Father Baxter's Last Sermon - - 105 
 
 Old Fifty-Nine 111 
 
 The Auction - - 114 
 
 The Old-Fashioned Cradle - - 120 
 
 Chasing a Hat - 123 
 
 A Sermon on the Train - - - 127 
 
 The Summer of '97 - - . - - 131 
 
 Cutting the Last Pine - - - 133 
 
 Charging the Tank - 137 
 
 Traverse as a Resort - - - 140 
 
 "No. 2317" 144 
 
 Our Last Battle - 150 
 
 A White Casket - - - - 155 
 
 Just Before the Battle, Marcus - - 157 
 
 A Young Hero .... 161 
 
 Two Pictures - 164 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Traverse City, Mich., Aug. 10, 1910. 
 
 Outward appearances were never more deceiving than is 
 the case with Mr. Scott Woodward, author of this work, which 
 he has so appropriately named "Life Pictures." Hard work 
 and worry as a publisher when a young man and later as a 
 tiller of the soil and an active business man have left their 
 marks indelibly stamped upon his face and figure, but his 
 heart evidently remains young for he is ever bubbling over 
 with sentiment and feeling, which he portrays in verse and 
 prose, that will long keep his own life and characteristics 
 fresh in the memory of those who live after him. 
 
 After many years of constant refusal to hearken to the 
 demands of friends and neighbors Mr. Woodward, who has 
 become quite well known as "Will Carleton of the North," 
 complies with the expressed wishes and publishes this, a com- 
 pilation of selections of his own composition, many of which 
 he has been heard to read, for his "life pictures" are so true 
 to nature as he sees it that he always has an appropriate num- 
 ber for any occasion and, though he is one of the most modest 
 of men, he is ever ready to respond when called and he seems 
 to soon lose himself in the character he presents. 
 
 In his early life this author differed from his fellows In 
 that his imagination was most vivid and he turned his visions, 
 as some called them, into realities and wove them into his 
 paintings of life in various phases about him, taken from his 
 peculiar viewpoint. Thus it is that "1/ife Pictures" is the 
 result of combining the possibilities of a dreamer's imagina- 
 tion with the realities of life as witnessed, experienced and 
 understood by one whose keen perception and accurate judg- 
 ment make him a real man of affairs in the world of today, 
 such as is recognized in Mr. Woodward, and to whom all 
 readers of this book will be truly indebted. 
 
 GEO. W. KENT, 
 Editor Traverse City Daily Eagle. 
 
A BOOK FROM THE HEART. 
 
 Carlyle once said: — "If a book comes from the heart it 
 will contrive to reach other hearts ; all art and authorcraft are 
 of small moment to that." It is because I am fully persuaded 
 that the lines in this book come from the heart of the author 
 that I commend it to the public. 
 
 WILBER W. McKEE, 
 Pastor Ashbury Methodist Episcopal Church. 
 Traverse City, Mich., Dec. 12, 1910. 
 
 Park Ridge, 111., April 22, 1911. 
 
 Having known Brother Scott Woodward intimately, for a 
 long time, and listened, with interest, to a great many of his 
 poems, many of which are contained in this book, I most 
 cordially recommend it to the reading public. In his home 
 town, all one need say is that Scott Woodward says it is so, and 
 no one would think of questioning the truth of a statement. 
 He has served in many positions of trust, and on many impor- 
 tant committees, as a member of Traverse City Lodge No. 222, 
 F. & A. M M of which I served as Master, and to be vouched 
 for by "Brother Scott" was always sufficiently strong evi- 
 dence as to the character of any one. Many of the poems 
 contained in this book were first heard at the banquet table 
 after work, and it is very largely through the urgent sugges- 
 tions of those who have heard them on these occasions that 
 the publication of "Life Pictures" is undertaken. The writ- 
 ings from his pen will always be clean, and will be found to 
 touch a responsive chord in every breast. We bespeak a most 
 cordial reception for this effort of a worthy man. 
 Signed, 
 
 CHARLES D. AT WELL, 
 Rector St. Mary's Church, Park Ridge, 111. 
 
LIFE PICTURES. 
 
MY GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 My mind oft pictures, while the setting sun 
 
 Sinks low behind the western pine, 
 
 A face that's young, and yet a halo 
 
 Of heavenly grace that earth ne'er won. 
 
 Mere child in form or years, 
 
 And yet I've seen her eyes with tears oft filled for 
 
 other's wrong, 
 Those eyes of love that took their cast from 
 
 heaven's 
 Vault, look down into your very soul 
 When once are stirred, and point you 
 Heavenward with holy thought. 
 Evil skulked away with eyes down cast, 
 Or trembled like the forest swept by winter's blast. 
 Oft would she climb upon my knee, 
 My neck entwine, and tell me 
 Of thought that in her mind would creep, 
 And ere that she was done, her head upon my breast 
 Would drop in holy sleep. 
 My guardian angel, — 
 And ever present with me in my life, 
 
MY GUARDIAN ANGKL. 11 
 
 To shield me from temptation 
 
 In this world of strife, 
 
 I see her face in every flower that blows, 
 
 Her very lips are mirrored in the morning rose. 
 
 Her finger touch comes with the evening air, 
 
 And smooths the wrinkles from my brow — 
 
 And care — is oft times lulled away 
 
 By the bright vision of better day. 
 
 Ever present vision, angel of the blest, 
 
 Bring to me peace and holy rest, 
 
 Help me to face temptation like a man. 
 
 When others fall may I but stand. 
 
HO! FOR SEATTLE. 
 
 When the sky is the fairest and the days they are 
 
 long, 
 We'll hie to the westward with many a song. 
 We'll cross the great meadows where buffaloes 
 
 roamed, 
 And the Indian lived in his skin-covered home, 
 Past grain fields and farm house we swiftly will fly 
 And watch the gray buzzard while circling the sky. 
 We will cross the great mountains all covered 
 
 with snow 
 And stop us at last where the wild poppies grow. 
 Then away for Seattle. 
 
 (T. B. S.) Conductor, I've lost my ticket. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Seattle, Seattle, Star of the West, 
 Where the sun in its beauty is sinking to rest ! 
 Seattle, Seattle, we soon will be there, 
 Take the Great Northern for Seattle the fair. 
 (T. B. 3.) You bet we will. 
 
HO! FOR SKATTlvE. 13 
 
 Like the kids from the country we would see the 
 
 whole show, 
 We will dodge the gay grafters wherever we go; 
 We will dance with the walrus from the city of 
 
 Nome, 
 And tell you all about it when we get home. 
 We will taste the whole menu from each bill of fare. 
 And shake the great paw of the white polar bear. 
 So when we get back this story we'll tell, 
 How we've been way out west and been having a 
 
 spell. 
 
 Ho, Ho, for Seattle ! 
 
DUNCAN. 
 
 'Tis n'a use to live, or try 
 
 And be like those who have their jovs. 
 
 Full fifteen years of loneliness have told 
 
 On Duncan's head, and e'en his face grows old. 
 
 What use to think the thoughts, when once a boy, 
 
 And years passed by in childhood's joy, 
 
 That bairn was very dear to me. 
 
 Oft did we sit and list to the murmuring sea. 
 
 Or, as we older grew we climbed old Scotland's 
 
 Heights in search for mistletoe, 
 
 Or sat in the shade a summer's day, 
 
 And list to the kirk bell far away. 
 
 All things must end, they tell me, here on earth, 
 
 I wish that mine had come before my birth, 
 
 Then never would this story here be told, 
 
 Or Duncan's face grow thin and old. 
 
 Tempted for gold in "Forty-nine" 
 
 I tried my fortune with other kind. 
 
 With not a misgiving for her nor him 
 
 I left my sweetheart with brother Jim, 
 
 And with a promise to my future bride, 
 
 I turned my face to the ocean wide. 
 
 Need I tell the hardships I endured ? 
 
 How I was homesick and how cured ? 
 
DUNCAN. IS 
 
 And when at intervals a letter came 
 
 'T would buoy me up like, and cause a flame 
 
 To spring up in Duncan's lonely heart, 
 
 And help me there to act the manly part. 
 
 Then after that we had a skirmish or a fuss, 
 
 And mail was stopped entirely, with us, 
 
 But I could wait in that wild mountain land, 
 
 Then with my gold go claim my Molly's hand. 
 
 Three years of sunshine and of snow 
 
 Before I saw the valley down below. 
 
 Then down in Frisco, think it was in June, 
 
 I called for mail for Duncan H, Malone. 
 
 I had a letter, lucky chap ! 
 
 And Jim's handwriting on the wrap, 
 
 But this is what the letter said inside ; 
 
 That Mollie had sickened suddenly and died. 
 
 The letter mixed, with sympathy and prayer, 
 
 Had teardrops spattered here and there. 
 
 Then what had life, with hoarded wealth in gold, 
 
 To tempt me back to Scotland as of old ? 
 
 What is life ? With me 'tis all the same, 
 
 For fifteen years its only been a name, 
 
 I only wait to cross the narrow sea. 
 
 What you say ? A letter, and it's all for me, 
 
 And Mollie's own handwriting ? Queer ! 
 
 How my fingers shake with fear. 
 
 Hallucination of the past, 
 
 Only for a moment will it last. 
 
 Here, take the letter, break the seal ; 
 
 Strange how such trifles make me feel. 
 
16 IvlFB PICTURES. 
 
 'Tis like the echoes up at Hatche's Run, 
 
 We listen for them, then they's gone. 
 
 What does it say ? And waiting as of old ? 
 
 Stop where you are . It's more'n my heart can hold . 
 
 Now, read slow, I'm nervous like to-night. 
 
 'Tis years since I've seen that old, familiar write. 
 
 And Jim was false? Ah, curses on his head, 
 
 But I forgive him now he's dead. 
 
 Where's me coat, and where's me hat, I say ? 
 
 I'll start for Scotland now, this very day. 
 
 For five long months I was 'twixt wind and wave. 
 
 I'll make it back in half that many days. 
 
 Joy seldom kills or leaves behind a blight. 
 'Tis like a ray of sunshine after night. 
 
MY RIVAL. 
 
 Yes, he had married her the very day 
 
 I started for the gold fields far away; 
 
 My sorrow was too deep, so I thought it best 
 
 To bury my trouble in the far off west; 
 
 We had played together, yes, for years 
 
 She shared my sorrow, my joy, my tears; 
 
 We gathered wild flowers in the meadows green, 
 
 And drank from the same cup by the limpid stream, 
 
 I can't tell you exactly when 
 
 That our engagement first began, 
 
 Think it must have been '43. 
 
 We were ten years old then, Allie and me; 
 
 We had hunted for birds' nests far and wide, 
 
 And nary a nest had either espied 
 
 Till a bright red robin flew by my head, 
 
 "Oh, yonder's the nest ! " little Allie said. 
 
 I wasn't long in climbing the limb; 
 
 The bird's nest there — four eggs within; 
 
 As I climbed out for a better view 
 
 The limb it broke. 'Twas the last I knew 
 
 Till I looked up in a dazed surprise, 
 
 And saw tears standing in both her eyes. 
 
 Bending o'er me with apron brown, 
 
 She was wiping the blood from my damaged crown. 
 
 I can't tell you how, but when — 
 
 For we pledged each other there and then, 
 
MY RIVAIv. 19 
 
 And no prouder scar can man display 
 
 Than the one I got on that summer's day. 
 
 You think me childish. Well, never mind, 
 
 In all old people some fault you'll find; 
 
 You remember the adage, don't mind these tears, 
 
 I've kept them back nigh fifty years. 
 
 The years flew by like a summer's dream, 
 
 Each added beauty to my childhood's queen. 
 
 Fool that I was, I couldn't have seen 
 
 The cup placed there for me to drain; 
 
 The sickening dregs of a wasted life, 
 
 And my childhood's queen another's wife. 
 
 Yes, he was handsome, I don't dispute, 
 
 And plenty of gold thrown in, to boot. 
 
 'Twas the same old story; a father's will 
 
 Must be obeyed, though graves he fill. 
 
 She told me the story 'mid sobs and tears, 
 
 Then told me her duty for coming years. 
 
 'Twas all up ? Well, you bet. 
 
 I see that look on her pale face yet. 
 
 I tried to act the manly part, 
 
 And pressed her for the last to my aching heart, 
 
 Another might wed her by threats or fears, 
 
 But Allie was mine for coming years. 
 
 Well, fortune smiled in that far off land. 
 
 Gold I found at each turn of the pan, 
 
 And how I wondered, in that lonely spot, 
 
 Y/hy fortune came when I craved it not. 
 
 The wolf and the bear that nights did roam, 
 
 Oft came and sniffed round my cabin home. 
 
20 UFK PICTURES. 
 
 The panther too, with stealthy tread, 
 
 Would watch for the owl perched overhead. 
 
 And no beast of prey in his native lair 
 
 Was as safe as I in my lone despair. 
 
 And strangers came, both white and brown, 
 
 And stopped with me when the sun went down. 
 
 One night I sat in a lonely mood, 
 
 I tried in vain to think of good; 
 
 The leaves were stirred outside my door, 
 
 And a wasted form stood on my floor. 
 
 Did I know him ? Well, you bet, 
 
 Such a face as his one don't forget. 
 
 My rival was there, not rolling in wealth, 
 
 But merely a wreck of his former self. 
 
 The story he told of his wasted life, 
 
 And worst of all, a heartbroken wife. 
 
 Yes, Allie was gone, and then and there 
 
 I could have strangled him in my lone despair; 
 
 He had wandered far and tried in vain 
 
 To rid himself of his guilt and shame; 
 
 And his haggard face told, alas too true — 
 
 To flee from yourself you can not do. 
 
 I took him in right there and then, 
 
 And cared for him like I would a friend, 
 
 But his stay was short. — In vain I tried 
 
 To rally him, That night he died. 
 
 And now I stand by the river's brink, 
 
 Allie waits over there, I think; 
 
 Don't mind these tears. I am old, you know. 
 
 'Twas my childhood's love long years ago. 
 
DON'T YOU FORGET IT. 
 
 We are trotting too fast in this busy old world, 
 Some things I found out and hear have unfurled. 
 I've learned it in part and so mayhaps may you. 
 Bought wit is the sweetest, I'll own it is true. 
 Don't measure a man by what he appears, 
 Like a horse by his teeth or a mule by his ears. 
 There are many things hid from our vision to-day. 
 We "catch on'' to-morrow, as people would say — 
 When it's all too late to get the deal back — 
 We've a pig in a poke, or a cat in the sack. 
 But we ever keep on and live to regret it. 
 We're learning our lesson and don't you forget it. 
 Now, Billy Updyke had a terrible cough, 
 Was fed on syrups and onion broth; 
 He begged his mrother for oyster stew, 
 Sweetmeats and candy, and oranges too, 
 He would wake up nights with a ten-yard croup — 
 He would choke and swallow, and hack and whoop. 
 You'd think him dying by the fuss he made, 
 But the boy, you see, was learning his trade. 
 His mother she knew what would cure or kill, 
 You see she was onto poor little Bill. 
 She pulled the clothes down and made him regret it; 
 She was onto her boy and don't you forget it. 
 Now, there's Dr. DeVeer who lately came down 
 And hung out his shingle in this end of town. 
 
22 IylFB PICTURES. 
 
 He drove that old horse half the night and all day. 
 
 He's right on the rush, as people would say. 
 
 It's shocking too, I have heard it is said 
 
 He keeps on his boots when he tumbles in bed. 
 
 If you should come in with a crutch or a cane, 
 
 With Dr. DeVeer it is ever the same. 
 
 He patches up fevers and old chonic ills 
 
 With patent powders and cod liver pills. 
 
 Should you get your neck broke he would swear 
 
 he can set it. 
 He is onto his job, and don't you forget it. 
 Now, Skimyhorn Jack was married last spring 
 To Nellie McQueer, the sweet little thing. 
 Now people declared that Jack was a brick, 
 And often came home as full as a tick. 
 Night after night he'd come rolling in, 
 Loaded with whiskey, cubebs and gin. 
 But there came a change over poor little Nell; 
 And how she got even, right here let me tell, 
 She pulled two chairs up close to the fire, 
 And dropped on the hearth a half finished cigar. 
 It smoked and went out, you see she had wet it. 
 She was onto her job, and don't you forget it. 
 
REPENTANCE. 
 
 A minister of the gospel who for many years had stood 
 before his people and warned them against the enticements of 
 sin, himself becomes its victim. The following lines are in- 
 tended to reveal the inner workings of his heart. 
 
 Shakespeare says — 
 
 ' ' The good men do, oft dies with them, 
 While evil stalks the earth abroad." 
 
 Or words to that effect. 
 
 Secure in nothing, only blindly led, 
 
 Mistaking evil for the good instead, 
 
 A false incentive for some other one; 
 
 And only know it when the work is done. 
 
 But why procrastinate ? Who now may tell 
 
 The mortal fallen and why he fell ? 
 
 A dismal fact I do at once recall, 
 
 Adverse emotions haunt the steps of all. 
 
 The good adjures us in a whisper low, 
 
 With humble mien, the way men all should go, 
 
 While evil lifts her hands in mock dismay, 
 
 And says, "With pleasure there's a better way." 
 
 Such is life, such are the haunts of men, 
 
 It is and has been since the world began. 
 
 Let him who thinks he stands first heed the call, 
 
 He's first to wager, first to fall. 
 
 My former life in sin was most complete, 
 
24 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 With vile companions haunting every street, 
 
 Until a motive of another kind 
 
 O'ertook me, changing all my mind, 
 
 Forsaking sin, and with ambitious name 
 
 I learned at once to name the Saviour's name; 
 
 In comely garb, what more could you expect? — 
 
 In sight of man I stood with the elect, 
 
 Leading the young to act the noble part, 
 
 To cleanse the mind and purify the heart, 
 
 With middle age I was in even touch, 
 
 Where much was given, was expected much. 
 
 I spoke to the aged with abated breath, 
 
 To turn from sin and now prepare for death, 
 
 All ages heard the preached word, 
 
 Forsaking sin and turning to the Lord. 
 
 So, like a beacon in yon lighthouse tower, 
 
 I warned of danger with each parting hour. 
 
 The good I've told, why now the evil tell, 
 
 How I had risen, why I fell? 
 
 By woman, man is victor over all, 
 
 And by the same poor mortal man must fall ; 
 
 What next? I think it mete 
 
 To say like Adam, "She tempted me and I did eat." 
 
 Her feeble protests only added fire 
 
 To all my lusts, and quickened my desire; 
 
 Misguided one, to place her faith with man, 
 
 Where passion ruled and evil first began; 
 
 She, like the hare that leads the hunters chase, 
 
 Quick circles back to her first starting place, 
 
 Or like the moth to flutter near the blaze, 
 
REPENTANCE. 25 
 
 "Will list to falsehood if it's in her praise, 
 
 Or like the drunkard who forswears his bowl, 
 
 Resumes his cup and damns his very soul. 
 
 (He listens.) 
 
 Why that bell in this unseemly hour ? 
 
 Would I could wrest it from yon church tower ! 
 
 It calls to worship, laying by all sin, 
 
 That nothing vile should ever enter in; 
 
 Should wanton man there enter e'er so vile, 
 
 With humble mien should face the sacred aisle, 
 
 Confess his sins, for such to them I taught. 
 
 No evil deed with good was ever wrought. 
 
 Oh, conscience, monitor of grace, 
 
 Still standing guard within that sacred place. 
 
 A naming sword once guarded Eden's door, 
 
 I dare not, can not cross that sacred floor 
 
 In outward garb of God's annointed one, 
 
 And heart as black as satan's very own. 
 
 (He hears the children singing:) 
 
 "Lead me, Oh, my Saviour, lead me." 
 
 They're nearer God today than I e'er hope to be, 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear them sing, 
 
 And with their voices glorify their King. 
 
 Guileless in their walk and way; 
 
 'Twas I who taught them how to sing and pray. 
 
 Blessed in ignorance, twice doubly blessed, 
 
 Their little follies have to me confessed. 
 
 So small their faults in innocence begin, 
 
 Then who am I to tell them of my sin ? 
 
 (The bell.) 
 
26 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 Again that bell is calling the faithful few. 
 
 Oh, God, what must I, can I do? 
 
 Blasphemous wretch, to fill that sacred chair, 
 
 Or face my Lord while leading them in prayer; 
 
 Yes, I'll fly, but I, where can I go? 
 
 Did man e'er fall or ever sink so low? 
 
 So great my sin, so sudden was the fall, 
 
 That even now I dare not heed the call, 
 
 ' 'Though thy sins be as scarlet." 
 
 Strange being this conscience is, 
 
 Strange monitor of grace, 
 
 To search man out from each dark hiding place, 
 
 Slowly and sadly I'm wending my way 
 
 Back to the foot of the cross, 
 
 And looking upward, I see extended 
 
 Pardon, for even unworthy me. 
 
THE NEW QUARTER DAY. 
 
 Kites rise against the wind, .not with it; 
 
 No man ever worked his passage any where in a dead calm. 
 
 — Jno Neal. 
 
 The day long looked for came to me at last, 
 
 And too, the lengthy contract for months would 
 
 hold me fast. 
 The staid old district fathers had told the story 
 
 o'er, 
 How I, as district teacher, would walk the school- 
 
 house floor. 
 It's one thing to run the gauntlet of county board 
 
 and all, 
 And another thing to please them, the district 
 
 great and small. 
 Of course, like all young teachers, I had a petted 
 
 plan, 
 We work the rule sometimes, and sometimes if we 
 
 can. 
 They told me to run the business but mind one 
 
 simple rule, — 
 To flog each blasted young'un that ran away from 
 
 school; 
 Armed with such a weapon, I started in the day, 
 Resolved that no hard flogging on the teacher's 
 
 part would play; 
 
THE NEW QUARTER DAY. 29 
 
 But there were other crosses to me that morning 
 
 hour, 
 That called up all my courage, that weakened all 
 
 my power; 
 Just as the bell was ringing the early hour of nine 
 In came Mrs. Murphy, four children in a line; 
 Her introduction,— spare me! I can't just tell you 
 
 how — 
 She pushed her children toward me and made a 
 
 lengthy bow — 
 "Ma'am, these are mine, ma'am, Ben, Jimmy, Joe 
 
 and Jack, 
 And as for common larnin', I fear there is a lack." 
 She looked her children over in honest mother's 
 
 pride, 
 They were four dirty urchins, and ragged, too, 
 
 beside; 
 Without so much as asking, this simple fact I read, 
 Unwashed, half clothed and cared for, worst of 
 
 all — half fed; 
 I since have taught in places where anyone could 
 
 teach, 
 And kissed the dirty faces as far as I could reach, 
 But never in my days, the part I had to play, 
 Will I forget my starting on that new quarter day. 
 Well, these were four to start with, and then how 
 
 many more 
 Dear little mother's darlings were coming on that 
 
 score ? 
 Next came Mrs. Curtis, a lady most refined, 
 
30 IvIFB PICTURES. 
 
 Her manner, somewhat lofty, to me was rather 
 
 kind ; 
 With child of seven summers, frail, puny little 
 
 lass, 
 Was nothing, yet was something rolled in one 
 
 general mass ; 
 Knew Virgil by the wholesale, Shakespeare by 
 
 the page. 
 I never saw her equal in one of tender age, 
 And when it came to Harkney's, Latin was her 
 
 forte, 
 She spoke the native Spanish like any maid of 
 
 court ; 
 But you should have seen the glitter in that dear 
 
 mother's eyes 
 When I spoke of simple English in spelling exer- 
 cise. 
 "You don't class her with them," the mother said, 
 
 aghast, 
 Pointing toward the Murphys as if a look would 
 
 blast ; 
 What was I to do with the child of golden hair ? 
 What better could be done for the little Murphys 
 
 there ? 
 All five were only equal as in a general rule, 
 The world can know no caste in a common public 
 
 school. 
 Some thirty more were by me, they all had gath- 
 ered 'round, 
 
THE NEW QUARTER DAY. 31 
 
 Had listened to the answers and the questions 
 
 most profound ; 
 'Twas the hour to open, I gently closed the door, 
 I knelt and prayed to heaven, as I never prayed 
 
 before — 
 "Oh, my Father, with a heart of light and wis- 
 dom, endow me from above, 
 And make my work among them one of light and 
 
 love. 
 May each tender face before me see in me a face 
 Filled with consecration — filled with heavenly 
 
 grace ; 
 May they have mental training and goodness of 
 
 the heart, 
 With love for Thee, my Father, that never may 
 
 depart ; 
 Footsteps will oft grow weary, the sun will refuse 
 
 to shine, 
 But be Thou ever near me to guide this heart of 
 
 mine." 
 I'm older now, my hair is somewhat gray, 
 But I never will forget that first new quarter day. 
 
JUST LET ME HANG AROUND TILL SPRING. 
 
 Come now, Landlord, don't turn me away, 
 
 I'll do any old thing if you'll just let me stay. 
 
 I'll bucksaw wood or scrub the office floor, 
 
 If need be, I'll clean the cuspidor. 
 
 I ain't particular. I'll do any old thing, 
 
 If you'll just let me hang around here till Spring. 
 
 (And I'll eat any old thing, too, Landlord.) 
 
 When you have chicken just give me the bones, 
 
 Or any old scrap that nobody owns. 
 
 When you have padding, I'll scrape out the dish, 
 
 I'll clean the skillet after frying the fish, 
 
 The neck of the turkey at me you may fling, 
 
 If you'll just let me hang around here till Spring. 
 
DARKNESS. 
 
 There are sorrows so deep that night can not 
 darken, 
 
 Death opens the door when joys are near by ; 
 There are times when the ear refuses to hearken, 
 
 Or tears to moisten the burning eye. 
 
 Be still, my poor heart, while duty is calling 
 
 To face my fate so sad and alone; 
 While up from the gloom comes the cry so appall- 
 in 0, 
 "I want my dear mama, why don't she come 
 home?" 
 
 By the side of the mountain they laid my poor 
 darling, 
 Where the gray eagle screams from its loftiest 
 crest ; 
 And the torrent that surges down by to the ocean, 
 Mirrors but faintly my poor tortured breast. 
 
 Oh, why am I left, and her two darling babes ? 
 
 Could not Mercy take all when one had to go, 
 And not place to our lips the last drop of sorrow, 
 
 And tell us to drink of bitterest woe ? 
 
34 IvlFE PICTURES. 
 
 Thro' the long, dreary night the lattice was open, 
 The stars shone down from a cheerless sky, 
 
 The heart cried out, all bleeding and broken, 
 ''This cup is too great, can I pass it by ? 
 
 Then a voice whispered, ''Peace.'' 'Twas that of 
 the Master, 
 
 "Alone for creation the wine press I trod. 
 Your sorrows are great, but joy I send after, 
 
 Your darling is here with the angels and God." 
 
 •'Just over the river she beckons you onward, 
 Short is the time you will parted be; 
 
 The hairs of your head correctly are numbered, 
 The sparrows may fall, but their fall I can see." 
 
 Then the angel bent low o'er the two babies 
 sleeping, 
 Pushed the curls back from a tear-stained face, 
 But the child thought 'twas mama and smiled in 
 her dreaming, 
 Threw her arms up for a nightly embrace. 
 
THE OFFICE SEEKER. 
 
 I sat one night in my office, 
 
 The fire burned low in the grate ; 
 I had smiled on all the committees 
 
 Until the hour was late; 
 Each had a plank to me carried, 
 
 And hinted in his talk 
 How that was a part of the platform, 
 
 On which their leader must walk. 
 The first to call in the morning 
 
 Was a man of liberal view ; 
 He was a man for the people, 
 
 And of course knew something, too. 
 "Don't bother your head with liquors ! 
 
 You see, from the way it looks, 
 The law was only intended 
 
 To lie on the shelf in books. 
 I advise you to touch it discreetly, 
 
 Beware of making a fuss; 
 If you meddle at all with temperance, 
 
 You will get no help from us." 
 Of course I quickly consented, 
 
 And bowed him out of the door. 
 Then turned and saw he had left me 
 
 His plank on the naked floor. 
 I scarcely sat down to the table, 
 
 Had written a single line, 
 
36 IvIFB PICTURES. 
 
 When someone was heard in the hallway 
 
 To lift me a second time. 
 This was a man of business 
 
 In life's commercial whirl, 
 He had a plank of improvement, 
 
 Which down on the floor he hurled. 
 "You must put that down in your platform 
 
 It's plainly, don't you see ? 
 You must stir things up from the bottom 
 
 Or you'll get no help from me/' 
 He hurried out of my presence, 
 
 To cope with other men, 
 And I turned once more to my table 
 
 To take up my paper and pen. 
 I had just taken note and dimension 
 
 Of the plank he left behind, 
 When in came a miserly neighbor, 
 
 With a plank of another kind : 
 "It's not much we are asking, 
 
 Our wants are thin and few ; 
 But what we have found in others, 
 
 We expect to find in you. 
 Don't be too hasty in spending 
 
 Our money to make a show, 
 It's better at first to go easy 
 
 Than run us in debt, you know ; 
 So book that down in your platform, 
 
 For times are hard, you see ; 
 You must promise to save our money, 
 
 Or you get no help from me." 
 
THE} OFFICE SEEKER. 37 
 
 Again I started to writing, 
 
 And book him down with the rest — 
 Of course I had given my promise 
 
 To do my level best. 
 I scarcely was back to my paper, 
 
 Had written a single word, 
 When again I was called to surrender, — 
 
 Another caller I heard ; 
 There was a temperance committee, 
 
 And the plank they handed me 
 Was in a lengthy petition 
 
 Signed by one hundred and three. 
 It started out in this wise : — 
 
 "That we, the undersigned, 
 Expect you will aid and abet us 
 
 In good of every kind ; 
 We expect you to close the dram shops, 
 
 And houses of disrepute, 
 And keep out other vices, 
 
 And gambling, too, to boot ; 
 'Tis something for you to refuse us, 
 
 We give you fair warning then, 
 To place that there in your platform, 
 
 With a simple turn of your pen." 
 Refuse them ? Well, how could I ? 
 
 Their motive was noble and high, 
 So I signed their wish with the others, 
 
 And dropped the pen with a sigh. 
 Well, on the day of election, 
 
 The strangest thing of all, 
 
38 IvIFE PICTURES. 
 
 These committees were thrown together 
 
 There in the election hall. 
 They jostled each other in envy, 
 
 They jammed one another about, 
 Till there in the midst of the wrangling. 
 
 The whole of the deal came out. 
 Each had a string on me somewhere, 
 
 Pulling me over his way ; 
 By the time they got through hauling, 
 
 The very deuce was to pay. 
 I can't tell how it happened, 
 
 But I felt most mighty small 
 When they one and all consented 
 
 To fire me out of the hall. 
 At present I'm not climbing 
 
 The office seeker's hill, 
 Resolved that lower places 
 
 Will do me just as well; 
 But when I see a man 
 
 With a smile just "7x10," 
 I'm thinking what it did for me, 
 
 And what I might have been. 
 
WHEN THE DIMPLES WENT IN. 
 
 When the glad summer comes and the days they 
 
 are long, 
 And the birds in the bush sing many a song, 
 'Tis every sweet flower would wean me away, 
 But to school I must go and there I must stay, 
 And hear every class, each one in its turn, 
 While the summer sun shines and the focussed 
 
 rays burn. 
 So my good resolutions I oft forget, 
 While my head it will ache and break out in sweat. 
 The children get noisy and shuffle their feet, 
 And at passers-by gaze out in the street; 
 Then Maggie McGlinn must tumble a slate, 
 And Dolly O'Shea come strolling in late, 
 And poor little Emma, who never could see 
 Why seven times eight wasn't nine times three, 
 And Mikey Daball had missed every word, 
 'Cause Bob Looking-glass captured a bird; 
 Then Deacon O'Roark must come up the walk, 
 And call me outside for a ten minutes' talk 
 About what I must do with bad little Dick, 
 Who played on the Deacon one night a bad trick. 
 "You must flog that young rascal," the deacon 
 
 did bawl, 
 "Or the three district fathers this day I will call." 
 And so it would go the long summer day, 
 
40 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 Till four o'clock sharp I would let them away; 
 Then bowing my head on my hands, while there 
 Through many a tear I would offer a prayer 
 For patience, for guidance, for meekness of mind, 
 That each little heart might grow loving and kind, 
 When, years after, as a bird from the nest each 
 
 was hurled, 
 To fight for his bread in a cold, selfish world, 
 His eyes might grow moist, though surrounded 
 
 by sin : 
 He should know I had loved him when the dimples 
 
 went in. 
 
MOUNTAIN DEW. 
 
 While down in West Virginia, I was on a pleasure 
 trip, 
 
 I gathered with the others many a kind and 
 friendly tip ; 
 
 I always love to linger where congenial spirits 
 flow; 
 
 At last I tried to leave them but something told 
 me, "No." 
 
 The call was not the sweetest that I have ever 
 heard, 
 
 But there was something in it which held a draw- 
 ing card. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Oh, the table ! and the grub was filthy, too — 
 But we all gathered round when the old man 
 
 found 
 The key to his mountain dew. 
 
MOUNTAIN DEW. 43 
 
 The landlord, he was genial as you will often find, 
 His aged spouse was sweetness and goodness all 
 
 combined ; 
 The town hotel was spacious as any in the state, 
 The walks and shades were gracious, while fish- 
 ing — it was great, 
 And there was something in it to soothe the weary 
 
 breast, 
 But soon I fell to kicking among the other guests. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Oh, the table ! and the grub was filthy, too — 
 But we all gathered round when the old man 
 
 found 
 The key to his mountain dew. 
 
 The summer- came and ended with all its heat and 
 
 glare, 
 Still the autumn found us, each boarder hanging 
 
 there; 
 None would leave the other to enjoy the bed and 
 
 board, 
 While we thought of that old dipper and all it did 
 
 afford, 
 So we stayed around and lingered in that cozy 
 
 mountain spot, 
 Till the dipper it was empty and the table it was 
 
 not. 
 
44 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Oh, the table ! and the grub was filthy, too — 
 But we all gathered round when the old man 
 
 found 
 The key to his mountain dew. 
 
A SWEET LITTLE DIMPLE LIKE YOU. 
 
 My papa he works in the city, 
 
 Where the chimneys are smoky and grim ; 
 I'm so tired, I think 'tis a pity, 
 
 I'm all the time watching for him. 
 He says I must care for the baby, 
 
 And help mamma sweep in the hall, 
 And at' ten o'clock sharp, why, maybe 
 
 He will give me a telephone call. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Mamma, do quiet the baby, I'm in such a ter- 
 ble stew; 
 
 He said suffin'. Oh, dear! 
 
 Oh, why can't I hear 
 My papa don't care if I stand in the chair, 
 
 But he says, "I'm too busy to bother with 
 A sweet little dimple like you," 
 
 All the long afternoon I is waiting, 
 
 And watch for the six-thirty car ; 
 I've gathered up all of my playthings, 
 
 And tied with the ribbon my hair ; 
 I'll get me a chair by the window, 
 
 When the lights are all lit in the street, 
 And I'll watch, yes, I'll watch every shadow, 
 
 For fear that I go off to sleep. 
 
THE NIGHT POLICE. 
 
 A drowsy watchman trod the quiet street, 
 
 And gave a nod to some he chanced to meet, 
 
 Then thrust his arms down deep into his coat 
 
 That buttoned close about his throat, 
 
 And paced the street with ever-measured tread, 
 
 And watched the indications overhead. 
 
 Grim monument of Justice stands the courthouse 
 
 tower, 
 Where now the bell tolls out the midnight hour; 
 Goddess supreme, for in her might she stood 
 To weigh the bad and separate the good; 
 With royal wisdom wields the sceptre, where 
 Beneath her form all culprits must repair, 
 All human souls who touch life's busy wheel 
 Accept her weight or feel her blade of steel, — 
 So thought the watchman in his measured tread, 
 Then thought of dear ones snugly tucked in bed. 
 Wind whistled through the alley with a moan, 
 The sign board creaks with ever and anon a tone 
 Of some lost spirit doomed to wild despair — 
 The sound then dies away upon the midnight air. 
 Thanksgiving day would shortly be at hand, 
 As was proclaimed throughout the Christian land; 
 Then for a day the courtroom is forgot, 
 If vice reclines beneath her shadows, matters not; 
 A day in which our fathers took such pride 
 
48 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 To have his tables laden side by side 
 
 With dainties rare and morsel sweet, 
 
 And on a platter chunks of choicest meat, 
 
 Of turkey stuffed, or venison from the wood, 
 
 To gladden all that seemeth good; 
 
 A mug of cider by some means was hid 
 
 By pan of doughnuts in a pyramid; 
 
 The bible then in measured tone was read 
 
 By grandad, then his snowy head 
 
 Was bowed in fervent prayer 
 
 To thank the Lord for all the blessings there, 
 
 While we impatient children listened then 
 
 With fevered hearts to catch his last li Amen." 
 
 And in the evening, as 4he night came down, 
 
 We cracked the nuts and roasted them so brown, 
 
 Then piled the wood on andirons old and gray; 
 
 Such was Thanksgiving in our younger day — 
 
 So thought the watchman of the days gone by. 
 
 But hark ! There's a scream, a cry, 
 
 God of the night, there somewhere is a fire. 
 
 Again the cry rings out upon the air, 
 
 Black clouds are rolling heaven high, 
 
 And jets of flame are reaching to the sky ; 
 
 Two blocks away, where many people dwell, 
 
 Late in this night are in the jaws of hell; 
 
 They crowd the windows in their nightly dress, 
 
 And call for help there in their wild distress; 
 
 High in the attic at a window stands, 
 
 In nightly robe, a child with folded hands; 
 
 Is no one there can save her ? No, not one, 
 
THE NIGHT' POUCE. 49 
 
 'Tis death to try. And still the names roll on; 
 
 The night police is there and sees it all, 
 
 And sees one chance behind that tottering wall. 
 
 He makes one bound inside that flaming door, 
 
 Then for a time is seen by them no more. 
 
 It looks as if the man had courted death, 
 
 The gaping crowd await with bated breath, 
 
 Then by the window stands beside the child 
 
 And hears a shout in accents loud and wild: 
 
 "Saved, saved !" they cry, 
 
 "The watchman's there ; he will not let her die." 
 
 Now, from the bedding a strong rope he makes, 
 
 And in his arms the childish form he takes ; 
 
 He faces heat, but stands with iron will, 
 
 And swings her out far o'er the window sill, 
 
 And gently lets her to the crowd below, 
 
 As from the rope she dangles to and fro. 
 
 A mother's arms are now extended high 
 
 To grasp her child, then upward rose the cry — 
 
 "The rope's afire, will surely burn in twain." 
 
 Life has been saved with only death to gain, 
 
 And like a serpent bent on evil still, 
 
 With fiery tongue it mounts the window sill ; 
 
 A cry of anguish rends the midnight air, 
 
 And men of nerve look on with blank despair. 
 
 Eighteen hundred years ago the cry was raised, 
 
 "He saved others, himself he cannot save." 
 
 Anon our hero stands and sees it all, 
 
 And on his maker breathes this silent call: 
 
 "Great God, who bade the seas be still, 
 
50 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 And heaven and earth obey thy sovereign will, 
 Hear me in my dying moments, hear, 
 Care for the widow and my children dear, 
 Breathe comfort to them in this hour of woe, 
 And give them bread, while staying here below; 
 And me, oh God, where e'er my lot shall fall" — 
 There came a shudder from the burning wall, 
 It fell — a crash with heavy roar — 
 The watchman sank and then was seen no more. 
 
A CHEERFUL LIAR. 
 
 Here's to the man who lies to us, 
 
 Who is reckless of the truth, 
 Who slaps you on the back and says, 
 
 "Gee, old man, how you hold your youth.'' 
 He shrinks not from the future, 
 
 When he has some lie to tell, 
 But when you're sick and tired and blue 
 
 Declares — "You're looking well." 
 He may not be the slickest cuss, 
 
 With manner most profound, 
 But when you're down and in the dust 
 
 This liar is often around; 
 He jollies you and sort o' buoys you up, 
 
 And takes the bitter, nasty taste 
 Prom disappointment's cup. 
 
 Yes, here's to the man who tells us lies, 
 When the naked truth would hurt; 
 
 Though he ofttimes rubs it in, 
 He never gives us dirt. 
 
 He lies, but it's charity, if ever lying was, 
 So here's his health, for though he lies, 
 
 He's honest when he does. 
 
DINNA FORGET. 
 
 A child once lay on a bed of pain, 
 Anon would murmur and complain; 
 She heard gay children out at play, 
 While she must lie there the livelong day ; 
 She turned her face to the wall and cried, — 
 Cried to be one of the group outside, 
 But her mother moistened her burning lips, 
 And smoothed her hair with her finger tips; 
 "There are thousands worse off than you, my pet, 
 You can see the bright sun rise and set — Dinna 
 forget." 
 
 I saw a man bowed o'er with care, 
 And he spoke to his good wife sitting there; 
 He grieved o'er ills that had fallen fast, 
 One on the other in the year just passed. 
 Insects had ruined his hay and grain, 
 His corn was nothing for want of rain; 
 But his good wife answered as a wife can do, 
 "There are better days for me and you, 
 Sit not down with vain regret, 
 Days will come when the earth is wet — Dinna 
 forget." 
 
CAROLINA. 
 
 The scene was old Carolina, and the years how 
 
 quick have fled ! 
 The prisoner but a negro; his victim lay there 
 
 dead. 
 At his feet was kneeling a maid of tender years, 
 Too frightened then for weeping, too sorrowful 
 
 for tears. 
 'Twas but a common court room, the hour was 
 
 getting late, 
 The judge sat there most stately and the lawyers 
 
 in debate; 
 "Guilty or not guilty?" came sternly from the 
 
 court, 
 And he leaned far o'er the table to give his words 
 
 support. 
 "Doan you cry, Honey, I'll tell the judge the 
 
 whole, 
 And maybe dar is mercy fo' dis poor blackened 
 
 soul; 
 Doan you weep, doan let dem see it now, 
 De Lawd He sure can save us, but I can't just tell 
 
 you how. 
 "Yes, I is guilty," came in accents strong and 
 
 clear, 
 Which had the slightest tremor, but bore no mark 
 
 of fear. 
 
CAROLINA. 55 
 
 "I saved my little Margie from the rapist's evil 
 
 grasp; 
 I tried there not to harm him, but killed the man 
 
 at last." 
 Then there was a tumult. A dull and heavy roar 
 Was sounding all about them from the mob out- 
 side the door. 
 "Bring out the black wretch ! Lets see 
 How his old carcass looks hanging to a tree. 
 Let's teach him, if we can, 
 The difference 'twixt a nigger and a man." 
 And here one more forward that the rest 
 Had a coil of rope about his naked breast. 
 They led him from the court room to the foot of 
 
 yonder tree, 
 And just how they should hang him, the mob 
 
 could not agree; 
 Disgraceful was the necklace for a man so brave, 
 He bore it like a hero, though he once had been a 
 
 slave. 
 Some were in for hanging without a single word, 
 But others thought it better to let him face his 
 
 Lord. 
 "Pray, you old devil" — and a fearful oath it led 
 A dozen others that fell about his head. 
 "Never mind the brat that started all the fuss, 
 Just you start to prayin' and leave the girl to us." 
 "Doan be weepin', Honey, de Lawd hab showed 
 
 de way, 
 And if I hang fo' dis I have no mo' to say." 
 
56 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 ''Git about it,'' came sternly from the throng, 
 
 But. hark ! they hear the singin' of a sweet salva- 
 tion song. 
 
 With tambourine and cymbal, a drum with meas- 
 ured beat, 
 
 Was coming round the corner and slowly down 
 the street ; 
 
 The Ensign she was singing a sweet but plaintive 
 air, 
 
 Which caused the mob to waver in their evil pur- 
 pose there. 
 
 Proudly bearing the flag with stars of white, 
 
 She laid the banner o'er him, this man as black as 
 night, 
 
 Then turned her face upon them, the motley, 
 maddened throng, 
 
 Then fell at once to singing a verse of that same 
 song,— 
 
 "Pear not to die. 'Twas Jesus who bled and died 
 for thee." 
 
 'Twas a trying moment for her, for them and him, 
 
 With a rope there for a necklace, and the end 
 thrown o'er a limb. 
 
 Did she save him ? Don't stop to question me, 
 
 But ask that aged stranger at the foot of yonder 
 tree. 
 
 In the county record you will find the written 
 word, 
 
 "Saved from hanging by an Ensign of the Lord." 
 
DREAMLAND. 
 
 Will you go with me to a beautiful land, 
 
 Where the fairies have woven a spell, 
 Where the moonbeams leap o'er the silent deep, 
 
 In a picture where wonderland dwells ? 
 We will wander together, hand in hand, 
 
 Where the sunset shadows fall ; 
 We will find a nook by a babbling brook, 
 
 And answer their murmuring call. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Love-land, Dreamland, 
 
 Their voices are saying; 
 
 The wild waves are playing, 
 Beautiful, wonderful dreamland. 
 
 An island of mystery stands alone, 
 
 Like a giant guarding the way, 
 From breakers that weep, and sigh, and moan, 
 
 At the door of the beautiful bay. 
 There an Indian maiden was once betrayed 
 
 By a chieftain fierce and wild ; 
 She stands at eve where the autumn leaves 
 
 Cover her sleeping child. 
 
58 IvlFK PICTURES. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Love-land, Dreamland, 
 Their voices are saying ; 
 The wild waves are playing, 
 
 Beautiful, wonderful dreamland. 
 
THE MUSICIAN. 
 
 Like the roll of distant thunder — 
 All about us, over, under, 
 With the constant flash of lightning, 
 With the light thus ever brightening, 
 Of the chime of bells when coming — 
 From the distance — or the humming 
 Of the bees in the heat of early summer, 
 Or the falling from the mountain, 
 In a spray, the crystal fountain. 
 Like the laugh of children playing 
 By the roadside, and there saying, 
 
 "It is sweet." 
 Do you hear the church bells ringing ? 
 Do you hear the birds there singing? 
 Do you hear the wind now sighing 
 In the tree tops like 'twas crying 
 For the loved ones long departed, 
 Sighing, moaning, broken-hearted ? 
 There are hums of distant whispers, 
 Like the soft tones of the vespers. 
 Do you hear it ? Now 'tis saying, 
 While the passion thought is straying, 
 Breathes of love, of hopes once blighted, 
 In a passion all excited, 
 Then to die away and murmur, 
 As its courage now grows firmer. 
 
60 IvIFK PICTURES. 
 
 Do you hear it all, I say, 
 
 Surging onward by the way, 
 
 Or the anthem of the blest, 
 
 Saying, "Here is peace, is rest?'' 
 
 All this and more, we heard it saying, 
 
 While the pianist was playing. 
 
THE MILLER'S BEQUEST. 
 
 There was once a mill in an Eastern town, 
 Run by a man whose name was Brown ; 
 For years he ground in the good old way, 
 As 'neath the dust his hair grew gray. 
 Age turned his beard and turned his hair, 
 As day after day they found him there — 
 He turned his face to the setting sun, 
 As he saw his course was nearly run; 
 Through work and worry, stint and toil, 
 The miller, at the end of his mortal coil, 
 Had gathered his children about his bed, 
 And this is something like what he said : 
 "From the place I go, none may return, 
 And each will have his bread to earn, 
 So I wish to know as a last request, 
 Who'll fill my shoes and fill them best. 
 I shall miss the sound of the busy wheel 
 As I thrust my hand in the flouring meal. 
 Day in, day out, for many a year, 
 I've ground for farmers coming here ; 
 I've been accused of a narrow soul, 
 But never once of missing toll ; 
 I've labored hard to make a gain 
 As the farmer hauled his loads of grain." 
 His eldest son, who was no dunce, 
 Stepped to his father's side at once ; 
 
62 LIFE PICTURES . 
 
 "I think, dear father Dave," said he, 
 
 "You'd better leave the mill with me; 
 
 The mill and business I understand, 
 
 And I know best each farmer's brand. 
 
 All unmarked bags I found of late, 
 
 I stamped them with the miller's plate. 
 
 I think the wisest course,'' said he, 
 
 "Is to leave the mill and all with me." 
 
 The second son, who was sprouting a beard, 
 
 Quick to his father's side repaired. 
 
 "All this," said he to the dying man, 
 
 "I know as well and understand ; 
 
 I can work off all the musty flour, 
 
 And know who takes the meal that's sour; 
 
 "I know, too," and he winked his eye, — 
 
 "How to make corn meal from bags of rye. 
 
 I and my brother don't agree, 
 
 So I wish you'd leave the mill with me." 
 
 The youngest son, a lively chap, 
 
 Scarcely down from his mother's lap, 
 
 Made short work of what he said, 
 
 As he climbed high up on his father's bed; — 
 
 "If you leave the old mill, dad, with me, 
 
 "To all you ask me, I agree ; 
 
 The style of the others is all too lax, 
 
 I'll steal the grist and swipe the sacks." 
 
LOSS OF THE KIMBALL. 
 
 Down where the waters are ebbing and flowing, 
 On the sand beach of Michigan's shore; 
 
 There we will watch at the coming and going, 
 For the proud Kimball and boys that she bore. 
 
 Hearts left ashore, loved ones behind them, 
 Bade them God's speed as she glided away; 
 
 Little they dreamed where trouble might find 
 them, 
 Ere they returned to the calm, sleeping bay. 
 
 Hush her to sleep as she lies in the cradle, 
 
 Tell her not yet in look or in word ; 
 Well she remembers the chair at the table, 
 
 And the loved accents once she has heard. 
 
 Look for her not, the return of the Kimball, 
 Nor the brave boys on the deck that she bore ; 
 
 She glided away like the bird — she was nimble, 
 But she bore her crew to another shore. 
 
 Where the lamp in the lighthouse always is lighted, 
 Where the waters not once are covered with 
 fog, 
 
 There one morning she silently glided, 
 Folded her sail at the city of God. 
 
64 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 Some one is there — 'tis the God of the widow, 
 The Friend of the fatherless sat by his side ; 
 
 And he watched for the coming, twas only a 
 shadow, 
 That rode at her anchor on the crystal tide. 
 
 By and by she will come, when little expected, 
 And drop her white wings down here in the bay, 
 
 And gather up those most dearly connected, 
 And make for the shore of eternal day. 
 
THE COWBOY'S DREAM. 
 
 Well, here I am once more, 
 
 On the very banks of my native shore ; 
 
 Strange how one will stray 
 
 In a foreign land so far away. 
 
 For twenty years I've watched those rills 
 
 From Chili's banks and the Andes' hills, 
 
 Guarding the herd as they lazily feed 
 
 On the new grown grass or fragrant weed. 
 
 Strange they learn my looks and voice, 
 
 And low for me when they hear a noise ; 
 
 And I'll bet Jack is lonesome to see me too. 
 
 Say, the tricks I learned that hoss to do 
 
 Was surprising. He was my baby boy — 
 
 That's what I called him, when with joy 
 
 I took the poor little suckling thing 
 
 And brought him up under my own wing. 
 
 Jack rubbed his nose against me and almost spoke, 
 
 As I waited to take the evening boat; 
 
 CouJdn't bring him, you know, without a loss. 
 
THE COWBOY'S DRKAM. 67 
 
 Strange how my eyes get watery, when I think of 
 
 that 'yer hoss. 
 Well, twenty years on southern soil, 
 And crowding on toward forty all the while, 
 My hair has turned and face so brown, 
 Wonder if they will know me in Sager town ? 
 Only fifteen miles, well, that's not far. 
 What ! You the agent, and take a car? 
 Well, I'm busted if that don't beat, 
 To think of trains running through their streets \ 
 As the train pulled up and around the cleft, 
 His thoughts ran back to the night he left. 
 He knew his name, he always had 
 Credit for being both wild and bad. 
 Parson Brown was the only cause, 
 He might ha' punished the other boys, 
 Or once he could let it pass, 
 And not tried to drive me out the class. 
 His horse wasn't built like my boy, Jack, 
 More like' straw stuffed in a sack, 
 And when I got through with the beast that night, 
 Upon my soul, he was a perfect fright ; 
 His mane and tail weren't none too long, 
 But when I left him, both were gone. 
 Well, that was twenty years ago, 
 They both, I guess, have had time to grow. 
 Twenty years ; the parson must be getting gray; 
 How slow the train pulls up today ! 
 As I live, we are slowing down, 
 And a brakeman cries out, "Sagertown." 
 
68 IvlFB PICTURES. 
 
 Changed a little, 'pears to me, 
 I don't recognize that poplar tree ; 
 But there's the schoolhouse in the grove, 
 Where old Brown thrashed me, sure, by Jove. 
 O'er yonder is the meadow and sparkling rill, 
 And the graveyard, too, so hushed and still. 
 'Twas a place I never cared to play 
 Or hang about on a summer's day, 
 But when they buried Jessie Goul, 
 The only friend I had in school, 
 I just broke right down. She was so brave, 
 I stood by her like a willing slave. 
 Must be nearing the church, I can hear 'em sing, 
 Wonder what's going on inside the thing ! 
 A funeral. Sure, 
 
 And the parson says, "She xuas so pure, 
 Had charity for others sin, 
 Where others quit, there she^d begin. 
 Her charity was love for needy and -poor, 
 They never were turned fro?n the lady's door." 
 That's just like Jessie, but she is dead, 
 Or my mother. "She was a christian" 
 That's what the parson said. 
 "Not a relative to mark the bier, 
 But we all are mourners assembled here." 
 Wonder who it could be to die alone, 
 And not leave a person to mark the stone. 
 That voice sounds like old Parson Brown, that's a 
 
 fact, 
 If 'twan't so feeble like and cracked. 
 
THE COWBOY'S DREAM. 69 
 
 "She'd raise the sick most, with her song, 
 
 The wicked would cease as she ■passed along . ; ' 
 
 I'd give two cents to know who he's talking of; 
 
 '-'•And now her spirit reigns above" 
 
 Says the parson to the weeping throng, — 
 
 " Take one last look as you pass along." 
 
 Don't s'pose I'd know her, that I'm sure, 
 
 But I'd like to look at one so pure ; 
 
 She's someone moved in, withont a doubt, 
 
 I'll take one look and then pass out 
 
 Where the sun shines brighter. The atmosphere 
 
 Is musty and dismal here. 
 
 I'll go right straight to the dear old home 
 
 And ask her pardon for the years I roamed; 
 
 I'll stay there and be a man, 
 
 And cheer her up the best I can ; 
 
 And I'll buy Brown a horse and shay 
 
 To pay for the one I sheared that day. 
 
 Mother will know me, and with joy 
 
 Won't she shake her truant boy ? 
 
 He stopped short, the vision fled, 
 
 He stands beside the silent dead; 
 
 One moment he looked in the face of death, 
 
 Then clutched his throat as if for breath. 
 
 Both heaven and hell seemed battling there, 
 
 To grasp the man in his dire despair. 
 
 "Oh, my mother !" That's all he said, 
 
 The cowboy awoke from his troubled bed. 
 
70 IylFE PICTURES. 
 
 He sat bolt upright and rubbed his eyes 
 And looked about him in dazed surprise. 
 There, chewing their cud, the cattle lay, 
 Jack nibbled the grass not far away, 
 The cricket chirped where the grass was tall. 
 The night bird whistled, that was all. 
 And there in the heavens high above, 
 The southern cross . a tale of love. 
 'Twas a vision too real to make it seem 
 He had only met with a troubled dream. 
 
A VISION— BY A BACHELOR. 
 
 There are scenes in early winter, 
 
 When the plants grew pale and thin, 
 
 And the naked stalks like splinters 
 Froze beside the rusty tin. 
 
 We have crept with oleander 
 
 To the cellar cold and damp, 
 
 Watched the sickly thing in wonder, 
 Holding high aloft the lamp. 
 
 We have sung to infant restless, 
 With its wild, spasmodic howl, 
 
 And have clucked and cooed in anguish, 
 Like a poor domestic fowl. 
 
 We have heard the cat repeating 
 
 All the cuss words he could think, 
 
 As he told us of his eating 
 
 Frozen milk behind the sink. 
 
 Our poor souls have felt the scratches 
 From the carpet tack below, 
 
 As we vainly sought for matches 
 In the place we did not know. 
 
72 IvIFB PICTURES. 
 
 So we go and let the cat in, 
 
 And we get the babe a drink, 
 
 And we hope it was no great sin , 
 
 If in cuss words we would think. 
 
 Think of all the household duties, 
 With our feet half frozen, too; 
 
 We have blessed the cat and posies, 
 Babe and all, now wouldn't you ? 
 
A QUERY. 
 
 Bo I see a light in yonder — 
 
 In the house among the trees ? 
 
 Do I sit and dream and ponder, 
 
 Classing other hours with these ? 
 
 Do I, on this summer evening, 
 Looking at the window there, 
 
 Imagine now that I am seeing 
 
 Mother's form bent low in prayer? 
 
 Or is it but the moonbeam flitting 
 'Cross the waters dark and deep? 
 
 Do I see her with her knitting, 
 In the old chair fast asleep ? 
 
 Do I see her as she waited, 
 
 Watching at the garden gate ? 
 
 Waiting for my steps belated, 
 
 Watching till the hour was late. 
 
 Did I stop one night to kiss her, 
 Answer in a gentle tone ? 
 
 Did I know how soon I'd miss her ? 
 Have I left no work undone ? 
 
A QUERY. 75 
 
 Work which now would be a pleasure, 
 Could I have her back with me, 
 
 Time I have to think and treasure 
 All she taught me at her knee. 
 
 Why comes there to me a whisper, 
 From the tree tops over there ? 
 
 Like the soft tones of the vesper, 
 Angel voices in the air. 
 
 Do I see, or am I dreaming, 
 
 With my eyes both open wide '? 
 
 Do I catch the waters gleaming, 
 
 Where she crossed beyond the tide ? 
 
THE NAUGHTY DOLLY. 
 
 I know you can't believe me, 
 
 But I've tried so hard today, 
 To teach my naughty doily 
 
 To be real good and pray ; 
 I told her what the preacher says, 
 
 And where the wicked goes ; 
 And then she seemed to laugh at me, 
 
 And wrinkled up her nose ; 
 I've tried to make her bow her head 
 
 When papa says his prayer, 
 And still she looks about the room 
 
 On everybody there. 
 There's lots of things I tell her, 
 
 When we are all alone, 
 I hope she will remember 
 
 When she is bigger grown; 
 And when at night I take her, 
 
 And in my bed I creep, 
 I pray the Lord to watch us, 
 
 And from the bad man keep; 
 But when she won't bow down her head, 
 
 Or even close her eyes, 
 I'm afraid the Lord won't have her 
 
 With him up in the skies ; 
 There's no use for me to scold her, 
 
 I've just made up my mind 
 That she's a little heathen 
 
 Of the very baddest kind. 
 
ZERA. 
 
 Little face in sorrow pressed against the pane, 
 Watched each busy passer as he went and came ; 
 Curls were badly tangled on that golden head, 
 When I heard her call me; — this is what she said, 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 "You don't stop to see me as you used to do, 
 I have been so lonely as I watched for you ; 
 Please come in a moment, just inside the door, 
 Ma in bed is sick now, baby's on the floor." 
 
 Sobs came thick and often from that little breast, 
 As she stood before me making her request ; 
 "Once you cal]ed me sweetheart, when the days 
 
 were long, 
 As I stood beside you singing there my song. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 "Mamma lies so quiet there upon the bed, 
 Do you think 'twould help her if my prayer I said? 
 Please come in a moment, just inside the door ; 
 Baby he is playing now upon the floor/' 
 
78 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Little face had read it in her tender age, 
 Grief and want and sorrow on the margin page; 
 Would that we were able, could we ever know 
 That the child was sheltered from all grief and 
 woe. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 There are sorrows many ; many a face with stain 
 Stands beside the window, pressed against the 
 
 pane. 
 We may all remember if we only try, 
 There is someone watching as we hurry by. 
 
POOR JIM. 
 
 Somehow he started wrong 
 
 In life's great busy throng ; 
 
 His star of fortune once had gone astray, 
 
 His day was night, his night was never day. 
 
 So said the gossips with averted face — 
 "Poor Jim would never find his place." 
 But his mother looked in those baby eyes, 
 And pled with God in Paradise. 
 
 "If the life to me through pain is given 
 
 Will be justified at the gates of heaven, 
 
 I will ask no more of a Father just, 
 
 But will patiently wait and his promise trust." 
 
 Jim never had his lessons learned 
 But by the hardest, and were double earned, 
 And praises that he should have had, 
 Went to another that was twice as bad. 
 
 Work all he could, do all he might, 
 
 Jim never did a thing just right, 
 
 And when at school he took another's part, 
 
 'Twas laid as promptings of an evil heart. 
 
80 IvIFK PICTURES. 
 
 Bare feet treading life's thorny road 
 Oft had to carry another's load, 
 For the road he trod in early years 
 Was strewn with thistles, thorns and tears. 
 
 In after years Jim's path grew wide, 
 
 Oft he was found at the sufferer's side ; 
 
 He smoothed the pillow 'neath the throbbing brow, 
 
 He raised the fallen from the ditch, some how. 
 
 Who cares when life is done and he at rest, 
 Finds he a place among the blessed ? 
 Wrongs shall be righted by the Judge's pen, 
 Debit and credit will balance then. 
 
THE MANIAC. 
 
 Laugh with a fiendish laugh, 
 
 Shriek with a demon cry, 
 But there's no word can measure half, 
 
 The fire in a maniac's eye. 
 
 There's fear in each startled look, 
 That will go and come again ; 
 
 The raging fire in each little nook 
 Is burning her very brain. 
 
 But mayhaps at the midnight hour, 
 As others are taking their rest ; 
 
 A^ain she feels a mother's dower, 
 And silently bares her breast. 
 
 Bares her breast to phantom lips, 
 And cuddles some curly head, 
 
 Smooths the hair with finger tips, 
 
 Of the child that is long since dead. 
 
 Softly lulls him to sleep 
 
 With a song that we once have heard; 
 The very walls there seem to weep 
 
 At the sound of each falling word. 
 
THE MANIAC. 83 
 
 The picture flees away, 
 
 She starts again with fright, 
 The light of morning and sweetest day 
 
 Has turned to the shades of night. 
 
 Life with her is a blank, 
 
 Of its length no one can tell ; 
 She hears the sound of her fetters clank, 
 
 Hitched to the gates of hell. 
 
 Demons have bound her with chains, 
 She reckons not time nor space ; 
 
 The fire that burneth the brain 
 Can find no resting place. 
 
TOMMY'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 
 The Chrishmas bells were cheering, 
 
 The trees were loaded down, 
 As the hour of eight was nearing, 
 
 In a far-off eastern town. 
 
 Halls filled to overflowing 
 
 With many faces bright ; 
 Many were coming and going 
 
 In the crisp December night. 
 
 Children laughed and chatted, 
 "Old Nick" was there at his post; 
 
 He was plump, pussy and fatted, 
 He was anything sure but a ghost. 
 
 Now little Tommy May bee, 
 
 A lad whom nobody owned, 
 And lived with old Deacon Cady, 
 
 Whose heart was as hard as stone, 
 
 Tommy was drawn by the singing — 
 
 Slid in at the open door 
 Just as the bell stopped ringing, 
 
 And sad was the face he wore. 
 
 He said, as others were getting 
 
 Their knives, their dolls and their rings, 
 Great tears on his lids were sitting, 
 
 "Don't s'pose I'd got anything." . 
 
TOMMY'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 85 
 
 "No one knows or loves me, 
 
 A present I never had, 
 Everyone feels above me, 
 
 Wonder why I'm so bad." 
 
 He could just remember his mother, 
 
 Sick in the old arm chair ; 
 No sister, no father, no brother, 
 
 Nobody for him did care. 
 
 But hark ! he hears them calling 
 
 If Tommy Maybee was there ; 
 He started and came near falling, 
 
 Then tumbled out of his chair. 
 
 For him St. Nick was saying, 
 
 "A pair of nice warm boots, 
 A Xmas sled for sleighing, 
 
 And flannel for a suit." 
 
 Give and not think of the giver, 
 
 Give to the needy in town ; 
 Tommy's lips started to quiver, 
 
 And then he broke right down. 
 
 And the angel turned and wept with joy, 
 At the heartfelt prayer of an orphan boy. 
 
THE VAG. 
 
 The hotel was the same that hotels mostly are, 
 
 We find them in our travels near and far ; 
 
 Not home, by any means, 
 
 But the best the public can afford, so it seems. 
 
 Mosaic floors, as clean as floors are found, 
 
 A large square book in leather-cover bound, 
 
 In which we write so many times a day, 
 
 When we come in or have some bill to pay. 
 
 A night clerk sat there in his chair, 
 
 Half -mindful of his patrons there, 
 
 At sound of gong would roar in accents deep ; 
 
 "Front," which shook the bell boy from his sleep, 
 
 To lug some grip in, twice its normal size, 
 
 Then look for "tips" from out the corner of his 
 
 eyes. 
 The patron placed his hieroglyphics on the roll, 
 Then cast a glance into the pigeon-hole; — that's 
 
 for letters — 
 We've done that same thing many times a day, 
 'Tis part the programme, so I've heard them say. 
 Well, we all had gotten mail, I guess, 
 And each had read his letters more or less. 
 A merry group of us — some eight, 
 Had smoked and joked until the hour was late, 
 
88 UFB PICTURES. 
 
 And stories told, I own — 
 
 We never tell our wives and sweethearts at home. 
 When, unannounced, he staggered from the bar — 
 God pity him, a wreck in tattered garments there, 
 And gazed into each face to make it sure 
 Just where he was, or if his mind was pure. 
 "Boys," he said, (hie) "I'm no common tramp — 
 Though once like you, I followed that profession, 
 
 (hie) and a reckless life I led ; 
 I'm not asking alms, (hie) no, sir, I sawed wood 
 
 to-day — 
 For him who was once my chore boy ; yes, I've 
 
 had my pay. 
 I like to see you sociable (hie) and enjoy yourselves, 
 
 (hie) and have your fun ; 
 Bat don't leave a trail behind, as I have done. 
 My story is not a strange one to you here, 
 And may not interest you boys, I fear. 
 A college education and a sainted wife 
 Was all I had to start me out in life ; 
 Soon after that I took the road, 
 And lugged my grips with all their heavy load, 
 And letters followed me all o'er the land, — 
 Oh, how I watched for that familiar hand. 
 Well, things went on in even tenor as they would — 
 I smoked some, drank some, to keep my credit 
 
 good ; 
 Somehow the custom called for more and more, 
 Till down my throat the liquid fire I'd pour; 
 Twas then I often found 
 
THE VAG. 89 
 
 Myself most beastly drunk before I left a town. 
 This called up other vices, not to speak of here, 
 That follow close behind us every year ; 
 Somehow my books got muddled in a muss, 
 And few would trade with such a drunken cuss ; 
 Well, I was called in and then dismissed — 
 'Twas then I saw the chances I had missed. 
 Great headlines in the papers said : 
 'Another man gone wrong.' Where could I hide 
 
 my head ? 
 All read my folly and my crime, 
 They had hanged me before it was my time. 
 A pauper and in tears, that's where I stood — 
 When after all these years 
 I found my work of ruin nobly done, 
 And all my chums had left me, every one; 
 And naught but pity on the face 
 Of those I'd worked for and disgraced . 
 Did they have faith ? Not one. I'm sure 
 I begged for work from door to door — 
 And as I wandered to and fro 
 Each asked my name, then told me I could go. 
 So here I am, just as you've seen — 
 Drunk, ragged and unclean ; 
 
 There's nothing but the gutter, and drink and die — 
 The end is coming by and by." 
 He started down the corridor and oufc into the 
 
 night, 
 And somehow left a feeling that something wasn't 
 
 right. 
 
90 IvlFE PICTURES. 
 
 He was down as low as low could be, 
 
 But when we thought it over, what better off 
 
 were we ? 
 'Twas not for us to censure, or even act as judge, 
 We all had smoked our smoke and some had taken 
 
 budge ; 
 What harm to lift him then, and take him by the 
 
 hand — 
 Perhaps 'twould help our mileage toward the other 
 
 land. 
 We sent a lad to call him and had him gathered in, 
 And Davis, being spokesman, began to scratch 
 
 his chin. 
 The questions he put to him came hot and thick 
 
 and fast, 
 The stranger never wavered unto the very last. 
 Davis clipped a fresh cigar, then closing up his 
 
 knife, 
 He offered this poor vag a seat, — this wreck in 
 
 human life ; 
 He couldn't help it, but somehow we made him 
 
 feel 
 There was another chance for him somewhere in 
 
 fortune's wheel. 
 And when he left us, be it strange to say — 
 'Twas with a lighter heart to cheer him on his 
 
 way, 
 And we had different feelings, in there a secret 
 
 lies — 
 
THE VAG. 91 
 
 For smoke had been collecting, somehow, about 
 
 our eyes. 
 He's a man to-day, and lugs his grip as well — 
 With us it's the same old saw, we boys are human 
 
 still. 
 
MIKEY McDOOGAN. 
 
 These are the records, half effaced, 
 
 Which, with the hand of youth, he traced, 
 
 On history's page. 
 
 — L/ongfellow. 
 
 Did you iver know Mikey McDoogan ? 
 
 He was a graceless scamp 
 
 As iver you'd chance to meet — 
 
 Pourin' the ile from the street lamp, 
 
 Peltin' the dogs in the street, 
 
 Strippin the bark from the plum tree. 
 
 Tyin' a clog to the bell, 
 
 Takin' a piece of me clothes line, 
 
 And hangin' the cat in the well, 
 
 Cuttin' the leaves from my prayer-book, 
 
 Learnin' the baby to swear, 
 
 Stealin' Mrs. O'Flaritie's horse shoe, 
 
 And tyin' my dress to the chair, 
 
 Pickin' the down from my goslings, 
 
 Tyin a pig to the churn, 
 
 Hidin' behind the fence -row 
 
 And rotten-egged Father McBurn. 
 
 He was a terror, was Mikey McDoogan. 
 
 Mikey was my boy. 
 'Twas back in the spring of the 80's 
 
94 IylFE PICTURES. 
 
 That Mikey would go to the mine, 
 
 Sortin' of coal with the Murphys, 
 
 Ridin' a car down the line. 
 
 I never knew what had happened 
 
 Till the dear little "divil" came back, 
 
 And Mikey was talkin' and laughin', 
 
 And his face was bloody and black. 
 
 He never would tell me the secret, 
 
 But whistled the bit of a tune, 
 
 When I ax't him what was the matter, 
 
 And why he was back so soon. 
 
 For Mikey was never home-coming 
 
 When he had the first chance of a scrap, 
 
 But the dear little darlin' came that time, 
 
 And laid his head in my lap. 
 
 Then old Mrs. Murphy came over 
 
 And unraveled this terrible yarn, 
 
 And my bodv was all of a quiver, 
 
 As the story of Mikey I larned, 
 
 How the cars were comin' and goin', 
 
 Some empty, some loaded, of course, 
 
 When all of a sudden they started 
 
 Down grade with a terrible force. 
 
 The boy turned pale in a moment 
 
 As the cars came near the hole 
 
 Where his father stood tendin' the engine, 
 
 Sendin' up acres of coal. 
 
 The first and second car passed him, 
 
 But he never had uttered a word, 
 
 Nor gave the first sign of excitement, 
 
MIKEY McDOOGAN. 95 
 
 Nor even a muscle stirred. 
 The last car shot under the trestle, 
 When he dropped like a pellet of lead, 
 Catchin' his heel in the break-rod, 
 And lay in' there like he was dead. 
 But Mikey was quick to recover, 
 And catchin' the wheel in his hand, 
 There, right on the edge of destruction, 
 He brought the cars down to a stand. 
 "Brave Mikey! My boy, the bravest of all !" 
 And she gave three cheers for Ireland, 
 A welcome to Erin-go-brau, 
 
THE OLD MISER. 
 
 Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
 
 With the wan moon overhead, 
 
 There stood, as in an awful dream, 
 
 The army of the dead. 
 
 — Ivongfellow. 
 
 Half way up the mountain side, 
 
 On a winding path where none could ride, 
 
 In a lonely hut just off the way, 
 
 On a bed of straw the miser lay ; 
 
 Covered with rags and filth and sin, 
 
 He clutched his bags with a fiendish grin ; 
 
 In each hand, of leather old, 
 
 He held by the neck two sacks of gold ; 
 
 No fire on the hearth to warm the room, 
 
 No clock ticked there to break the gloom ; 
 
 The wind blew cold through the broken wall, 
 
 And the death-watch ticked his lonely call ; 
 
 He was dying — that he knew, 
 
 And the hours for him were short and few ; 
 
 One moment he saw a vision stand 
 
 Beside him there — she took his hand — 
 
 Soft was the touch not felt or seen, 
 
 But in the past all like a dream ; 
 
 The Vision standing and bending o'er, 
 
 Pointed to light on the other shore ; 
 
 'Twas the one fond dream that shook his soul, 
 
THE OI/D MISER. 97 
 
 'Fore years of sin did o'er him roll. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said in a broken tone, 
 
 "I loved you once, all that I own, 
 
 But I gave you up, with a sigh at best, 
 
 And years ago you lay at rest ; 
 
 With a broken heart they say you died 
 
 Three days ere you were to be my bride, 
 
 So I stayed at home that funeral day 
 
 For fear 'twould cost for a horse and shay ; 
 
 You point toward God and the Holy Land, — 
 
 No God have I but the golden band." 
 
 His eyes were set, his breath came fast, 
 
 The miser's hour had come at last ; 
 
 His stiffening hands their grip let go, 
 
 As visions flitted to and fro ; 
 
 "Oh, ye demons, from the nether land ! 
 
 Will you take my gold from a nerveless hand ? 
 
 You have robbed me of all but greed and lust, 
 
 And now will you take my hoarded dust ? 
 
 I've lost for this, my soul," he cried. 
 
 With one long gasp the miser died. 
 
TOAST TO ST. PATRICK. 
 
 I was asked to give a toast to St. Patrick in the City Opera 
 House before a crowd of Knights of Columbus and their 
 friends gathered there on March 17th, 1911, and this is what I 
 gave them. — The Author. 
 
 Here's to dear old St. Patrick, 
 
 His memory ever green; 
 We'll think of him and Ireland, 
 
 While the ocean rolls between. 
 
 Between us and the dear old country , 
 Between us and the native sod, 
 
 May it draw us near together 
 As it draws us nearer God. 
 
 We will cherish you now and ever, 
 With our children about our knee ; 
 
 A tie too strong to sever 
 From honored memory. 
 
 You dear old benefactor, 
 
 You dear old Patron Saint, 
 Long may your works come after, 
 
 When our steps are slow and faint. 
 
 Live on, dear old St. Patrick, 
 
 Live on till time shall end; 
 You've won the heart of a nation, 
 
 You've been a nation's friend. 
 
THE BATTLE OP MANILA. 
 
 It was stated by one of Dewey's gunners that the great 
 battle in Manila harbor, between the U. S. A. and Spain, was 
 opened up at sunrise, just as the church bells were sending 
 out their call for early mass. From that source I transposed 
 his story into verse. 
 
 Strangely hushed was the spell, 
 In the darkness no one had seen 
 The entrance of Dewey's marine, 
 
 Still, like a phantom of hell; 
 Not a word, not even a breath, 
 To give them warning of death, 
 
 Silence every where fell. 
 
 Then ding-dong, ding-dong, dell, 
 
 Men stripped to the waist for the fray, 
 Out in the harbor that day ; 
 
 Then a shout which rose and fell — 
 "Boys, remember the Maine!" 
 Then burst from each cannon a flame, 
 
 Giving thunder in place of the bell. 
 
100 IvIFB PICTURES, 
 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong, dell — 
 Strangely the old bell sounded, 
 'Mid cries of dying and wounded, 
 
 The bursting of shot and shell ; 
 
 Then across the waters there came, 
 Mixed with a deluge of flame, 
 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong, dell. 
 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong, dell, 
 
 High up in the old church tower, 
 Floated away in echoes the hour 
 
 That Montezo staggered and fell; 
 
 Men reeled from their guns in despair, 
 Groans and cries rent the air, 
 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong, dell. 
 
 Suddenly hushed was the spell, 
 In the glare of that bright summer day, 
 Spain looked with rage and dismay, 
 
 Her sons had fought and fell ; 
 Fell from the decks in the flood, 
 Dyeing the sea with their blood, 
 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong, dell. 
 
THE LAST PINE. 
 
 There is a quiet spirit in the woods, 
 
 That dwells where the gentle south winds blow. 
 
 — Longfellow. 
 
 Strange fancies haunt us in our dreams. 
 
 With rod and line I've whipped the rapid streams, 
 
 And in my mind I've caught some woundrous fish, 
 
 As long as this as big as heart would wish. 
 
 With rare delight I've camped beneath the pine, 
 
 And listened to the sighing wind — 
 
 Woo-oo-oo, 'twould go, 
 
 And wave the branches to and fro. 
 
 But enough of fishing, enough of storm and wind, 
 
 They're only fancies which we leave behind ; 
 
 'Twas scalding hot the fourteenth of July, 
 
 When we started out, Old Bob, Old Bob and I. 
 
 Old Bob had hustled many a crew, 
 
 And I had run a gang myself, a few ; 
 
 Rumor said, 'twixt Dempsey and McGregor on the 
 
 line, 
 There stood one last, one solitary pine ; 
 We longed to see it, to feel it with our hand, 
 So rare a sight still standing in the land ; 
 So after hours of toil and sweat and heat, 
 We dropped us, tired, down at its very feet. 
 There it stood, stately, straight and trim, 
 Five sixteen-foot logs to the lower limb, 
 
THE LAST PINE. 103 
 
 Brave landmark of the glen 
 
 Untold by poet or by pen. 
 
 And then the thought came in my mind, 
 
 * 'Let's camp to-night beneath this lonely pine, 
 
 And tell the tales of long gone by, 
 
 When we were younger, you and I." 
 
 We gathered dry sticks for a fire, 
 
 And boiled our coffee then and there ; 
 
 And as we ate our scanty meal, 
 
 The past came to us, hard and real ; 
 
 We lit our pipes, then each one spun 
 
 Old tales of woodcraft, just for fun ; 
 
 Our pipes went out, the fire burned low, 
 
 How long we slept I'll never know ; 
 
 Some nightmare had me by the throat, 
 
 I choked, I gasped, at last I woke ; 
 
 "Bob, Bob, wake up," I cried, 
 
 "The fire's about us on every side." 
 
 Through the smoke I saw it all, 
 
 Poor Bob was too far gone to hear the call. 
 
 I choked, I gasped, I fought for breath, 
 
 I thought of life, I thought of death, 
 
 I thought of the hissing, burning, scorching air, 
 
 I thought of poor Bob lying there. 
 
 With an effort I got him on my back 
 
 And started for a dug-out down the track. 
 
 Stumbling, staggering from the weight of him, 
 
 I reached a cellar where a camp had been. 
 
 I dragged him in and closed the door, 
 
 Then for a time I knew no more. 
 
104 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 The rest of that night was a dream to me, 
 
 With visions of battles I yet can see, 
 
 Armies charging, surging, rushing on 
 
 In battle fierce but never won. 
 
 Next morn we crawled from our lonely den, 
 
 And viewed with awe where the fire had been. 
 
 Here and there in the early light 
 
 Was the campfire, the destroyer, burning bright, 
 
 And where the pine once stood high in the air 
 
 Was a smouldering stub, a blackened spar ; 
 
 Fire may visit this way again, 
 
 The grub may bore it from end to end, 
 
 Old bruin will dig with his ponderous foot 
 
 For the ant that burrows beneath its root. 
 
 The owl will hoot his lonely call 
 
 From its naked summit — that is all. 
 
 Lightning will flash round its withered head ! 
 
 The thunder will laugh at the tree that's dead. 
 
 It must wither and moulder and then decay, 
 
 'Twas the last of the pine, that's all I say. 
 
FATHER BAXTER'S LAST SERMON. 
 
 In the village of E it was Sunday, 
 
 And the notes that came from the pipe organ 
 
 Echoed and re-echoed as they all do, 
 
 Till the whole church was filled with the melody. 
 
 It sounded and resounded from the floor where 
 
 The carpet bespoke care, thrift and neatness. 
 
 To the rafters o'er head, which caught it — 
 
 And sending forth the notes to the belfry — 
 
 To be lost in the bell which, morning and evening 
 
 Had called them to worship. 
 
 And the choir, who had just closed their anthem, 
 
 Sat back, looking calm and contented. 
 
 He arose, none other than old Father Baxter, 
 
 He, who for years had not missed a Sunday — 
 
 Save twice when away at the conference, 
 
 And once, — how well they remembered — 
 
 He journeyed on foot a long way 
 
 To pray by the side of one who was dying. 
 
 That one had found Christ e'en at the eleventh 
 
 hour. 
 But he ne'er knew how it happened — 
 That his feet were blistered and frozen, 
 So intent was he on the soul of the fallen. 
 Aside from this, morning and evening, 
 
FATHER BAXTER'S LAST SERMON. 107 
 
 He had been in his place to the minute. 
 
 His hair was like the snow of the winter, 
 
 And his skin so clear and transparent — 
 
 You could e'en a'most see the man's soul through 
 
 his body. 
 As he arose, a hush came 
 Over the audience before him ; 
 "Yet a little while and ye shall see me no more, 
 Yet a little while I am with you." 
 Strangely his words seemed prophetic, 
 As he read from the book now before him. 
 His voice almost holy in sweetness. 
 Again he repeated the text for the sermon, 
 And turning his face, full of holy compassion, 
 On all who sat there before him. 
 He spoke to each member present, 
 Taking up the thread of his sermon, 
 And weaving in the lives of all who 
 Sat in silence but mindful. 
 
 He commenced with the young and the children, 
 Telling by way of illustration 
 Of the tree badly trained in the orchard. 
 And he added, how easy to take it while tender, 
 And rear it to beauty and neatness. 
 But after years 'twas a struggle to bend it. 
 And likewise 'tis sin, he added, 
 Blackens the mind as well as the body. 
 In the morning is the time to serve Christ. 
 And further, he added — 
 It brings joy to all here about you, 
 
108 IvIFE PICTURES. 
 
 Besides a home in the city celestial. 
 
 Then he turned himself as it were— 
 To the older, with equal kindly expression. 
 "Do ye serve Christ with a whole heart, 
 Or are you divided ? Live, oh, live with an eye 
 Single to his glory and fear not ; 
 For God loveth the meek and lowly. 
 Waste no time in 'cisms and doctrines, 
 Save that which shall make you more like Him. 
 Shun, oh, shun evil contentions, 
 That bring to the church discord, and likewise 
 The evil of gossip keep from you. 
 Knowing a wise head and still tongue are essen- 
 tial. 
 And keep your hearts right, above all, 
 For the heart and tongue goeth together. 
 Then let me once more here entreat you, 
 To stand out from the world and its vices. 
 Be to those about you as bright lights, 
 For 'tis best to speak right and think right in all 
 things." 
 
 Then the man of God waited a moment 
 Before he addressed the aged and feeble, 
 And his eyes had a light as from heaven, — 
 As he saw the white heads about him. 
 "Oft, oh, how oft, have I sat at your table — 
 Made from pine in your humble log cabin. 
 Simple, I know, was the fare then — 
 But we ate and thanked God for His blessings. 
 Kneeling, as it were, by the fireplace — 
 
FATHER BAXTER'S LAST SERMON. 109 
 
 Like an altar, to lay on our offering. 
 
 But now, as life's shadows do lengthen, 
 
 Our faces turn eastward, 'tis natural 
 
 To look for the star in its rising. 
 
 Soon, ah, too soon are ye gathered, 
 
 And rest from the labors about you. 
 
 'A little while and ye see me no more, 
 
 Yet a little while I am with you.' 
 
 And you who are rich in this world's goods, 
 
 Just think for one moment whose wealth 'tis. 
 
 All you have is loaned for a season, 
 
 By Him, the bountiful Father. 
 
 Then I ask you this day, in all candor, 
 
 How have you dealt with the money he gave you? 
 
 Have you oppressed the poor and the needy ? 
 
 Have you remembered the widow and orphan ? 
 
 Oh, think of the journey you soon take, 
 
 Knowing no gold can you take over with you. 
 
 All ye are and all there is of you, 
 
 Must sleep in the grave for a season, 
 
 Save the spirit which came without wealth, 
 
 And without wealth it returneth. 
 
 Ye have prospered, then give God the glory." 
 
 Then his eyes filled with tears as he pointed 
 To the man Christ on the window. 
 And he plead with the thoughtless and erring. 
 "Have ye all the years been unmindful 
 Of the debt, the great debt that you owe him ? 
 See the crown of thorns He is under, 
 And the Roman cross on His shoulder. 
 
110 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 Can you look upon that for one moment 
 
 And be heedless of all that you owe Him? 
 
 Then why, oh, why, may I ask you, 
 
 Will ye slight his offers of mercy ? 
 
 Had ye a friend on earth to do half that, 
 
 Would ye not speak in praise of his goodness ? 
 
 Then confess Him this day, I beseech you, 
 
 Delaying your duty no longer. 
 
 And now, as a last solemn reminder, 
 
 Remember the text that I gave you : 
 
 'Yet a little while and ye see me no more, 
 
 Yet a little while I am with you.' " 
 
 He was done. Again the organ resounded — 
 
 And the choir sang in closing, their anthem, 
 
 And all stood with heads bowed, 
 
 For he struck deep into the hearts of all present. 
 
 They waited for him to dismiss them, 
 
 In his short but kind benediction, 
 
 But he arose not. 
 
 His lips wreathed with smiles, 
 And his face turned to the Christ at the window, 
 Father Baxter had preached his last sermon. 
 
OLD FIFTY-NINE, 
 
 'Twas to be an extra run, 
 
 As he left his happy home 
 
 With a sad sweet face still standing at the door, 
 
 Facing drifts of snow and sleet as he hurried 
 
 Down the street, to the round house 
 
 As he had the day before, then he hummed 
 
 An old love song while he met the raging 
 
 Storm have a kiss and warm fire for me 
 
 When I come— Did he think of baby Nell 
 
 Was there danger, who could tell, 
 
 *Twas a sweet face ever waiting at his door. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Down in the hall I can hear the 'phone 
 A ringing for they will call you out 
 To-night I fear with you at home my heart 
 Is always singing there's a danger lurking 
 Ever near. Jack don't leave, your baby girl 
 Is lonely stay in and let another go this time 
 It is a woman's fear I can name it only 
 Just let another run old Fifty -nine. 
 
OlyD FIFTY-NINE. 113 
 
 What his fate was we all know . 
 How he bucked the drifting snow 
 Looking out for danger signals as they new 
 Then the fireman called out "Jack there is 
 Something on the track." Quick he plugged his 
 Engine and the whistle blew, but the warning 
 Came too late on a curve he met his fate 
 Bravely standing by his engine all the time 
 Must we tell that wife at home she is waiting 
 Him to come, now another man will run old Fifty - 
 nine. 
 
THE AUCTION. 
 
 My heart is near to break 
 
 For the voice I never hear; 
 For the clinging arms around my neck, 
 
 And the footsteps drawing near. 
 
 — The Evangelist. 
 
 The Petersons had sold out and gone to town, 
 
 Bag and baggage they'd gone, 
 
 And were living down on Easy street 
 
 Where they had posies and a lawn. 
 
 Before going Peterson said "guessed he'd have an 
 
 auction, 
 A rail old-fashioned sale, 
 Two weeks comin' Thursday without fail." 
 "Free lunch at noon!' Lord, how that caught the 
 
 crowd, 
 And the way it hid the biscuits 
 Would do a kitchen proud. 
 Then came the auction. 
 Say — that was a cinch ; 
 
 There was old axes, hoes, rakes and chains, 
 Plow with handles broke, 
 Harnesses without hames, 
 An old-fashioned McCormick, or was it a buckeye, 
 
 I forgot, 
 
116 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 Went for twenty-four fifty on the spot. 
 
 Oh, everything went sailing that day, 
 
 For cash or ready pay. 
 
 But then Peterson was a pretty good sort after all, 
 
 And I kept gettin' blamed lonesome all the fall, 
 
 And a feelin' would come o'er me 
 
 And it wouldn't down and I kept thinkin' 
 
 How nice 'twould be if we could live in town. 
 
 To be sure our pile wer'nt what the Petersons was; 
 
 But then, our expenses was small, 
 
 With only two chairs at the table, 
 
 And only two plates was all. 
 
 There used ter be one between us, 
 
 But I hadn't seen it of late. 
 
 There were footmarks on the high chair, 
 
 There were a — b — c's on the plate. 
 
 One day while ilin' the binder, 
 
 My back nigh broke in two, 
 
 A horse, a carriage and driver 
 
 quietly came in view. 
 
 "Hello, Uncle Dave, 
 
 What you doing there on the ground V 
 
 Everybody knew Dave Baxter 
 
 For miles and miles around. 
 
 Said I, "I'm arter an honest living" 
 
 And then I was a little ashamed 
 
 At the way I spoke to a stranger, 
 
 A man I'd never named. 
 
 Said he, "Uncle Dave, 
 
 Don't you think it about time you laid by ? 
 
THE AUCTION. 117 
 
 You can't do all the work ; 
 
 It's no use for you to try." 
 
 Well, as the sailor says, he struck 
 
 Me twixt wind and water 
 
 And I'd nothin' to say only 
 
 If I could find a buyer 
 
 I'd let 'r slide today. 
 
 Well, he whistled a bit of a tune, 
 
 Took out a plug and cuttin' off a slice, 
 
 Asked in a casual manner 
 
 If I was ready to name the price. 
 
 I named it ; then what wouldn't I give 
 
 For I had promised Martha I wouldn't sell it 
 
 So long as we both should live. 
 
 But a bargain is a bargain ; 
 
 The farm was sold all right, 
 
 And I was tryin' to think of some manner 
 
 To break the news that night. 
 
 So when I comes in to supper I says, 
 
 Martha — we've — we've sold the farm ; 
 
 Though he didn't pay anything down, 
 
 But he's comin' over to-morrow to close the deal. 
 
 And then we'll live in town. 
 
 I noticed she didn't eat nothin'; 
 
 My supper didn't taste the best, 
 
 For I was thinkin' of the trick I played 
 
 For takin' that big rest. 
 
 'Twas the full of the moon, 
 
 I sat on the porch that night 
 
 Tryin' to settle the issue, 
 
118 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 Through the stem of my old cob pipe 
 
 When she comes out and lays her hand on my 
 
 shoulder and says, 
 David, let's take a walk ; 
 Let's take a stroll down the lane. 
 The farm is sold, you know, 
 We may never own it again. 
 Says she, David, you'll miss your quiet 
 Evenings when all around is still, 
 You'll miss the chirp of the katydid, 
 The song of the whip-poor-will, 
 You'll miss the golden sunset, 
 The smell of the new mown hay, 
 The drone of the busy worker 
 As he quietly flits away. 
 And, David, it's been thirty years ; 
 Thirty long years, she said, 
 Since we laid him away, 
 Laid him away with the dead. 
 And I sit up at night and I listen, 
 And think I can hear him call, 
 And then I know I've been dreaming 
 A mother's dream is all ; 
 And David, there comes o'er me a feeling, 
 A feeling that will not down, 
 I wonder if he could find us 
 When we are living in town ? 
 By gosh, I felt queer, 
 From somewhere out in the moonlight 
 There dropped on my hand a tear. 
 
THE AUCTION. 119 
 
 I felt as if I could whip my weight in wildcats 
 
 Or a man as big as a hay stack. 
 
 It was either that or blubber, 
 
 And a man don't look nice blubberin', 
 
 So when she says, "The farm is sold, David, 
 
 And tomorrow we move to town," 
 
 I says, not by a dang sight. 
 
 There, like an ulcerated tooth it was oat 
 
 And I felt better. So you see we're here yet. 
 
 Folks say Dave Baxter's learnin to shirk. 
 
 (Guess that's no dream) 
 
 And Martha has a Swede girl 
 
 To help her out with her work. 
 
 An' we sit by the fire of an evening 
 
 As the years go rolling on, 
 
 I guess we's 'bout as near heaven 
 
 As though we lived in town. 
 
 For there's a power in contentment 
 
 To the public is never told, 
 
 And it covers the path of sorrow 
 
 As we all of us grow old. 
 
 And I'd hearn the sayin' somewhere, 
 
 And I thought it a little odd 
 
 The closer you cling to Nature, 
 
 The nearer you are to God. 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED CRADLE. 
 
 You that have been nurtured in wealth, rocked 
 to sleep in the wicker work of modern luxury, 
 look not askance at the old home made cradle 
 which your grandmother used in the pioneer days 
 of long ago. You can take my word for it no 
 sweeter song was ever listened to than the dear 
 old lullaby we so well remember. 
 
 As I look at the picture of that dear old 
 cradle it calls up scenes and voices long forgotten. 
 A face, that angel face, and then I hear low, but 
 in the sweetest strains, — "Hush, my babe, lie still 
 and slumber," and ere long we forget all and are 
 sound asleep. No sleep like the sleep of child- 
 hood, a dreamless, happy rest. There was no 
 threat from a tired, fretful nurse, telling us to 
 keep still or the boogy man would get us, or that 
 the black man would come out of a closet and 
 carry us off. No, no, there was no song like a 
 mother's song and no face like hers. Her sym- 
 pathetic kiss was a panacea for all our falls, 
 bruises and heartaches. Little did we think at 
 that time, she was paving the way for our feet 
 that must tread life's path unaided, against unseen 
 pitfalls that beset the steps of all who journey on 
 — on until the last. 
 
122 IvlFK PICTURES. 
 
 Dear old cradle, with it are the associations 
 of pioneer days, the little log cabin in the wilder- 
 ness where we picked the moss from between the 
 chinking and let in both cold and sunlight, the 
 howl of the timber wolf in the forest near by, and 
 the gnawing of the hedgehog as he tried to get 
 some little satisfaction from an old salt barrel at 
 the corner of the woodshed. 
 
 No statesmen were ever rocked to sleep in this 
 particular cradle, that we have heard of, but 
 we've each and all tried to fill our station in life 
 as becomes men and women. However, we feel 
 safe in saying that what we are or what good 
 there is in us, was trained and guided by her who 
 bent over the cradle and lulled us to sleep in our 
 infancy. 
 
CHASING A HAT, 
 
 I think I am not like other people. In fact, I 
 know I am not. I have been wonderfully amused 
 to see other men get red in the face just because 
 the wind got frisky and blew their hat off; and 
 then they'd go chasing down the street uttering 
 ejaculations that savored of the inferno because 
 the thing would not hold still to be picked up. 
 Then just as the owner of the cranium cover 
 would reach down to fondle the unruly member 
 another gust of wind would take it and away the 
 poor thing would go sailing down the street, and 
 again the man with head as free of protection as 
 a billiard cue, would rush frantically through 
 slush and rain, and at last, apparently tired of the 
 chase, the hat would lie submissively waiting to 
 be picked up. 
 
 However ; the other day I did get really out 
 of patience, not at my hat nor at the wind, be- 
 cause that would be foolish. Foolish, I say, be- 
 cause no one but a fool would get mad at a hat or 
 becsuse the wind blew, but because the people on 
 the street laughed. 
 
124 IvlFK PICTURES. 
 
 It had rained all day the day previous and 
 that night the wind got around northward and the 
 water was turned into ice. Ice everywhere — on 
 the street, on the sidewalk, on all the cross walks 
 — yes, and even in the stairway leading to my 
 office. 
 
 With a bundle of letters in my hand I sallied 
 out to reach the post-office box across the way, but 
 I never reached it, that is, I did not that trip. I 
 changed my mind. I hadn't gone a dozen steps 
 before a young urchin came sailing up the street 
 on a pair of skates. Now, I've no objection to 
 boys skating. In fact, I was quite a skater in my 
 day myself, but why boys are allowed to put on 
 skates in the city and get in the way of pedes- 
 trians is something I shall look into at the next 
 council meeting. But that is neither here nor 
 there. The boy came sailing down the street and 
 watching me all the while. I think it was so he 
 could dodge just the way I did ; then when I 
 turned to the other side of the walk he was right 
 over there and coming straight toward me. Of 
 course there was a head end collision, as railroad 
 men call it ; couldn't help but be. All I remem- 
 ber of it was that my feet went out from under 
 me and the lower part of my body came down 
 with a thud on the icy walk. I don't like to be 
 laughed at, no one does, so I got onto my pins as 
 quickly as possible, but somehow I lost my hat 
 and before I could get my bearings the wind had 
 
CHASING A HAT. 125 
 
 it half a block away, and then it lay in the gutter 
 waiting for me to come and pick it up. I would 
 not run for that would spoil my dignity, besides 
 there were others on the street who might see me, 
 so I walked leisurely along as if nothing had hap- 
 pened, and as I was about to pick up the hat it 
 turned on the edge and commenced rolling from 
 me. I quickened my pace, expecting every step 
 to put it on my head and return to the office, but 
 it didn't stop. The faster I ran the faster the hat 
 went. Then I began to get nervous. T heard a 
 couple of girls on the other side of the street gig- 
 gle. I would not look around or let them know I 
 heard them. Then I heard some one coming out 
 of a barber shop shout, "Run ! Run, or you never 
 will get it." And another increased my anger by 
 yelling, "I'll bet on the hat. Go in, Pussy," and 
 much more of the same string. I felt as if I 
 could whip a whole regiment of just such persons, 
 officers included, but I was after the hat and have 
 it I would. My ire was really to boiling heat. 
 Finally the hat stopped right in the middle of the 
 street and fairly dared me to pick it up. I had a 
 notion to kick the thing clear to the next crossing, 
 but finally thought better of the matter, picked it 
 up and put it on my head, then started back to 
 the office, 
 
 The people had picked up my letters, and one 
 man was mean enough to ask me how much the 
 government paid me for distributing mail. I 
 
126 IvlFB PICTURES. 
 
 never answered him. The scriptures say, "A 
 soft answer turneth away wrath." Mine needed 
 turning away. I've since met those same girls 
 who laughed at me, but I never noticed them, and 
 the boy with the skates came up and tried to 
 explain, but I told him it wasn't necessary, that I 
 knew all about it that I wanted to. 
 
 I am wearing a hat now with a string tied 
 to it, so when it blows off it won't bother other 
 people. 
 
A SERMON ON THE TRAIN. 
 
 Iyost yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, 
 two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. — 
 Horace Mann. 
 
 " "Come, everybody, drink." Just then the 
 train gave a sudden lurch, throwing the tipsy 
 lumber Jack so far into an empty seat that his 
 hand holding the quart bottle barely missed the 
 window beyond him. 
 
 "I like to see a man what can drink and what 
 can let it alone. That's the kind of a hat pin I 
 am. Come, old man, have a drink," and he ex- 
 tended the bottle toward a man sitting in the seat 
 opposite. "Drink," said the tipsy lumberman. 
 "It shows your independence and makes a man of 
 you." 
 
 The stranger, who was perhaps fifty or fifty- 
 five years of age, took the proffered bottle and 
 held it up to the light. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "I too like to see a man in- 
 dependent, but, my friend, you will never get 
 any independence through the help of John Bar- 
 leycorn. He isn't that kind of a help. You drink 
 to show your independence. You will soon be 
 drinking because you can't let it alone. You 
 already have a craving and burning of the stom- 
 ach for more stimulant, which you can not resist. 
 
128 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 You are now drinking for pleasure, perhaps, but 
 you will soon be drinking from necessity. Then 
 comes the reaction. Your days of work are soon 
 over. Oh, but you will be a sight to look at. 
 Your body, made in the likeness of the Father 
 and for the purpose of doing some good in the 
 world, has by this time become a mass of putrid 
 corruption. You walk from the house to the 
 street and from the street to the house again. 
 You complain of a shortness of breath, and for 
 weeks have not been able to sleep lying down, so 
 it is you and the chair for it. 
 
 "A physician is called in and diagnoses your 
 case, prescribes quiet, no stimulauts, and a strict 
 diet. Here is where Barleycorn has you. Here 
 is where your elixir of life, your liquid extract of 
 independence gets his work in. Young man, your 
 days are numbered. Say ! were you ever lost out 
 on the great plains with no water ? I have been 
 and I want to tell you it is hell, but it is no such 
 a hell as you will suffer while fighting your last 
 great fight with this, this extract of independ- 
 ence." 
 
 He held the bottle to the light for a moment 
 without saying a word, then he resumed his word 
 picture . 
 
 "Oh, the long, long nights that are before 
 you ! Sleep is out of the question. You watch 
 out of the window and see one star after another 
 arise in the east and pass on up out of your vision. 
 
A SERMON ON THE TRAIN. 129 
 
 You sit there and suffer and think. Oh, if you 
 could only stop thinking ! If you could only sleep 
 and forget all! The M. D. is called in and tells 
 you that the only relief for you is tapping. You 
 send him away, cursing him and his whole pill- 
 bag fraternity, but another twelve hours of suffer- 
 ing brings you to it ; you are as submissive as a 
 lamb. 
 
 "You have prayed for death, but the reaper 
 is not ready for you yet. The doctor inserts a 
 hollow needle, called a trocar, and with the aid of 
 a little hand pump, extracts this, this extract of 
 manhood you have been saving up for years ; and 
 at last you sleep, a long, tired, exhausted sleep. 
 For hours you forget it all. At last you awake 
 with a cry and a start. You have been in hell, 
 that is all. A cry for water and a sensation that 
 you are again filling up with this, this fire that 
 consumes, and then there is another night. You 
 sit and watch for the morning star and the first 
 red flare of approaching day. The perfume from 
 the climber outside your window is great, after 
 being wet with the dews of the morning. The 
 robin sings his happy carol as over his mate he is 
 bending, but you heed it not. Way down there at 
 the end of the lane where there is no returning, 
 there is a pit, due east and west, six feet perpen- 
 dicular." 
 
 Just then our train entered a long dark tun- 
 nel and the smoke that entered our windows only 
 
130 IvIFB PICTURES. 
 
 added color to the picture he had drawn. At last 
 when we had emerged from the darkness and the 
 pure, sweet air was all about us once more, we 
 looked about us. The lumber Jack had vanished. 
 He probably had gone forward to the smoker. 
 The bottle likely had been dropped out of the win- 
 dow. The narrator sat motionless. None of us 
 durst ask him any questions, but were satisfied he 
 had painted his picture from memory. Perhaps 
 the victim was a brother, perhaps it was his own 
 son, we could not tell. 
 
THE SUMMER OF '97. 
 
 The resort season was fast drawing to a close. 
 The waters of the lake looked no longer inviting. 
 A few short weeks previous and these same 
 waters danced and sparkled in the morning sun- 
 light as the occupants of many a frail craft had 
 been heard in song and laughter as they glided 
 hither and yon over its mirrored surface. 
 
 Now all was changed. The surface of the 
 lake fell and rose again like the bosom of some 
 tired mother as she sat through the long hours of 
 the night watching the fitful slumbers of her suf- 
 fering infant. No more did those waters kiss the 
 pebbly strand as they were wont to do earlier in 
 the season, but at regular intervals came surging 
 in with ominous sound like some wild beast chaf- 
 ing at the fetters which held it at bay. 
 
 The seagull also appeared upon the scene and 
 with wild, discordant screams, wheeled and cir- 
 cled in mid -air and then with apparent glee dived 
 beneath the incoming billows. 
 
 Most of the resorters had left the week pre- 
 vious, but these two were loth to leave the en- 
 chanted spot, and sat crouched down on a seat 
 behind the old boat house, and there they had 
 met for a last lingering "farewell." Jimmy had 
 
132 XylFK PICTURES, 
 
 seen scarce fifteen summers, and his companion 
 was perhaps a year younger. 
 
 "Let us pledge our eternal friendship in this," 
 said Jimmy, as he nervously pulled the stopper 
 from a five cent bottle of soda water. "I shall 
 always remember your kindness," said the youth, 
 as he passed the bottle to his now weeping com- 
 panion. "Drink," said he, "Drink half of it any- 
 way, and I shan't mind if you take most all. I 
 have hearn tell of folks drownin' their trouble in 
 the flowing bowl, and I reckon how as this will 
 brace us up for the last good-bye. We will also 
 remember how near we come to gettin' drowned 
 over there on Stony Point, as we got tangled up 
 in the gill nets." 
 
 Just then there was a splash, and looking 
 down I saw the coveted bottle slowly sinking be- 
 low the angry waters of the lake. 
 
 "I did not intend to do it," said his com- 
 panion, "but I guess I must a been nervous from 
 gettin' up too early this morning." "Never 
 mind," said he, "we have cigarettes left." 
 
 Shortly after that I saw two youngsters r 
 whose faces bore the marks of early sorrow, 
 wending their way up the walk to the hotel, and 
 in another hour a train bore them out among the 
 hills, and nothing but the solitary cork from the 
 ill-fated bottle was left to remind me that the 
 resort season of '97 was ended, 
 
CUTTING THE LAST PINE. 
 
 The last pine — the lonely monarch in the 
 midst of 2,000,000 feet of hardwood timber— is 
 down. Its fall was one of the most pathetic sights 
 I have ever had occasion to witness. 
 
 Through the courtesy of Frank Lahym, the 
 lumberman, I found myself on a cold, frosty 
 morning headed for camp. It was my good for- 
 tune to receive an invitation to be present at the 
 cutting of the last pine to be found anywhere in 
 the woods for miles around. 
 
 Great is the power of imagination, and before 
 I was aware of it I was again among the scenes of 
 thirty years ago* 
 
 THE SCENE CHANGES. 
 
 I was once more riding beneath the ever- 
 greens that hung low from the great load of snow 
 they were supporting. In the distance I could 
 here the steady "clip, clip" of the woodsman's ax 
 and the sharp ring of the saw, while away in the 
 distance came the familiar warning, "Timber! 
 Timber !" to all who might be in danger from the 
 falling trees. 
 
 Again the scene changed with me and I stood 
 beside the skidway and saw the great pines being 
 
134 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 loaded on sleighs with their 12-foot bunks. Log 
 on top of log was being piled up on the sleighs 
 until it looked like a veritable rollway for each 
 team to take out. 
 
 The last log is rolled up into position, the 
 familiar "chain over" is given and answered. The 
 load is securely bound and then we start down the 
 iced road to the river — I awake from my dream. 
 
 There is a jerk and a jolt and we find our- 
 selves up-standing. One sleigh is fouled on the 
 roots of a young sapling that some road monkey 
 has unwittingly cut four inches too high. 
 
 Thus vanishes the dream of '78 and with it 
 the great rollway, the logging sleighs with their 
 12-foot bunks, the graded road which was kept in 
 shape by the sprinkler over night, the overhang- 
 ing trees that always had a weird and ghostlike 
 appearance when clothed in their mantle of snow, 
 and, last of all, the great banking ground where 
 still flows the waters of the Manistee. 
 
 THE DINNER HORN CALLS. 
 
 We consign them all to the memories of thirty 
 years ago, when I, too. was a unit in that great 
 industry that will never return. We reach camp 
 just as the great dinner horn is calling from labor 
 to refreshments, and the lumber jacks come 
 steaming in from their cutting of hardwood. 
 
 But it has changed, all changed. We sit 
 down to a table loaded with roast beef, bread and 
 
CUTTING THE IvAST PINE. 135 
 
 butter, potatoes and coffee, capped out with pie 
 and cookies. Ye gods, but what must one of our 
 boys of 78 have thought had he sat down to such 
 a meal. However, we bolt it down while I think 
 of the days when men sat around a fire in the 
 woods and ate their beans and hard bread with 
 good old "New Orleans" for dressing, and were 
 satisfied. Had a man kicked on that he would 
 have been hooted out of camp and compelled to 
 take the hay road between two days. 
 
 In the midst of two million feet of hardwood 
 in town 26 north of range 11 west stood one of the 
 most beautiful cork pines that ever grew, three 
 feet six on the stump, and when cut made five 
 fourteen, one twelve and one sixteen-feet logs. 
 When scaled by Doyle's it measured a bit better 
 than 3,000 feet. We had cut larger trees in 78, as 
 well as smaller ones, but none better. I counted 
 the rings on the stump and came to the conclusion 
 that this one pine had stood alone as a landmark, 
 or sentinel, defying the storm and wind for better 
 than 200 years, and had even escaped in days past 
 the vandalism of the timber thieves. 
 
 I loved the pine, not for its intrinsic value 
 alone, but for the memory it awakened. How- 
 ever, the time had come to cut and fell this last 
 monarch. The hardwood was being cut around 
 it. Huge piles of tops and brush were in every 
 direction, It might survive until some future day 
 in the hot summer, when some unthinking half- 
 
136 I/IFK PICTURES. 
 
 wit would drop a match in the dry tinder of the 
 slashing. The prospect would be similar to that 
 already seen in sections of Wexford, Roscommon, 
 Kalkaska, Grand Traverse and many other coun- 
 ties. 
 
 After getting several good pictures of the 
 landscape and the tree from various positions, I 
 watched it being cut and skidded ready for the 
 hauling. 
 
 Then, as the day was advancing, I was called 
 to the sleigh for our return trip to the city. 
 Strange it may seem. No one but an old lumber- 
 man can understand when I say I was both glad 
 as well as sorry, to be present at the cutting of 
 the last pine. 
 
CHARGING THE TANK. 
 
 It was a new venture with each and all of us, 
 but the machine had come, and came alone with 
 only a harmless little piece of paper tacked to the 
 box giving directions how to feed and harness the 
 critter. 
 
 Each of the three of us, Cliff, Sam and my- 
 self, had solemnly resolved the night beforehand 
 that on the following morning we would learn 
 how to manufacture oxygen gas or quit house- 
 keeping, and that was the long and short of it. 
 Cliff had run the retort into the stove and was 
 heating the butt end of it (of the retort.) This 
 was according to directions. Sam was filling the 
 Wash bottle with water. This, also, was accord- 
 ing to directions. I was reading the instruction 
 card for the fifty -fifth time, not that it was accord- 
 ing to instructions, but because I thought it best 
 the other boys should obey orders. Then we all 
 three stopped and read the instruction card 
 together. Gradually the butt end of that retort 
 became hot and was turning to a cherry red. We 
 had to do something or nothing, and that right 
 
138 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 away quick, too. A dry mixture was to be poured 
 into the neck of that machine, like turning castor 
 oil down the neck of a sick horse. Would it ex- 
 plode ? We could not tell. The card said not. 
 Cliff had the animal by the neck. Sam seized the 
 box of compound with one hand and the funnel 
 with the other. I closed the door leading to the 
 large room. Then we paused and looked in each 
 other's faces. Each face was a study. There was 
 no flinching now but it was well to be cautious. 
 Cliff held the neck of that hot machine as far 
 from him as possible, like a man holds off the day 
 for paying a promissory note. Sam had turned 
 his nose from the affair, like one who would avoid 
 the savor of an old neighborhood scandal. I got 
 to the windward of the thing and partly hid be- 
 hind a dry goods box, thinking the pine splinters 
 might, in a measure, protect me from the explo- 
 sion, and wondering all the time what my wife 
 would do with my insurance after I was gone. 
 
 Down went the compound into the funnel and 
 from there into the retort. It did not explode. 
 Sam grabbed the union and essayed to couple it 
 to the tank. It would not couple. He was turn- 
 ing it the wrong way. He then turned it to the 
 right and it coupled. At once the needle on the 
 gauge began to move. It did not only move but 
 jumped ten degrees at a time. Horror of horrors! 
 Were we to be blown into eternity when we 
 thought the danger was all over with. No. Sam 
 
CHARGING THE TANK. 139 
 
 grabbed the throttle on top the gas tank and tried 
 to turn it. It would not move. Truth to tell, he 
 was tightening down the valve when it was tight 
 already. He then gave it a jerk backwards. 
 There was a hissing noise like steam rushing into 
 an empty cylinder. The needle dropped back to 
 twenty -five pounds and stayed there. All was 
 over ; we had our scare all for nothing. We soon 
 had the gas stored in the tank and were busy 
 packing away the pipes and fixtures as though 
 nothing had happened. 
 
TRAVERSE AS A RESORT. 
 
 It is a pleasure for the residents of this beau- 
 tiful region to welcome you to our shore for a few 
 weeks of rest and recuperation, and to see here 
 the cozy little hotel nestled among the hills as a 
 place of refuge from the cares and ills of the out- 
 side world. 
 
 We have all lived "Out Side," as we term it, 
 and are the better prepared to bid you a hearty 
 welcome. Having found the door to our retreat, 
 we ask you to stay as long as you wish and help 
 to make one among us, for our attractions are 
 many. 
 
 As the summer advances and the weather 
 grows intensely hot each incoming train is sure to 
 be loaded with its wearied freight, all looking, as 
 it were, where care, sickness, and the perplexing 
 scenes of business life are left behind, if but for a 
 few weeks. 
 
 It is a matter of interest to the idle spectator, 
 as he stands at one of our depots and watches the 
 unloading of a train that has just arrived. Here 
 we see a strong, healthy man with his wee, deli- 
 cate wife leaning upon his arm. Over there in an 
 invalid chair is a child of uncertain age, he may 
 be ten years old and he may be older, we can not 
 tell. Tenderly does the fond mother bend over 
 
TRAVERSE AS A RESORT. 141 
 
 the little sufferer. The diseases of an unhealthy 
 climate, unknown to this country, have left their 
 stamp upon that face so prematurely old. This is 
 their first visit to a region where malaria and its 
 associates are unknown. And still they come. 
 There goes a man whose close application to busi- 
 ness for the past ten years has left him but a 
 shadow of what he once was. Now he is willing 
 to leave it all behind if only he can regain his 
 former health. He is fairly ashamed to let people 
 see him shiver as he pulls his heavy woolen shawl 
 about his shoulders. He feels for the first time a 
 breath of our pure, invigorating atmosphere. 
 Still they come. 
 
 See, now the train moves slowly back out of 
 way, and for the first time in their lives they 
 drink in the beautiful scenery. The beautiful 
 bay which laps their very feet and reaches off to 
 the northward as far as the eye can reach, has 
 captured the attention of all, and, as by magic, a 
 changed expression comes over the tired and care- 
 worn faces. 
 
 Then it is all hurry and excitement, each 
 looking after some earthly possessions which have 
 been most jealously guarded during the long jour- 
 ney northward. They are all looking for tem- 
 porary homes. Some have friends at the depot to 
 meet them. Others find homes in private families 
 for a short time, and still others have taken up 
 quarters in our hotels, where they partake of the 
 
142 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 good things famished by the genial hosts. Near- 
 ly every house in or about the city has opened its 
 doors to some friend from the outside world. It 
 is a pleasure to play the healer, where there is no 
 call for quinine or the doctor's tablets. Gladly 
 we note the change that comes over their tired 
 and careworn faces. How pleased we are to see 
 them take on new hope and a new lease of life. 
 We would say, ' k Sleep on, for you can sleep here. 
 Eat on, as you will surely be taken with a coming 
 appetite before you have been here many days." 
 Many enjoy taking a sail during the afternoon, 
 and they may be seen gliding hither and yon as 
 they move about in their self-propelling craft far 
 out over the sparkling water. Others enjoy a 
 quiet drive about the city or a spin on the high- 
 way which reaches for miles on either side of the 
 bay. 
 
 Then at close of day as the sun sinks behind 
 the hills to the west of us, the scene changes, the 
 the wind goes down and there is no more use for 
 the white sail, but as evening advances many are 
 the little craft to be seen gliding about the water. 
 Listen and you catch the sound of song, accom- 
 panied by mandolin and guitar . as it floats shore- 
 ward. It is inspiring and helps to pass the time 
 all too swiftly by. But the fun does not stop 
 here. Many a good housewife has allowed her 
 carpet to be lifted in the dining room. Tables 
 and chairs disappear and the cottage organ, so 
 
TRAVERSE AS A RESORT. 143 
 
 well adapted to sacred melody, now rolls forth its 
 music to the dizzy waltzers. Music, singing and 
 rhetoric all have their respective places, and it is 
 usually a late hour before the guests have discov- 
 ered that it is time to retire. 
 
 But the morning hours on Traverse Bay are 
 the most enchanting. Lulled to sleep by the re- 
 pose of night the bay now appears like a sea of 
 glass. Everything in the distance takes on a dif- 
 ferent aspect. The hills and trees appear like 
 huge sentinels guarding the sleeping infant at 
 their feet. Northport Point and Marion Island 
 stand high up in the heavens as if to bid defi- 
 ance to the storm king who may at this hour be 
 abroad. 
 
 It is wonderful, wonderful and grand. Oh, 
 what a scene for the brush of a painter. Man has 
 done much towards making the place attractive, 
 but nature alone has made it an Eden. 
 
"NO. 2317." 
 
 "This is No. 2317," said the deputy warden, 
 as he called my attention to the cell at the left of 
 us. "She is a new arrival from one of your 
 northern districts. She is giving us no little 
 trouble, and if she keeps on we will have to trans- 
 fer her to the ward for insane criminals. The 
 doctor will see her in the morning and, if it is as I 
 suspect, she will be taken from the work room." 
 
 The deputy stepped back, giving me an oppor- 
 tunity to look through the iron lattice at the form 
 within. As I did so, a woman of not more than 
 thirty or thirty-two years paused in her measured 
 walk up and down the little inclosure and came 
 and stood before me. At first the light of a 
 maniac shone in her eyes, but seeing that I was a 
 stranger, the glare softened and she came and 
 stood close to the grating that separated us. 
 
 You will let me speak to you, please, oh, 
 please do. I won't harm you and oh, I am dying 
 to talk to some one. I was so happy once. That 
 was twelve years ago — twelve years this coming 
 May. Oh, those happy, happy days, and how fast 
 they flew by. Night was but a shadow and the 
 day but a dream ! 
 
 "Are you listening? Let me explain. Two 
 years after marriage our baby was born. Oh, the 
 
"NO. 2317." 145 
 
 sweetest baby, and we named her Edna — Edna 
 Graham. She was so pretty and, as I held her to 
 my breast and looked down into those sweet baby 
 eyes, I thought my cup of joy would overflow, I 
 was so happy. But there was a cloud coming be- 
 tween us — between husband and wife. I could 
 not see it then but I saw it afterward. George 
 began to stay out of evenings and I, foolish crea- 
 ture that I was, became exacting. My health was 
 poor and while sitting there alone with the baby I 
 imagined all sorts of evil things and became jeal- 
 ous of him — jealous of my husband whom I loved 
 so insanely. 
 
 "If he had only come and put his arm around 
 my neck and given me one assuring and endear- 
 ing word all would have been well ; but he did 
 not. We quarreled. How I hate that word ! 
 George would not give in and I was stubborn, 
 thinking I was the one aggrieved. Next morning 
 he went away and left us all alone, baby and I, 
 and I did not see or hear from him until a man 
 came and read some kind of a paper to me and 
 told me nry husband had sued for a divorce. I 
 met him in the street once after that, and the 
 devils in Hades must have had a glorious time 
 over my anguish and humiliation. George was as 
 inflexible as steel. I begged on my bended knees 
 for him to take me back and love me as he used 
 to, but he only laughed at me and turned and left 
 me — left me there on my knees in the street. 
 
146 LIFE PICTURES. 
 
 "The trial came on. I don't understand it a 
 bit, but the court told my husband he was a free 
 man, but owing to the tender years of little Edna 
 he must give her into my keeping. I could not 
 endure living in the same city with George and 
 not be his wife, so I took Edna and went to 
 Toledo. 
 
 "Oh, those terrible days and weeks which fol- 
 lowed ! I am not offering any excuse for doing as 
 I did, besides you are good and don't know what 
 it is to be tempted. It was a cold, drizzly night. 
 I was without food to eat or coal to warm the 
 room, Edna woke up and cried for something to 
 eat and I had nothing for her. I had tried to get 
 work and there was none to be found. 
 
 "I don't know why I did it, for the vengeance 
 of a just God has followed me ever since that 
 fatal night. I got a little girl to come and stay 
 with Edna. I hurried and put on my wraps and 
 went out on the street. Come close so he won't 
 hear me, — but I did, I sold myself to the devil, 
 mortgaged my soul to perdition, and my body I 
 sold for a price. Well, I came back with bread ; 
 yes, bread for my baby, but my heart was like 
 lead. I was afraid she would grow up some day 
 and learn what I had done. We got along some 
 way after that until spring, when I sent Edna to 
 stay with her grandmother, and I was to try to 
 get a place in the cutting room of one of our big 
 cloak factories. The foreman looked kindly at me 
 
"NO. 2317." 147 
 
 and listened to my story. He was about to settle 
 the price of my earnings when one of the clerks 
 came and whispered to Mr. Batesin. I could not 
 hear what was said, but I saw a scowl come over 
 the foreman's face, and when he came back to me 
 he said he had no work for me, that the places were 
 all taken. I went out of there with a heavy heart. 
 I knew what had done it all, what had changed his 
 mind, for as I passed by the clerk that had spoken 
 to him I heard him say to a fellow workman, 
 * Streetwalker.' 
 
 "But the worst is still to be told. I only sent 
 Edna to her grandmother for a visit, but my 
 mother-in-law never liked me very well anyway, 
 and instead of keeping her or sending her back to 
 me she sent her north to her father and wrote and 
 told bad things about me and made George believe 
 I did not want to be good and that I was not fit to 
 bring up my own child, so when I went after 
 Edna they told me I could not have her. 
 
 "I scarcely know what followed, but I was 
 summoned to appear in court and they swore such 
 awful things about me that I could hardly believe 
 it was me they were talking about. 
 
 "Oh, God ! It was not bad enough that I must 
 be separated from my husband, but they must 
 take my baby away from me also. I wept, I 
 prayed, I begged on bended knee that she be left 
 me, but it was no use. The judge had given his 
 decision and George's heart was like flint against 
 
148 IvlFK PICTURES. 
 
 all my pleadings and, by the judge's permission, 
 he took my darling from my arms and led her 
 from the courtroom. I can not tell you all I felt, 
 but my heart was like lead and my brain like a 
 lava bed of fire. When they led her out it seemed 
 as if every bit of good died out that was in me. I 
 found a carving knife in the kitchen of the house 
 where I boarded. I concealed it about my cloth- 
 ing and watched, — watched for him and her. So 
 when they were about to step aboard the train 
 and leave me, I sprang from my hiding and rushed 
 upon them. They said I laughed but I can't 
 remember. I only thought of our family being 
 united in death, for I intended to kill them both 
 and then take my own life. I struck George a 
 terrible blow, the blood spurted a terrible stream 
 from the gash in his neck, he staggered and then 
 fell, but I could not strike her. There was some- 
 thing that kept me from killing my baby with the 
 knife. I grabbed her up in my arms and started 
 for the river. My brain was on fire. I longed 
 for the cool waters to shut out forever the terri- 
 ble anguish I was already suffering. In my eager 
 haste I stumbled and fell — fell with her in my 
 arms. A sharp, ragged stone lay right in my 
 path and Edna's head fell against it with terrible 
 force. Hands seized me from behind and stayed 
 me from finishing what I had purposed. 
 
 "No, no, she's not dead! I've seen her, and 
 talked with her only last night, and she came and 
 
"NO. "2317." 149 
 
 put her arms around my neck just as she used to 
 do, and kissed me, but fyer lips were cold, oh, so 
 cold ! If you see her won't you tell her to come 
 to me early ? Tell her I'll be right here listening 
 —listening for her little feet as they patter down 
 the corridor. Oh, my baby ! I want my baby ! 
 
 Tell her Oh, how my head aches !" 
 
 Here the deputy took out his note book and 
 jotted down something. Touching the electric 
 bell he said to the night guard, "No. 2317 is 
 worse to-night." 
 
OUR LAST BATTLE. 
 
 It was during the winter of '69-70. I remem- 
 ber it as though it was only yesterday. It was 
 Friday night after school and we boys had all 
 agreed to be at the hill early the following morn- 
 ing for a day of coasting. All were elated for the 
 snow was simply immense. 
 
 Of course Pete Jackson would be there. Pete 
 was always on hand on such occasions. I think 
 most of the boys hated him right cordially, for 
 various reasons. Pete's father was weathy, let- 
 ting his son have pretty much his own way at 
 home. The upshot of it was that he naturally 
 assumed airs over us at school, which we dis- 
 liked, but usually put up with rather than have a 
 row. 
 
 Pete carried a knife and often remarked that 
 he would carve the first lad that did not keep out 
 of his way. Of course none of us cared about be- 
 ing carved and to save him the trouble of exhibit- 
 ing his toothpick we avoided as far as possible all 
 trouble with him. 
 
 But there was a row abrewing, as the boys 
 say at school, and it came sooner than we had ex- 
 pected. 
 
 The Jacksons had a boy by the name of 
 "Tubbs" staying there, doing chores for his 
 
OUR LAST BATTLE. 151 
 
 board. I guess he earned all he got, for the 
 whole Jackson family seemed to think it an urgent 
 duty to keep Tubbs busy from early morning un- 
 til late at night. 
 
 Some of the more considerate neighbors sug- 
 gested that Tubbs be sent to school, part of the 
 time anyway, but old man Jackson said he was a 
 fool, or so near it that all he was fit for was to 
 clean stables and bucksaw wood. Be that as it 
 may, on this particular Saturday Pete had seen fit 
 to bring Tubbs to the hill, for what reason we 
 soon learned. Pete would mount his sled at the 
 top of the hill, leaving Tubbs to run down the by- 
 path, and when at the foot the poor unfortunate 
 would haul the empty sled back again as ordered 
 by Pete. What enjoyment poor Tubbs was get- 
 ting out of it we boys failed to see. This kind of 
 fun had been going on for nearly an hour. The 
 hill had by constant wear become like glass, and 
 as Tubbs neared the top with the sled he slipped 
 and fell. Pete Hew into a passion in an instant 
 and kicked the poor fellow in the side with his 
 heavy boot as he lay on the ground. It made 
 Tubbs turn deathly pale, but he did not say any- 
 thing. 
 
 One of the boys by the name of Saunders, 
 Harvey Saunders, had been watching the perform- 
 ance and at once he protested at the inhuman 
 treatment of a boy who was so helpless and friend- 
 less. This drew forth a retort from Pete and in 
 
152 LIFK PICTURES. 
 
 his tirade of abuse, in the most emphatic manner 
 possible, stated that he could run is own business 
 and if Harvey interfered he was liable to get the 
 same treatment. 
 
 Harvey did not say much after that, but I 
 never saw fire flash from one's eyes as it did from 
 his when Pete threatened to kick him as he had 
 Tubbs. 
 
 Well, it all quieted down again and we each 
 in turn started down the long hill, Harvey in the 
 lead and Jackson directly behind him, the rest of 
 us boys bringing up in the rear. 
 
 I couldn't see how it happened, but Saunders' 
 new sled got run into and smashed finer than 
 kindling wood. Harvey asked Pete what he did 
 it for, and Pete answered that he might keep his 
 sled out of the way. Well, as I said, Harvey had 
 been getting his mad up ever since he saw Pete 
 kick poor Tubbs in the side. 
 
 Pete gave Harvey the lie and Harvey hurled 
 it back at him in a manner so hot that we knew he 
 intended to fight the bully right then and there, 
 and as he was shedding his coat some one of the 
 crowd cried out: "Look out for him, Harvey, he 
 is coming for you with a knife." 
 
 Well, sir, I've seen scraps at school, but I 
 never saw anything equal to that. As Pete rushed 
 upon him Harvey kicked the knife from his hand 
 and it went whizzing by my head, and then the 
 two went in for gore. 
 
OUR IvAST BATTIvB. 153 
 
 I never saw a better natured boy in school 
 than Harvey Saunders, but he was a wildcat when 
 he got his mad up. 
 
 At the beginning of the fight we all supposed 
 the boys were about equally matched. Pete was 
 the older but Harvey was somewhat larger; in 
 fact, he was a great, awkward boy who did not 
 know his strength, and the way he sailed into 
 Pete Jackson promised the downfall of his reign 
 of terror, and that right speedily. Pete tried to 
 evade his sledge hammer blows by ducking his 
 head under his arm and then coming up with an 
 upper-cut, but his antagonist, though lively, was 
 cool and well on his guard. 
 
 Seeing he was getting the worst of it, Pete 
 rushed at his great, awkward schoolmate, and we 
 thought sure he would finish him. That was what 
 Harvey had been looking for. For once he dis- 
 played the strength of a young giant. Grabbing 
 his assailant by the collar and trousers, he raised 
 him bodily from the ground and held him poised 
 over his own head, then with awful force hurled 
 him to the ground again. 
 
 I thought for sure Pete was killed, he lay so 
 still; but gradually he began to come to himself; 
 However, he had had enough. The fight was 
 knocked clean out of him. He sat up and began 
 to cry and said he was going home. He reached 
 for his sled but Harvey refused to let him have it. 
 
 "No," he said, "you have smashed my sled and 
 
154 IvIFB PICTURES. 
 
 I propose to see justice done for once, if I have to 
 give you another grubbing right here. You made 
 a dray horse of poor Tubbs today and I intend to 
 see to it that he has a few rides to make up for it. 
 The sled is mine by right and justice, and I will 
 see about sending it home later in the day." 
 
 Well, there is but little more to tell. From 
 that time on there were no more fights at school. 
 Pete was as docile as a kitten. We all of us had 
 known he was a coward at heart, and that grub- 
 bing did him more good than a year's schooling. 
 It was through Harvey's influence with the school 
 board that Tubbs got another place to do chores 
 and go to school and in time became quite a 
 scholar. It was our last battle. 
 
A WHITE CASKET. , 
 
 There was no director at the head of a long 
 funeral procession; no minister in clerical garb to 
 follow an undertaker in silent condolence. 
 
 No betasseled hearse or horses of spotless 
 white enshrouded in black netting to draw the re- 
 mains of a loved one, 
 
 No garlands of flowers of costly selection to 
 remind one that the departed was well remem- 
 bered. 
 
 There was no mile-long procession to follow 
 in the rear of some idol of a great commonwealth. 
 No, no ; none of these, but it was all there. Grief, 
 despair, heartache. It was all there. Slowly 
 they wended their way toward the city. 
 
 The outfit was that so commonly seen away 
 back in the newly settled country. Horse sedate 
 and steady, while the buggy, like the deacon's 
 masterpiece, was liable to collapse any moment, 
 and over all was a coating of dust, showing the 
 effects of long hours of travel. 
 
 The occupants were young, extremely so. At 
 first I took them to be no more than children, but 
 on closer inspection I discovered them old enough 
 to gather their first crop of life's sorrows. 
 
156 IvIFB PICTURES. 
 
 Without looking up or about him, he silently 
 tended the driving, while the young wife sat by 
 his side with a tiny white casket across her knees. 
 A single wild flower lay across the little coffin; 
 doubtless they had stopped and picked it by the 
 wayside. 
 
 No escort came with them. No parental voice 
 to speak words of sympathy in the ears of the 
 young father as he silently sat fighting his first 
 fight in life's great sorrow. Not a tear to be shed 
 in unison with the child-mother. No, they were 
 alone, all alone with their dead. 
 
 "This is the street," I heard her say. "for I 
 was once here to confession." 
 
 Without another word they turned their faces 
 toward the great stone building, and looking up, 
 her eyes caught sight of the glittering cross. "It 
 is there. I knew I could find it." Yes, it was all 
 there. 
 
JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE, MARCUS. 
 
 "Just before the battle, Marcus." This was 
 only the first line of a campaign song being sung 
 by a male quartet. The singers were doing their 
 best to please the audience that was growing im- 
 patient at the delay in the appearance of the 
 speakers of the evening. The hall was filled with 
 men and women, both young and old, and the song 
 was applauded to the echo. The singers were 
 again and again called to the front of the stage. 
 
 The song was a hrt as the word goes, 
 especially with the young. It really had many 
 laughable catches in its make-up; but it was the 
 tune that hit me most forcibly. There was some- 
 thing in it which the young and thoughtless and 
 those who did the cheering knew nothing of, 
 "Just Before the Battle, Mother." 
 
 Again I hear the drum tap and the shrill blast 
 of the bugle calling, "Fall in, fall in." I see 
 wives clasped in the arms of their husbands ; 
 weeping and wondering children clinging to the 
 
158 LJFE PICTURES. 
 
 knee of a loving father and, at a little distance 
 stands the young soldier, about whose neck are 
 the arms of his promised bride. This is no time 
 for words. 
 
 Again he presses his lips to hers, which are 
 now white and cold as marble. Again he attempts 
 to unclasp her arms, as once more the bugle calls, 
 "Fall in, fall in," and the bell from the engine 
 gives a final ring before starting. The girl has 
 fainted, that is all. 
 
 Then the mere stripling of a boy once more 
 winds his arms around the neck of his aged 
 mother, and she kisses him as she has done thou- 
 sands of times in his infancy when she taught him 
 a prayer at eventide. 
 
 "Go, Willie, and the widow's God be with you. 
 Be brave and never turn your back on Freedom's 
 Flag. You are all I have left to offer my coun- 
 try." 
 
 The bell stops ringing and the last soldier in 
 uniform steps on board the train. They move out 
 from the depot and a long line of smoke arises 
 serpent-like as the express winds down among the 
 hills, carrying its burden of loyal hearts to the 
 front, to be offered as a sacrifice upon the altar of 
 their country. 
 
 Days and weeks rolled by with occasional let- 
 ters from the "Boys." At length the great army 
 of the Cumberland becomes impatient, and now 
 comes the order, "To the front." 
 
JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE, MARCUS. 159 
 
 A single dispatch flashes over the wires to 
 the waiting hearts in that home among the hills : 
 
 " We are to meet the enemy at daybreak. 
 
 Willie." 
 
 Then I hear two lines of that old song, 
 
 "Just before the battle, mother, 
 I am thinking most of you. ' ' 
 
 For two days all is still. The suspense is 
 unbearable. Pale and anxious women crowd the 
 depot, waiting to hear the first news from their 
 loved ones in battle. 
 
 At length comes a short message from the 
 colonel, "Had engagement with the enemy. Loss 
 heavy on both sides. Willie Brant wounded." 
 
 Again I hear snatches of that old song, 
 
 "But I'll never leave our banner, 
 Till in honor I can come." 
 
 Once more the train pulls in at the depot and 
 a solitary soldier, with one arm tied in a sling, 
 stands beside a coffin. The anxious, weeping vil- 
 lagers crowd about the soldier. "Is his mother 
 here?*' asks the corporal. 
 
 In a humble cottage waits the solitary mourn- 
 er. No tears have yet moistened her furrowed 
 cheeks. Her heart still wavers as she struggles 
 between loyalty to her country and love for her 
 only child. 
 
 Let us draw the curtain. Such melody is too 
 sacred to those who lived in younger days of Civil 
 
160 IvlFB PICTURES. 
 
 War to enjoy any comic parody that may be de- 
 vised by the present generation. 
 
 Let the old patriotic song rest where it be- 
 longs ; laid away as a sacred relic of brave boys 
 who kissed a fond mother a final adieu and were 
 offered as a sacrifice for the Union. 
 
 In company with the old tintype and the faded 
 uniform, let it rest as a final tribute to our fallen 
 brave. 
 
A YOUNG HERO. 
 
 But for the heroic efforts of little Leslie Allen, 
 a child of but three and a half years of age, there 
 would have been one more casualty to record, one 
 more home left desolate. 
 
 "Come, Aunty Gage, come quick. Hoyt can't 
 get he legs out." 
 
 "Go way, child. Aunte is busy making 
 cookies and can't bother with you. Take one and 
 one for Hoyt." 
 
 "No, no, Aunty ! The toots, toots come and 
 he can't get he legs out." 
 
 And here the child became fairly frantic in 
 his efforts to get the lady to understand him. He 
 refused the proffered cooky, but kept repeating, 
 "Hoyt can't get he legs out. Toots, toots come." 
 
 Thinking something might be amiss with the 
 children at their play, the lady stepped to the 
 door to learn, if possible, the cause of his childish 
 sorrow. Imagine her feelings as 'the child 
 pointed his little fingers down the railroad track, 
 where, securely fastened, was his little com- 
 
162 IvlFB PICTURES. 
 
 panion, Hoyt Coddington , with both legs held fast 
 in the cattle guard. 
 
 Just then there was the screech of a whistle 
 in the distance and the low rumbling of an 
 approaching train. At the sound of that, the 
 child set up his cry, "Toots, toots come," but the 
 lady needed no further urging. The question was, 
 could she save him ? It only lacked a few moments 
 of when the eleven o'clock express would be due 
 and she could already hear it in the distance. 
 There was a race for life. On reaching the child 
 she endeavored to pull him from his perilous posi- 
 tion. He could not move. She reached down 
 and released the foot nearest to her, but as she 
 gave another pull, the child gave a cry of pain. 
 The other leg was held as in a vice. On came the 
 train. The lady could imagine she felt the jar of 
 heavy coaches, and the hot, fiery breath of the 
 death messenger. She tore off the little shoe and 
 then the stocking from the imprisoned foot. She 
 could now twist it from between the iron bars. 
 She staggered from the track with the child safe 
 in her arms. The train sped by and those on 
 board little dreamed of what came so near being 
 a tragedy and how it was averted by the heroic 
 efforts of a child to save his companion. 
 
 It appears the children had never been 
 allowed to play near the railroad, but on seeing a 
 large drove of cattle pass by, the idea suggested 
 itself to them to follow and see what became of 
 
A YOUNG HERO. 163 
 
 the "bossies." The herd moved on into the city, 
 but not so with the children. Little Hoyt turned 
 from the highway and attempted to walk the 
 guard. He slipped and fell. His little playmate 
 first tried to pull him out, but failing in this, he 
 ran to the nearest house for help. On being 
 asked why he did not go home for help, he said : 
 "Toots, toots come. Hoyt couldn't get he legs 
 out." 
 
TWO PICTURES. 
 
 I sit here to-night holding two pictures in my 
 hand ; they are just ordinary looking pictures. 
 One is an old tintype. By the scrawl on its back 
 I judge it was taken some forty years ago. 
 
 The other I received but yesterday. They 
 do not look much alike and yet they do. They 
 are not father and son, but just one and the same, 
 only different. I look into those boyish eyes and 
 smile back into them, and as I do so the lines 
 grow deeper at the corners of my own as I read 
 that telltale face. 
 
 Poor "Kid." I know your secrets, all of 
 them. The air castles you once built. I know all 
 about your foolish and ambitious dreaming. 
 
 At one time you wanted to be a great big 
 somebody, didn't you ? Of course you did. 
 
 How well I remember the time you started to 
 climb right over the heads of all who where in 
 front, in your wild ambition to get on the stage 
 and help out with the big show. 
 
TWO PICTURES. 165 
 
 You hadn't your part learned yet but yon 
 thought you had, and then I remember how a 
 great big, good-natured editor of a certain mag- 
 azine took you by the coat collar and led you 
 away back and sat you down in a seat and told 
 you to sit there and keep still, and that your 
 noise was interrupting the whole show. Kind 
 a tough, wasn't it? I remember, too, how you 
 sat there and sulked for a long time, like the 
 great big boy that you were. 
 
 Then I remember you could not keep still for 
 long and away back there you started in to have 
 a little show of your own. It didn't amount to 
 much at first, but gradually it kept getting better, 
 and then I mind how your friends gathered about 
 you and encouraged you to go on and do your 
 best. 
 
 Oh, well, life is a great old school, after all. 
 
 I lay the little tintype down and look into the 
 face of the other. At the age of sixty you are no 
 beauty, anyway. Your hair is more than iron 
 gray and getting thin in places, and I notice too 
 there are some pretty heavy crow-marks about 
 the corners of your eyes. Those marks didn't 
 come there all of a sudden; no, it has taken years 
 to put them there. 
 
 They have come gradually in the struggle for 
 your daily bread — bread for you and Her. 
 
 Then I remember, too, in the dim past, there 
 was a little cradle in your home. It was but a 
 
166 IvlFE PICTURES. 
 
 shadow, but it put lines there about your eyes 
 that have never left them. 
 
 I tuck the two pictures away in my writing 
 desk, and as I do so I am led to ask the question, 
 "Gould we but live our lives over would we have 
 been able to blaze a plainer and straighter trail 
 during all these years — you and I? Perhaps. 
 
JUL 21 \m 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
 II! I ?4 19fl