PS 1261 
 .C8 G3 
 Copy 1 
 
 GATHERED 
 HARVEST 
 
 BY 
 
 RHODA T. CARTER 
 
RHODA T CARTER 
 
Gathered Harvest 
 
 1903 
 
 BY 
 
 RHODA T. CARTER 
 
 Where hast thou gleaned, to-day ?"—i?M/^ ii : i^ 
 
 CONCORD, N. H.: 
 
 tlbe TRumforO iprcss. 
 1903. 
 

 IN BXCHANGS 
 

 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Through the intercession of my friends, I have de- 
 cided to place before the public this little book, " Gath- 
 ered Harvest." 
 
 I never sought to display my poetic talent, but have 
 always written more or less, because (as I've often ex- 
 pressed myself) I could n't help it. I hope my readers 
 will be able to find in these poems something of inter- 
 est, and will also -excuse my simple'style. 
 
 I shall also endeavor to give you a short extract from 
 my Shaker experience. 
 
 I am truly yours, 
 
 Rhoda T. Carter. 
 
SHORT SKETCH OF MY SHAKER 
 EXPERIENCE. 
 
 One of my brothers went to Lebanon, N. H., to learn 
 the harness trade. He frequently met some of the 
 Shakers, as their settlement was near there. He often 
 attended their public services. They used to sing beau- 
 tiful hymns and anthems, of their own composing, and 
 short songs which they marched round on. Many of 
 them were very impressive. Our brother became con- 
 verted to their religion and joined them without his 
 parents' knowledge. One day he came home very un- 
 expectedly with one of their leaders, " Elder John 
 Lion." 
 
 He was dressed in Shaker costume, drab coat and a 
 low "poled" broad-brimmed hat (their style then). 
 He was all alive with Shakerism. People at that time 
 had never heard anything of them excepting reports 
 of prejudice. Mother felt terribly ! Said she would 
 rather have followed him to the grave. They stopped 
 but a short time, but soon came back again and brought 
 two of the sisters with them. They looked queer to us 
 with their straight dresses, white caps, etc. They 
 noticed us children, and " Elder John Lion " would take 
 us into his lap, one on each knee, and pet us, so we 
 could n't help liking him. One day our little brother, 
 Harry, five years old, said to him, "Your name is ' El- 
 der John Lion,' so I guess I'll have mine ' Elder John 
 Elephant.' " That suited them, and they thought him 
 
bright and cunning. Our two oldest sisters were away 
 at work in a factory in Lowell, Mass. 
 
 The Shakers would sing to us, and I was quick to 
 catch a tune ; so one morning after they had gone and 
 the rest of the children were up and down stairs, I lay 
 there singing one of their tunes at the " top of my 
 voice." It was one of their marching tunes. The 
 words were as follows : 
 
 " Pve found the way to Zion, 
 
 I never will look back, 
 I ever will be faithful, 
 
 And keep the solid track ; 
 Here's love and union flowing 
 
 Among the chosen few, 
 So ril not be slothful, 
 
 But still the way pursue." 
 
 I raised the whole house ! And up came father, 
 laughing, and said, " That's right, keep the solid 
 track." 
 
 But I must be brief, for I've no room in this little 
 book for a thirty years' (or more) experience with the 
 Shakers. Our brother, after much "teasing," finally 
 prevailed on our parents to let some of us children go 
 with him. I was nine and the youngest one five. The 
 Shakers were exceedingly kind to us, made of us, 
 and would tell how well brought up we were. The 
 Shakers are not an ignorant set ; they give their schol- 
 ars a splendid education as far as it goes. They never 
 go to any high school or college. All the education I 
 ever had was from childhood to the age of fifteen. The 
 rest I picked up by the way. I knew how to read when 
 I went there. Some of the family died there, others 
 
left. The first time I was tempted to leave was at the 
 age of fifteen. They had books of their own, written 
 by inspiration, as they called it; so when I was tempted 
 to leave I would look into one of those books to see 
 what my penalty would be if I left. The book said, 
 those who left the " Zion of God " (and that meant 
 their institution) would sink into the lowest depth of 
 hell ! That frightened me so I kept on staying. At 
 the age of forty-five I finally left, solely for my liberty. 
 
 The Shakers teach their subjects good morals ; all 
 the years I lived there I never heard any rough talk or 
 swearing. 
 
 They learn them to be accomplished housekeepers 
 (those who have a talent). They compose beautiful 
 hymns and anthems, and one in particular was a favorite 
 of mine. I will give you what I remember of it. The 
 tune was half of the battle : 
 
 «« All thinojs here on earth revealed, 
 
 Indicate a great " First Cause " ; 
 From whose sight there's naught concealed, 
 
 All omniscient are His laws. 
 Every thought and word and action 
 
 All lie open to His view; 
 None can hide the least transaction, 
 
 We are seen in all we do. 
 
 " Mortals here may try to cover 
 
 And conceal their sins a while ; 
 There's a God Who will uncover 
 
 And expose the deepest guile. 
 True as heaven e'er existed, 
 
 Watchmen there their vigils keep ; 
 Every veil shall yet be lifted, 
 
 There's an eye that never sleeps. 
 
•'Although conscience seems to slumber, 
 
 And resign its sweet control. 
 Yet each deed records its number. 
 
 Deep engraven on the soul. 
 And from these the soul eternal 
 
 Takes impression day by day, 
 Whether spiritual or carnal, 
 
 Good or evil, yea or nay." 
 
 The Shakers have progressed, grown more enlight- 
 ened, are not so superstitious, are more h"beral, endorse 
 what they think is right in other churches, don't call 
 outsiders "world's people" (as they used to). 
 
 The Shakers are a respectable people. But I don't 
 believe in living such a secluded life. God made this 
 beautiful world free to every one. "Proclaim liberty 
 throughout all the world unto all the inhabitants 
 thereof," was the command of the Lord unto Moses on 
 Mount Sinai. 
 
 Patrick Henry, one of Virginia's great orators, was 
 the one who said, " Give me liberty or give me death." 
 Pope, the great poet, hath said : 
 
 " Give me again my hollow tree, 
 A crust of bread and liberty." 
 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe, the great author and poet, 
 hath said, " Oppression maketh a wise man mad." 
 
 Liberty was what I longed for all the days of my life 
 there. And it was for that one precious boon that I 
 left them. 
 
 I shall not have space to give you my childish expe- 
 rience before I went there, but it was a pleasant one. 
 The opening poem of this little book will inform you 
 to a great degree. 
 
 8 
 
MEMORY OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Youth and childhood both have vanished, 
 
 Gone forever from my view ; 
 Yet reflection brings them homeward, 
 
 Home the joys that once I knew. 
 Health and vigor marked my visage, 
 
 Ever feeling gay and bright; 
 Oh ! It really seemed that I was 
 
 Never tired from morn till night. 
 
 When the genial spring came forward, 
 
 Oh, it was a time for fun, 
 To see my father tap the trees. 
 
 And see the maple fluid run. 
 This to me was sweet enjoyment, 
 
 All us children liked such times ; 
 When the " saccharine " was boiling, 
 
 Then our eyes began to shine. 
 
 I was rugged, stout, and healthy. 
 
 While some others were quite thin. 
 So my father often took me 
 
 Out to gather sap with him. 
 This to me was sport and pleasure ; 
 
 I could make the woods resound, 
 Often mocking my own echo ; 
 
 Great delight in this I found. 
 
With my little pail I'd scamper 
 
 O'er the melting, rippling rills, 
 Many a voice was sweetly ringing, 
 
 All around throughout the hills. 
 I had brothers, five in number, 
 
 Yet one bud, unfit to bloom, 
 Ere his sun was fully risen, 
 
 Found a dark and silent tomb. 
 
 Then my sisters, six in number, 
 
 Though it was a gloomy day, 
 Strove to make each other happy, 
 
 Thus we passed the time away. 
 Soon as summer, clad in beauty. 
 
 With her radiant sunbeams fair, 
 Clothed the mountains in fine raiment, 
 
 Then behold what joy was there. 
 
 Everything seemed smiling round us ; 
 
 Nature in the transport joined, 
 Hark ! the lowing cows are coming, 
 
 Lilly, Pink, and Crumple-Horn. 
 Now the oldest girls are summoned 
 
 Up the lane with pail in hand. 
 Soon we see the new milk foaming, 
 
 While the cows most gently stand. 
 
 Oh ! I loved the rosy morning. 
 Loved the pretty noon-day sun, 
 
 Loved the calm and pleasant evening, 
 Life with me had just begun. 
 
 Oft within the gladsome forest. 
 Wandered there my tiny feet, 
 
 lO 
 
Listening to the plaintive warblings 
 Of the pretty birds so sweet. 
 
 Little sisters, kind, obliging, 
 
 With me strolled the hours away; 
 Thus in early days of childhood 
 
 Many times I passed the day. 
 In the grove where silver streamlets 
 
 Murmured forth a gentle tone 
 Many times I've passed the moments, 
 
 Even sometimes all alone. 
 
 For it seemed amongst the waverings 
 
 Of the tall, majestic trees, 
 I could hear some gentle whispers 
 
 Floating on the pleasant breeze. 
 Thus I often had impressions, 
 
 That the zephyrs loved to dwell 
 Far away from bustling cities, 
 
 Far away from dismal cells. 
 
 In the vale of meditation, 
 
 'Side the gentle waters fair. 
 Had you seen me in my childhood. 
 
 You might have seen me sitting there. 
 On the things of God's creation, 
 
 I would cast a solemn thought; 
 For it seemed they uttered phrases 
 
 Unto me in that lone spot. 
 
 There I view'd the trembling poplar, 
 Which reminded me of One 
 
 II 
 
Crucified between two robbers, 
 Thus the awful deed was done. 
 
 There beside the rills and streamlets, 
 Willows bow'd their pensive heads; 
 
 Could it be that they were weeping, 
 Weeping for their kindred dead? 
 
 Were the waters rolling 'neath them, 
 
 Tears which they had often shed. 
 Washing clean the little pebbles. 
 
 On the weeping willow's bed? 
 Oh, what cause have you for mourning? 
 
 Tell me in the sighing breeze, 
 God has placed you by these waters. 
 
 Lovely as the tallest trees. 
 
 Around thee twines the modest violet, 
 Odors sweet perfume the air ; 
 
 thou pretty weeping willow. 
 Let no briars thee ensnare. 
 
 Though you hear the proud oak's boasting 
 
 Of their tall majestic stand, 
 Unto dust they all must crumble. 
 
 Like to vain and mortal man. 
 
 Thus I mused on oaks and willows. 
 Trees and bushes, short and tall, 
 
 'Till I perceived it growing darker. 
 While the dew around did fall. 
 
 Soon my steps for home were wended, 
 Tho' e'er so homely, it was sweet; 
 
 1 could not forget to trace 
 
 The windings of my tiny feet. 
 
 12 
 
When the days were hot and sultry, 
 
 Oft I laid my shoes aside, 
 Then my feet made such a spatting 
 
 I feared a bear was near my side ; 
 Then I made them fly the faster, 
 
 That a bear I might outrun. 
 Looking every way around 
 
 To see the monster when he come. 
 
 Yet my fears availed me nothing; 
 
 All such childish fears were vain, 
 But the very next time it grew dusky 
 
 All my fears came back again. 
 It never seemed to spoil my comfort, 
 
 All such scarish things were o'er 
 When I reached my own loved cottage, 
 
 Found my playmates at the door. 
 
 Another time to me seemed pleasant, 
 
 Lovely autumn, in its prime; 
 Vegetation growing thrifty 
 
 Made the fields look rich and fine. 
 Many times I've known my father, 
 
 When his help seemed very slim. 
 Work at harvesting in evening. 
 
 Taking out his girls with him. 
 
 Then to keep our spirits brightened, 
 He would sing and dance sometimes ; 
 
 Tell all kinds of funny stories 
 
 ' Bout aunt " Sail " and uncle " Grimes," 
 
 Ghosts and goblins not excepted ; 
 All such things received their due, 
 
 13 
 
'Till at length we grew quite sleepy, 
 Glad to hear the story through. 
 
 He was kind unto his children, 
 
 Strove to make his comfort ours, 
 Always glad to have us with him, 
 
 In the house or out of doors. 
 Oft he cheered us with his fiddle, 
 
 With a harp, a fife or flute. 
 Or a little box of music 
 
 Which was seldom ever mute. 
 
 In this childish noise and tumult, 
 
 Mother took an active part. 
 Let what would occur amongst us, 
 
 She possessed a tender heart. 
 Oh, how many times I've sorrow'd, 
 
 Thinking one day she might die, 
 And leave us there to mourn her exit; 
 
 This sad musing caused a sigh. 
 
 When night spread her pensive mantle. 
 
 Closed her curtains 'round my bed. 
 Ah ! it was a time for musing 
 
 On the living and the dead. 
 Often wondering what would meet me 
 
 In eternity's long sphere, 
 Knowing that our souls immortal. 
 
 There were summoned to appear. 
 
 Years with me were swiftly passing, 
 I could almost see them f\y, 
 
 Often wondering if my heaven 
 Would not be above the sky. 
 
 H 
 
For my childish small transgressions, 
 I felt often quite condemned ; 
 
 Praying to my heavenly Father, 
 That my soul He might befriend. 
 
 We were taught that wicked children. 
 
 Those who practised telling lies. 
 Went to a lake of fire and brimstone, 
 
 Off somewhere beyond the skies. 
 Thus my conscience grew uneasy, 
 
 When I spoke an angry word, 
 Until I found a secret spot 
 
 To plead forgiveness of the Lord. 
 
 Oft I went into the garden, 
 
 Sought a lonely corner there, 
 And when I thought no one could see me, 
 
 Bent my knees in solemn prayer. 
 Oh, the feelings there I witnessed 
 
 Unto none can be revealed ; 
 Only He who feeds the ravens. 
 
 He can all our sorrows heal. 
 
 BACK AGAIN. 
 
 Back again to my native home. 
 
 Back to the cottage door, 
 Back to the scenes I used to love 
 
 In those gaily days of yore. 
 Back again to my father's arms. 
 
 Back to my mother's heart, 
 Back to my brothers and sisters dear. 
 
 Oh ! never again to part. 
 
 15 
 
Back to the hearth where we used to sit 
 
 By the kettle that hung on the crane, 
 Back to the mush they made in that kettle, 
 
 Production of corn and of grain. 
 Back to the " butry," where sugar was kept, 
 
 Pans of milk in a row on the shelf. 
 Back to that bowl of pudding and milk, 
 
 Back to our jolly old self. 
 
 Back to that old green pasture again, 
 
 Back to that clever old horse, 
 When any one of us mounted his back. 
 
 At once we thought we were " boss." 
 Back to the dog with a ring round his neck, 
 
 Back to my old " tabby-cat." 
 Give me just one more hour in that dearly-loved spot, 
 
 And I will be thankful for that. 
 
 Back to the berries that grew on the farm, 
 
 Back to the toads and the frogs, 
 Back to the partridge that lived in the woods, 
 
 And the woodchucks that sat on the logs. 
 Back to the squirrel with nuts in his paws, 
 
 To the weasel that ran through the wall. 
 Back to the foxes that kidnapped the corn. 
 
 Little rabbits, the cutest of all. 
 
 Back to the damsons, and " can-dia "-plums, too. 
 Yellow pumpkins that hid in the corn. 
 
 Back to the pears and apples that grew 
 In the orchard below father's barn. 
 
 Back to the goldthread, the catnip and sage. 
 Mother used for whatever ailed us. 
 
 i6 
 
No quacks with their nostrums of this thing and that, 
 Ever dared come near to assail us. 
 
 No doctors were ever called in to see us, 
 With their calomel, blue pills, and powders; 
 
 Both doctors and saddlebags frightened us so 
 She would have no such "demons" around us. 
 
 Back to November, though sear be her leaf, 
 
 Her garners are full and o'erflowing; 
 Back to the poultry, the pork, and the beef, 
 
 To thanksgiving; for there's where we're going. 
 Oh, for one more thanksgiving ! that thanksgiving day. 
 
 Roast goose and a young chicken pie, 
 " Oh ! for just one more whiff " of those jolly old times, 
 
 And I'll be contented to die. 
 
 THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES. 
 
 While sitting in my chamber. 
 
 Those words came unto me, 
 " The groves were God's first temples; " 
 
 One of them I could see. 
 Forth from my window^, viewing 
 
 One tranquil and serene, 
 I felt that I was worshiping 
 
 The holy and unseen. 
 
 Ye towering maple beauties, 
 
 I beckon unto thee ; 
 While you seem to be making 
 
 Obeisance unto me. 
 
 17 
 
The genial warmth of summer 
 
 Has gone to other lands ; 
 Still you retain your value, 
 
 This, nature doth demand. 
 
 The birds have ceased their warbling 
 
 In your once fragrant bower 
 And gone to another climate 
 
 To search for nature's flowers. 
 The sparkling little streamlets 
 
 That oozed from mountain side 
 Went laughingly before you. 
 
 As swiftly they did glide. 
 
 And as they frolicked by you, 
 
 Did kiss their mother earth, 
 While little pebbles followed. 
 
 Charmed with their song of mirth. 
 But, ah ! bleak winds of winter 
 
 Have swept across the plain 
 And stopped their onward coursing, 
 
 Still, they do not complain. 
 
 Beneath their icy covering 
 
 I often hear them speak. 
 Foretelling days of pleasure. 
 
 When winds are not so bleak. 
 Again we hear them speaking 
 
 Of brighter days to come. 
 When they shall burst their prison 
 
 And all the sands out run. 
 
 i8 
 
The trees above are waiting 
 
 To greet them with a smile ; 
 Robbed of their vernal beauty, 
 
 They're doomed to wait a while. 
 Why sigh about the summer? 
 
 I even now can see 
 The god of every flower 
 
 Shows pleasure still in thee. 
 
 Beneath the snow-capped mountains 
 
 You've stood the frosts and storm ; 
 Nor left without protection, 
 
 Though mournful be your song. 
 Dismantled though you quiver, 
 
 I there should love to go ; 
 For winter hath its pleasures, 
 
 This many seem to know. 
 
 Why hold your breath in silence? 
 
 'Tis true, no birds are there ; 
 When vocal with their music 
 
 A smile you seem to wear. 
 Some of your weaker sisters 
 
 I see are left forlorn ; 
 S'pose they could not encounter 
 
 The wind, the frost, and storm. 
 
 I come a little nearer 
 
 Before I turn away. 
 And find that those who're fallen 
 
 Show symbols of decay. 
 
 19 
 
The moss is o'er them creeping 
 As though 'twould spread a pall ; 
 
 The sighing winds are weeping 
 O'er blasted nature's fall. 
 
 The sun behind its curtain 
 Is sinking now to rest; 
 
 The moon with placid beauty- 
 Puts on her silver crest, 
 
 With more than usual brightness, 
 Glides gently on her way. 
 
 "The groves were God's first temples," 
 She seemingly doth say. 
 
 THE AUTUMN LEAF. 
 
 " I pick'd up one of the Autumn leaves" 
 
 That dropp'd from a stately elm. 
 And placed it 'bove my calendar 
 
 A little while to dwell, 
 'Till nineteen hundred ushers in 
 
 With all its joys and woes, 
 " Sublime illusions," happy dreams, 
 
 'Till heaven shall overflow. 
 
 Then I shall take that same sear leaf, 
 
 And place it with great care 
 Above another calendar 
 
 Which I shall find somewhere. 
 Oh, that Autumn leaf, that " bonnie gem," 
 
 So fair to look upon, 
 I wish I had some more of them 
 
 But I'll be satisfied with one. 
 
 20 
 
Oh, if that Httle leaf could speak 
 
 What wonders it could tell ! 
 From the time it budded 'till the time 
 
 It changed its hues and fell. 
 When thunders rolled and lightnings flashed 
 
 Athwart the angry skies, 
 When all was o'er this little leaf 
 
 Triumphantly did rise. 
 
 Thro' all the searching rays of heat. 
 
 Thro' all the storms that's been. 
 It never yielded to the blast, 
 
 But clung to its slender stem. 
 It's seen the traveler haste to meet 
 
 The gay and laughing crowd, 
 It's seen the mourner in the street. 
 
 The pall, the bier, and shroud. 
 
 I wish I had some more of them. 
 
 As I told you once before, 
 It might have been an easy task 
 
 To have gathered many more. 
 But the one I've got is very fine, 
 
 Yet wears a modest hue ; 
 See how it widens near the stem, 
 
 Then slants so very true. 
 
 Around the edges of that leaf 
 
 Did any one crochet, 
 Or make the little veins that run 
 
 So skilfully each way? 
 
 21 
 
Why ! The story of that little leaf 
 Is a story of great fame ! 
 
 The skilful hand of an artist never 
 Would dare that art to claim. 
 
 I remember when I pick'd that leaf, 
 
 The thought came stealing o'er 
 That I should have another chance 
 
 To gather many more. 
 But suddenly the weather changed, 
 
 The wind grew fierce and cold, 
 So I'll keep this one to celebrate, 
 
 When I'm j'i^ years old. 
 
 MY SEVENTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. 
 
 I'm journeying back to childhood years. 
 When joy was joy, unmixed with fears; 
 Forgetting all that lies between 
 That December day and this ! 
 'Twas " 1826", and now 'tis "99"; 
 
 And God thus far has carried me o'er 
 The troublous waves of time. 
 
 'Tis not a sad or weary thought 
 
 That I'm so near at home, 
 So near that I can almost hear 
 
 The voice that bids me come. 
 I cannot boast of earthly gain, 
 
 Riches I never knew ; 
 " My song was only like a bird's 
 
 That 'twittered while it flew. 
 
 22 
 
That so many years with that strange " sect' 
 
 Was cast my early lot, 
 I ne'er really made up my mind 
 
 Whether to mourn or not. 
 But I will not talk any more about this, 
 
 'Twill take too much of my time ; 
 I had enough of Shakerism, 
 
 When I was in my prime. 
 
 I only give you a little hint 
 
 Of the checkered life I've led ; 
 'Tis almost o'er, I have no fears, 
 
 My Savior's at the helm. 
 He's always been my guiding star. 
 
 Thro' sunshine, storm and flood ; 
 I'm waiting now to hear him say, 
 
 " She's done what e'er she could." 
 
 Cast out upon life's troubled sea, 
 
 While foaming billows raged ; 
 But Christ my pilot's guided me 
 
 To my seventy-third birthday. 
 And as I approach the setting sun, 
 
 I feel an assurance, friends. 
 That the one who loved me when a child. 
 
 Will love to the end. 
 
 Father and mother both are gone ; 
 
 'Leven brothers and sisters dear ; 
 So I've had to live without my friends, 
 
 These many, many years. 
 
 23 
 
But God looked down from heaven above, 
 
 And sent His only Son, 
 To fold me in his loving arms, 
 
 'Till He shall whisper " Come." 
 
 He sees the sparrows when they fall, 
 
 And hears the ravens cry ; 
 The God our parents talked about. 
 
 When I was but a child. 
 I remember the prayers we used to say, 
 
 That God our souls might keep, 
 And how happy I felt while saying "now 
 
 I lay me down to sleep." 
 
 And now I am a child again, 
 
 But in a different way ; 
 My first childhood I loved the best. 
 
 When I was young and gay. 
 But the dearest friend I ever had 
 
 Has never forsaken me ; 
 The one I loved when but a child, 
 
 I've loved till " 75." 
 
 Oh, what a meeting that will be ! 
 
 Over on the other side; 
 The reunion 'round our "■ family tree," 
 
 When the twelfth one shall arrive. 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Let authors and poets exhibit their rhymes, 
 In regard to thanksgiving in old fashioned times, 
 In regard to the fabric our grandmothers wore. 
 And what comfort they took on an unpainted floor. 
 
 24 
 
It takes a great poet to give it its due, 
 But I can remember those jolly times, too ; 
 I'm not a spring chicken as sure's you 're alive, 
 For when this month is o'er I shall be seventy-five. 
 
 The baked Indian (injun) pudding so awfully nice, 
 Mince pies full of raisins and all kinds of spice; 
 When all was completed we had a grand feast. 
 And when minus turkey we went for the geese. 
 And oh ! the nice turnovers they used to fry, 
 With something for filling the same as for pie ; 
 They make something now that they call by that name, 
 But I know for certain they're not just the same. 
 
 Those things they call turnovers I 've often tried, 
 Which have something 'f a semblance upon the outside, 
 So I hunt for the filling and can't find a thing, 
 But they look just as tho' a big fly had dropped in. 
 One thing more I tell you tho' strange it may seem, 
 We never had milk without any of the cream ; 
 So that thing has changed same as all of the rest, 
 For some people now days like blue milk the best. 
 
 But that isn't any of us farmers' daughters, 
 For we know the difference between milk and water. 
 Whittier has told you also, about something 
 They used to make pies of, I think 'twas " some pump- 
 kins." 
 I must not be lengthy, oh, no, not a bit, 
 For brevity's often the soul of one's wit. 
 If in my short poem you should find any sweetness, 
 I hope it may serve to atone for its briefness. 
 
 25 
 
ADAM AND EVE. 
 
 When Adam sneaked behind that bush 
 He shovv'd at once he hadn't any " push," 
 Afraid that Eve wouldn't have enough "vim,' 
 To do all the work and wait on him. 
 
 He loved to lounge round in the shade of the trees. 
 Eating pomegranates and taking his ease, 
 And the affair, when the Lord was so angry with them, 
 He laid to his wife, just like all other men. 
 
 'Twould have looked a " heap " better when God called 
 
 his name. 
 To have stepped up and owned just a fart of the blame, 
 But no ! 'Tvvas the woman Thou gavcst to me ; 
 Signifying the Lord was to blame more than he 
 
 For making such a woman for his 'sociate, 
 'Round picking off fruit and conversing with snakes; 
 Characteristic to woman felt curious to see 
 Everything in the garden, everything on that tree. 
 
 A pretty smart woman, and pretty bright, too, 
 You can't dodge it, Adam, she's smarter than you, 
 She's got more ambition and more go-ahead. 
 So don't twit the Lord 'bout the woman He made. 
 
 What if she did pick the apples, you eat more than she, 
 And kept calling out, toss some more over to me ; 
 A pretty sure mark of a coward or shirk. 
 Eating most of the fruit without doing any work. 
 
 26 
 
"I SING BECAUSE I MUST." 
 
 Some poets sing for the love of fame ; 
 
 Some to keep their "wits" from rust; 
 It is not so with Helen, though, 
 
 She sings " because she must." 
 'Tis just so with my muse and I ; 
 
 But Helen said it " fust," 
 So here I quote what Helen wrote, 
 
 " I sing because I must." 
 
 " Poor unprized song ! The wings that beat 
 
 A soft and low refrain, 
 "A cold and scanty welcome meet 
 
 From busy hand and brain." 
 Shall that song cease? " I cannot tell ; 
 
 " I may woo it in the dust; 
 Again within my heart to dwell, 
 
 For I sing because I must." 
 
 TRIBUTE TO GOLDSMITH. 
 
 I should love to walk in Goldsmith's steps, 
 
 If only a little way, 
 Who carried no weapon save his harp 
 
 On which he used to play. 
 His nature was truant, Thackeray says, 
 
 When reposing, he longed for change, 
 But when on a journey he often looked back 
 
 To home, and sweet friendship again. 
 
 27 
 
In the charm of his verse, his humor and style, 
 
 His regrets you often will find, 
 For building his castles high in the air, 
 
 Or writing out yesterday's lines. 
 His humor, his songs, are as beautiful now 
 
 As when we first felt their sweet charms ; 
 His benevolent spirit still smiles upon us. 
 
 As we read his melodious lines. 
 
 From the idle shelter of boyhood days. 
 
 Longing to see the great world out of doors. 
 To achieve name and fortune he spent many years 
 
 Away from home's dearly loved bowers. 
 Altho' he was truant, as Thackeray says. 
 
 With a passion for home he was blest, 
 For he carried a relic away from his home, 
 
 And died with it close to his breast. 
 
 THE OLD WHITE GROWER. 
 
 Where did that white crower journey from? 
 
 Does anybody know? 
 / never knew, but know he came 
 
 About three months ago. 
 And since that time the other crower 
 
 Has had a dreadful time ; 
 For he's been picked and " toted" round. 
 
 That poor young crower of mine. 
 
 I hope the other one will go 
 
 Away from here 'fore long. 
 Or I'm afraid we shall not know 
 
 Which one to us belongs. 
 
 28 
 
I've nothing 'gainst the fellow, tho,' 
 
 He's smart and handsome, too, 
 I love to see him strut and crow 
 
 O cock-a-doodle-doo ! 
 
 SECOND PART. 
 
 Poor biddy's dead, she died last night, 
 
 Oh, what a mournful sound ! 
 Her dress was spotted black and white. 
 
 Her name was " Cropple Crown." 
 "I've watched her long though not my own," 
 
 (The old white crower said). 
 She mingled with his little band. 
 
 So he mourns because she's dead. 
 
 He says just now he claims but three. 
 
 But just to see him round 
 You'd think instead of owning three. 
 
 He owned all "Danbury" town. 
 He says he ain't a Democrat, 
 
 But says otir crower is, 
 He talks about this hen and that 
 
 As though they all were his. 
 
 He don't allow the other crower 
 
 To come within his reach. 
 But drives him round from door to door, 
 
 Says " Fm the one to teach. 
 Our little crower has not pluck 
 
 To stand the fiery test ; 
 All he can do is just to cluck 
 
 And seek a place of rest. 
 
 29 
 
THE FARMER BOY AND CLERK. 
 
 I rather be a farmer boy, 
 
 Raising corn and pumpkins, 
 Than running round 'n a dry goods store 
 
 Trying to sell folks something. 
 Whittier was a farmer's boy. 
 
 That great distinguished poet; 
 Presume that some of you " city chaps " 
 
 Never happened to know it. 
 
 The sickle he did learn to wield, 
 
 In straw hat, shirt, and trousers; 
 A country lad, just in his teens, 
 
 I remember all about it. 
 I rather be a farmer boy. 
 
 With a heart brimful of cheer. 
 Than be a clerk in any store, 
 
 With a " pencil over my ear." 
 
 I rather be a farmer boy, 
 
 I want you all to know, 
 With a " bonnie lassie " for a chum. 
 
 Dressed up in calico. 
 She's not ashamed to wash the clothes. 
 
 Or wield the mop and broom, 
 That " bonnie lass " is one among 
 
 The sweetest flowers that bloom. 
 
 She bakes the bread, the pies, and cakes. 
 
 Without a single fear 
 Of the one that's coming in to dine 
 
 With a pencil over his ear. 
 
 30 
 
Oh ! the bonnie lass in calico, 
 
 With red cheeks all aglow, 
 Picking berries in the sun, 
 
 I used to love them so. 
 
 A little freckle on their face. 
 
 Never hurt them any for me. 
 For a jolly " lass " out in the sun 
 
 Was just the girl for me. 
 
 Give me the girl of yesterday, 
 
 The girl who dared to go 
 Out in the sun without a veil 
 
 Dressed up in calico. 
 With sparkling eyes and dimpled chin, 
 
 Of course they were n't all so, 
 But the girl I ever loved the best, 
 
 Was the girl in calico. 
 
 Give me the girl with rounded form, 
 
 A pink and white complexion. 
 Without any chalk or anything else 
 
 That cannot bear inspection. 
 I shun the girl with haggard face. 
 
 With corded towpressed stomach. 
 That style is void of common sense, 
 
 I care not who begun it. 
 
 You may laugh at the girl in calico, 
 
 But a farmer boy don't care. 
 With her clothes so loose she can take a draught 
 
 Of the sweet and balmy air. 
 
 31 
 
You may keep your girls for all of me, 
 
 I do not want them here, 
 With their tight kid boots and heavy trails, 
 
 And a " pencil over their ear." 
 
 You may keep your girls in frills and lace, 
 
 I care not who they be, 
 But the ruddy girl in a calico dress, 
 
 Ah ! that's the girl for me. ^ 
 
 ALONE ON THE DEEP. 
 
 I've sailed alone upon the deep. 
 When earthly pilots were asleep ; 
 I've seen the sun go down at night 
 With not one earthly friend in sight. 
 Dear Father hear thy servant's prayer, 
 Convey me to the Saviour's care ; 
 And while on others Thou dost call. 
 Let not this little sparrow fall. 
 
 I'm weary with the storms of life, 
 
 I'm weary with earth's toil and strife, 
 
 I'm weary living all alone 
 
 Since earthly " friendships all have flown." 
 
 Lead me above this plodding life, 
 
 Away from every earthly strife ; 
 
 Lift me above this vale of tears, 
 
 I've traversed four and seventy years. 
 
 32 
 
Dear friends who've crossed the foaming main, 
 
 I would not call you back again ; 
 
 Shake hands with me from shore to shore, 
 
 " We're going home to part no more." 
 
 When I shall hear that solemn tone, 
 
 That gentle whisper, " Child, come home," 
 
 O blessed Saviour, come to me, 
 
 And lead me through the dark, deep sea. 
 
 Take me where my dear parents are, 
 Who taught me first my infant prayer ; 
 They planted there a seed that grew, 
 Bearing the Saviour's likeness', too. 
 O blessed thought, to mark that track, . 
 From life's beginning so far back; 
 Fain would I cherish that decree, 
 " Let little children come to me." 
 
 EQUALITY. 
 
 God formed the earth, fixed nature's laws, 
 
 Equal to every man, 
 But never formed an aristocrat 
 
 With His omniscient hand. 
 Had He done that, earth would have moved 
 
 In a very different way ; 
 For all His works have harmonized 
 
 Since first the break of day. 
 
 The earth revolves without a jar. 
 As it did when God first spoke ; 
 
 Let there be light ! 'Twas then the world 
 In the smile of God awoke. 
 
 33 
 
The sons of God ! And who were they ? 
 
 The stars He placed above ; 
 Reechoing from their heavenly heights 
 
 The chorus, — God is love. 
 
 "OUR FLAG." 
 
 I see it floating on the breeze, 
 
 O'er mountain, dale, and hill ; 
 Though rebels tried to tear it down. 
 
 It stands there waving still. 
 I love it when it stands " half mast," 
 
 For sacred reverence 's there, 
 For loyal hearts that have gone to rest, 
 
 I love it everywhere. 
 
 Wave on, " Our Flag ! " With your stars and stripes, 
 
 I love to sing of thee. 
 For you've stood on sacred mountain heights, 
 
 O'erlooking all the free. 
 Wave on, wave on ! O'er land and sea. 
 
 Majestic and alone ; 
 When the rebels fired their guns at thee 
 
 You were only a little torn. 
 
 For miles and miles since then you've sailed, 
 Leagues and leagues o'er the foaming deep, 
 
 When the winds have blown their fiercest gales. 
 Or the waters were asleep. 
 
 No rebel hand shall dare destroy 
 " Our Flag " for which we sing; 
 
 34 
 
The mighty conquests that have been wrought 
 Have ushered freedom in. 
 
 O'er ghttering steel and cannon's boom, 
 
 "Our Flag" we've seen you wave, 
 The dying soldiers smiled on thee. 
 
 For thee their lives they gave. 
 We've seen our presidents stricken down 
 
 In our dear " Old Native Land," 
 But still " Our Flag" kept waving on 
 
 In spite of the assassin's hand. 
 
 Should this, "Our Flag," e'er cease to float 
 
 Throughout New England's hills. 
 We shall hear the " very stones " cry out. 
 
 But we know you never will. 
 Sweet liberty ! The greatest boon 
 
 God e'er bestowed on man, 
 " Our Flag" is emblematical; 
 
 Forever let it stand. 
 
 Wave on, " Our Flag ! " Nor stop your course. 
 
 Ye stars and stripes wave on ! 
 Under your ensign, O what battles 
 
 Have been fought and won ! 
 George Washington with a mighty host. 
 
 True to the latest breath ; 
 With Abraham Lincoln's loyalty, 
 
 'Twas liberty or death. 
 
 Wave on, " Our Flag," though traitors scorn, 
 Wave on ! For all of that ! 
 
 35 
 
Before your stars and stripes we've seen 
 Men pause, and " touch their hats." 
 
 No rebel hand or sad reverse 
 Shall stain thy " golden name." 
 
 Wave on, " Our Flag," o'er all the earth. 
 Sweet liberty proclaim. 
 
 Be joyful, O ye little rills, 
 
 Through forest and through plain, 
 Let the " cattle on a thousand hills" 
 
 Reecho back the strain. 
 " Our country ! 'Tis of thee we sing," 
 
 Which was "Our Fathers' " pride; 
 Under the shadow of " Our Flag" 
 
 Was where " Our Fathers " died. 
 
 O how I love to sing about 
 
 The red, the white, and blue; 
 Preserve " Our Flag," O Lord, we pray, 
 
 Preserve the " boys in blue." 
 God of " Our Fathers," hear our prayer. 
 
 In Thee we place our trust. 
 As we love " Our Flag," so let its colors 
 
 Never trail the dust. 
 
 AT THE BEGINNING. 
 
 Come home my muse and help me say 
 Something about a far-off day ; 
 And I want to tell it all in rhyme. 
 Something that happened in olden time. 
 
 36 
 
I suppose it's true, for the Scriptures say- 
 God made the world in just six days; 
 Do you suppose He worked or only spoke 
 When the radiant morn of creation broke? 
 
 Nothing but water, I heard them say. 
 Was seen on the earth till the second day, 
 And so He kept on working till 
 He made the land, and beautiful hills. 
 The third day came, and nothing stirred, 
 And so He thought He'd make the birds, 
 And give them wings so they could fly 
 Up to the new ethereal sky. 
 
 He made the lakes and rippling rills. 
 
 And the "cattle on a thousand hills," 
 
 The snakes, the bugs, the toads and frogs. 
 
 And all the little " polliwogs." 
 
 The fourth day came, and so you see 
 
 He made the fishes in the sea. 
 
 The great big whales and crocodiles, 
 
 He made them all in a little while. 
 
 The fifth day came, and all was right, 
 While everything looked fair and bright, 
 And so God thought of a new plan, 
 And, therefore, thought He'd make a man 
 To take the charge o'er His domain, 
 And give to all His works a name. 
 And just to please him, only see ! 
 He made that great big apple tree. 
 
 37 
 
On that same day, long ere 'twas night, 
 Again God said, Let there be h'ght ! 
 For I've got a woman on the string. 
 And she's going to be a critical thing; 
 Rather than have her on my hands 
 I'm sorry I ever made the man ; 
 But there he lay and wouldn't stir 
 Until I promised I'd make her. 
 
 Adam was awfully pleased when she came in sight, 
 
 And named her Eve that very night. 
 
 With a woman's curiosity, she 
 
 Walked straight up to that apple tree. 
 
 She picked off two, one in each hand, 
 
 One for herself, and one for the man. 
 
 And just as she was reaching up for more 
 
 The Lord came round and stood in the door. 
 
 Lord — 
 
 Where art thou, Adam? Come to me. 
 Who picked those apples from that tree? 
 Didn't I tell you o'er and o'er 
 What you might have, and nothing more? 
 
 Adam — 
 
 I — I didn't do it; don't blame me; 
 
 'Twas the wo-wo— woman that Thou gavest me ; 
 
 And she ga-ga-gavest me to eat, 
 
 I couldn't help it; 'twas so sweet. 
 
 JLord — 
 
 Lay it to the woman? Where is she? 
 
 38 
 
Adatn — 
 
 Out there under that apple tree. 
 Something fell on the garden floor, 
 I guess she's picking off some more. 
 
 Lord to the Woman — 
 
 And what have you been doing so soon, 
 Before you took your honeymoon? 
 
 Eve — 
 
 The serpent told me what to do, 
 And what he said, I know is true. 
 He told us both we should not die. 
 If we ate those apples on the sly. 
 'Twould make us wise, like unto you, 
 Knowing both good and evil, too. 
 Adam wanted that apple much as /, 
 But pretended he couldn't reach so high, 
 Because he'd lost one of his ribs. 
 Didn't feel quite well, so he went and hid. 
 
 He did his part as well as I, 
 
 Said up and down we should not die; 
 
 Only just keep hid when the Lord comes round, 
 
 But I knew you'd hunt till we both were found. 
 
 I saw that snake the very first night. 
 
 And he said we both looked like a fright ! 
 
 Going round without our aprons on, 
 
 So I pick'd some leaves to make us some. 
 
 He told me to pick that apple, too. 
 And not be scared for fear of You, 
 He said 'twould open both our eyes, 
 
 39 
 
Besides, 'twould make us very wise. 
 
 I've told you now what we've both been about, 
 
 Takes a woman every time to fetch a man out. 
 
 I've come it on Adam just the same 
 
 For saying the woman was all to blame. 
 
 My tongue's been running ever since I was made, 
 
 Till it's put my husband all in the shade. 
 
 And now God says he shall earn his bread. 
 
 I listened and heard every word that was said ; 
 
 But I had to catch it same as he, 
 
 Only hear what the Lord just said to me: 
 
 Lord — 
 
 Henceforth in sorrow thou shalt roam ; 
 For I'll take from you this happy home ; 
 Couldn't be satisfied twenty-four hours, 
 With all this fruit and lovely flowers. 
 And the serpent standing up so straight, 
 Shall live on the dust outside the gate. 
 And crawl on his belly the rest of his life 
 For interferinsf with man and wife. 
 
 THANKSGIVING WITH COMRADES FROM 
 "OVER THERE." 
 
 O mother ! How long I have missed you, 
 So long since " earth's friendships have flown" ; 
 
 Come down, if for only one moment. 
 While here I am sitting alone. 
 
 40 
 
All the people with whom I am living 
 
 Are gone quite a distance from here, 
 With friends, to enjoy their thanksgiving, 
 
 While I'm left alone in the rear. 
 
 I remember that place, dearest mother, 
 Where once I was nurtured with care ; 
 
 You and father, and all of the children, 
 " O what would it be to be there" ! 
 
 " O mother ! Come back from that city," 
 And tell me the joys of that place ; 
 
 For this is a lonesome thanksgiving; 
 
 give me one kindly embrace. 
 
 Take along with you Samuel and Flavel, 
 
 And William, so honest and true, 
 Lorinda, Calista, and Wealthie 
 
 Eliza, and Abigail, too. 
 Dear mother, pray don't forget Julia, 
 
 Nor George in his brilliant career; 
 Little Harry, who was almost an idol, 
 
 1 also must bring up the rear. 
 
 But I shall go where you are going, 
 
 And that's to our old Vermont home ; 
 The fire on the hearth I hear crackling. 
 
 To welcome us every one. 
 A white table without any varnish, 
 
 Spread o'er with a cloth white as snow, 
 Roast goose, and a baked Indian (" injun ") pudding, 
 
 A jolly old chicken pie, too. 
 
 Let's go up to the rocks and the mountains, 
 Where streams dance so merrily through, 
 
 41 
 
Which but yesterday seemed to be haunted 
 With robbins, and boboHnks, too. 
 
 O ! Whenever I think how my father 
 Took his hat off and laid himself down, 
 
 To drink from that spring of cold water, 
 My heart gives a leap and a bound ! 
 
 That same spring to-day is still bubbling. 
 
 Without one invention of man, 
 Such as lead pipes and old rusty irons, 
 
 'Twas placed there by God's divine hand. 
 Little jottings along by the wayside, 
 
 Refreshments and cool rippling rills ; 
 The same God who reigned in my childhood 
 
 Keeps guard o'er His heritage still. 
 
 Thanksgiving day now almost over, 
 
 Dear kindred, once more " fare-ye-well," 
 How long will be this separation. 
 
 For one, I'm not able to tell. 
 Don't forget me dear father and mother, 
 
 The chain is still broken you see, 
 When that shall be soldered together 
 
 How sweet the reunion will be. 
 
 CHANGE OF FRIENDS. 
 
 A change of pastures makes fat calves ; 
 
 'Tis just so with our friends; 
 We change the old ones for the new, 
 
 Which serves to that great end. 
 
 42 
 
We often tire doing kindly deeds 
 
 To the same one o'er and o'er, 
 We therefore lay our benefits 
 
 To another neighbor's door. 
 
 And so that other neighbor with 
 
 Great courtesy lets us in ; 
 The same as strangers always greet 
 
 A new and pleasant thing. 
 So do not think because that friend 
 
 Has jumped to another pasture, 
 That you in consequence thereof 
 
 Have met with a great disaster. 
 
 Could you have read the hidden page 
 
 That lurked in that friend's heart, 
 Thrice more than glad you might have been 
 
 To see that friend depart. 
 So grieve no more about that friend 
 
 You thought you loved the best. 
 You've only made a little change ; 
 
 Your friends are none the less. 
 
 JUNE, THE MONTH OF ROSES. 
 
 Oh, beautiful month of roses, 
 
 We greet you with a smile ; 
 We 're glad you 've come to stop with us. 
 
 If only a little while. 
 I sing of the month of roses. 
 
 So very dear to me, 
 For they grew around that dear old home, 
 
 Where once I used to be. 
 
 43 
 
I sing of the month of roses, 
 
 As I press them to my heart, 
 For they speak of comrades " over there," 
 
 With whom I've had to part. 
 Sweet rose, you oft remind me 
 
 Of the friends I used to meet, 
 Carrying roses in their hands, 
 
 Snififing their odors sweet. 
 
 Sweet rose, you are an emblem 
 
 Of a fairer world than this. 
 Your time is short, I therefore hasten 
 
 To partake thy bliss. 
 Oh, woodman ! spare the roses, 
 
 Touch not that slender stem 
 That's done such loyal service 
 
 'Mong the busy " haunts of men." ■ 
 
 They 've marched with the gallant soldier, 
 
 They've marched not only there. 
 But they've marched into the White House, 
 
 Up to the president's chair. 
 He appreciates the roses, 
 
 The chief of this great land. 
 He wears them in his bosom. 
 
 He holds them in his hand. 
 
 Oh, beautiful month of roses. 
 We greet you with good cheer. 
 
 All hail the month of roses, 
 Which comes but once a year. 
 
 44 
 
GOOD-BYE TO THE MONTH OF ROSES. 
 
 Alas ! and has she gone again, 
 As bhthe and softly as she came, 
 Scattering all along her train 
 The leaves that fell from the roses? 
 
 'To you we sang our sweetest lays, 
 Altho' you stopped but thirty days 
 Sol shed on you his longest rays, 
 Oh, beautiful month of roses ! 
 
 Where did you meet her, O July? 
 Where was she when you passed her by? 
 And did she stop to breathe a sigh, 
 Oh, beautiful month of roses? 
 
 Altho' we bid a long adieu. 
 Again in nineteen hundred ' n' two, 
 Once more we'll gladly welcome you, 
 Oh, beautiful month of roses ! 
 
 And when the angels fold their wings. 
 And list to hear the songs we sing, 
 Our sweetest tribute we will bring 
 To the beautiful month of roses. 
 
 FLOWERS' CONVENTION. 
 
 I just walked out a little way. 
 When a " hollyhock" I see; 
 
 And lo ! behold that httle " holly " 
 Touched his hat to me. 
 
 45 
 
Next thing I saw as I went along, 
 
 Was a little " merry-gool," 
 Which smiled and nodded seemingly, 
 
 As tho' he meant to rule. 
 
 I looked around, and lo ! there stood 
 
 A pansy by his side ; 
 And I wondered if that pansy was 
 
 A-going to be his bride. 
 A great red peony (piny) seemed to be 
 
 The next I got my eye on, 
 And I almost thought when I saw that 
 
 I was within the walls of Zion. 
 
 I looked around to see 'f 'twas so. 
 
 And there stood a sweet-william, 
 With a swarm of little humming-birds. 
 
 Just fresh from their pavilion. 
 He brought a luncheon for them, too. 
 
 In a basket on his arm. 
 And I wondered what that lunch could be, 
 
 And was told 'twas a "sweet-balm." 
 
 Next came a little "buttercup," 
 
 Peeking thro ' the fence. 
 The " goldenrod," and "daisy," too. 
 
 With never a pretense. 
 But who is that, way up so high. 
 
 Can any body tell? 
 My name is "sunflower," all the rest 
 
 Call me the "sentinel." 
 
 I laughed outright to hear him talk, 
 Couldn't help it, if I was to die ; 
 
 46 
 
For there he stood, his face to the sun, 
 Yellow whiskers, and a great black eye. 
 
 A little "poppy" came in sight, 
 
 When the "sunflower" had got through, 
 
 And said, "I beg your pardon, sir, 
 I'm somebody well as you ! 
 
 " Only ten of you are here to-day, 
 
 I'm very glad to meet you ; 
 I, too, would add a very few words, 
 
 I hope what I say will please you. 
 I have a soothing balm with me. 
 
 Something I always keep ; 
 So be careful what you say to me. 
 
 Or I'll put you all to sleep." 
 
 "Look out for we," another flower said, 
 
 (As tho' she would defend them) 
 " You'll get no medicine into me. 
 
 For I'm a ' rhododendron." 
 Oh ! I live in such a lovely place ! 
 
 Great ponds, and trees so tall ; 
 Many beautiful flowers besides myself, 
 
 But I'm the dandiest of all. 
 
 " Plenty of water, so we pump it up, 
 
 A pump with a great long handle ; 
 Better water you never drank in your life, 
 
 'Long pond' to it can't hold a candle. 
 It makes me think of the good ' old times,' 
 
 When I used to go a-sapping; 
 So now, little ' poppy,* don't flatter yourself, 
 
 That you'll ever get us to napping." 
 
 47 
 
NOVEMBER. 
 
 The song of the robin has now died away, 
 We miss their sweet carols by night and by day ; 
 They've gone to regale in that sweet "summer land," 
 But not " over there," you will please understand. 
 November hath duties (tho' sear be her leaf), 
 Which God hath assigned her, so all is not grief 
 That lies on her borders or under her sky; 
 She performs well her duty the same as July. 
 
 In heavenly places together we meet, 
 
 To solace each other with friendship so sweet; 
 
 She hath " many mansions," were it not so. 
 
 She might have informed us a long time ago. 
 
 'Mong God's twelve disciples November is one ; 
 
 She starts at His bidding, she goes and she comes; 
 
 The task is not easy she has to perform 
 
 For June plucks the roses and leaves her the thorns. 
 
 Tho' sadly we listen to her siren song, 
 She makes no pretensions while marching along, 
 She wears her brown cap with the greatest of ease, 
 While shaking the nuts from the bare frosty trees. 
 Oh, chilly November! we must not complain, 
 You're one of that number whom God doth ordain 
 To sit at His banquet, break bread and drink wine. 
 Acted well every part which your God hath designed. 
 
 Quite sure of the conquest you entered the race. 
 To doubts or forebodings you never gave place ; 
 From start to the finish your work is well done. 
 The battle you fought and the prize you have won. 
 
 48 
 
And now we beg pardon, November, right here. 
 For shrugging our shoulders when first you appear; 
 We now reaHze the rich harvest you bring, 
 A glorious Thanksgiving that's fit for a king. 
 
 ANGELS IN DISGUISE. 
 
 Turn not the stranger from thy gate, 
 
 Their footsteps nor despise ; 
 Perchance you may be entertaining 
 
 Angels in disguise. 
 Not always those most intimate 
 
 Are the ones who care for you, 
 Nor always daily associates 
 
 Who care to remember you. 
 
 Perchance the one with rusty coat. 
 
 Or hat without a flower. 
 Is the very one who'll stand by you 
 
 In a dark and trying hour. 
 Not always those who boast the most 
 
 Are the ones who 're sure to win, 
 Vain bluster, boast, and bravery 
 
 You'll find, are never twins. 
 
 Oh, blessed gift of loyalty, 
 
 How true in every way, 
 Go where you will, meet whom you will, 
 
 You never go astray. 
 To-day the same as yesterday ; 
 
 Your colors never trail ; 
 Oh, blessed gift of loyalty, 
 
 You never, never fail. 
 
 49 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF WHITE'S PARK. 
 
 Shall we meet again? 
 
 "That dreadful question I have asked 
 Of the hills that look eternal;" 
 
 Of the stars in their awful majesty; 
 In their azure fields supernal. 
 
 Of the bubbling streams that roll and roll, 
 And frolic with great glee, 
 
 'Till wearied with the "awful" march, 
 They rush into the sea. 
 
 I came to you when life seemed dark, 
 
 Earth's friends more false than true, 
 And that was why, O dearest park, 
 
 I sought relief in you. 
 When I stood here I breathed the air 
 
 That's free to every one. 
 With no regrets for yesterday. 
 
 Or fears for what might come. 
 
 When friends looked sullen and morose. 
 
 Without one kindly word, 
 I found relief in you, dear park. 
 
 Among the flowers and birds. 
 The weeping willows sighed for me, 
 
 The trees their tributes flung. 
 The flowers were full of sympathy, 
 
 While birds their carols sung. 
 
 I heard the whisperings on the breeze, 
 And knew God's voice was there. 
 
 Transported so my heart became, 
 I could see God everywhere. 
 
 50 
 
Here I could feel the watchful care 
 
 Of Him who cares for all, 
 Better trust Him for a little while, 
 
 Than never trust at all. 
 
 In trusting thus, perhaps, sometime 
 
 That little seed may grow 
 Through the memory of that happy hour 
 
 When you trusted long ago. 
 "He sees the sparrows when they fall," 
 
 Hears the cry of every bird, 
 
 Tho' " His ways are all past finding out," 
 They're in keeping with His word. 
 
 He " clothes the lilies of the field," 
 The flowers, the shrubs, and trees, 
 
 In all his glory " Solomon 
 
 Was not arrayed like one of these." 
 
 I came near saying I'd digressed 
 
 From the path I meant to have trod, 
 
 But when I talk with you, dear park, 
 I also talk with God. 
 
 FREEDOM FROM SHAKERISM. 
 
 THIRTIETH ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 Thirty years have elapsed "since I gazed on the scene " 
 Which haunts me to-day like a beautiful dream ; '^ 
 Thirty years have elapsed since old Danbury I see. 
 Since I sailed out alone on life's turbulent sea. 
 
 SI 
 
I started away without money or friends ; 
 Tho' a ten-dollar bill looked quite big to me then, 
 'Twas all that they gave me for thirty-six years, 
 But I faced the music without any fears. 
 
 'Twas a beautiful day when I rode into town, 
 
 With a plain shaker bonnet 'n a straight shaker gown, 
 
 But the trees were arrayed as for some " bridal day," 
 
 But I did n't seem to be taken that way. 
 
 My motto was freedom, altho' it might be 
 
 A crust of brown bread and an old " hollow tree," 
 
 Luxurious living with a mind that 's opprest, — 
 
 With my disposition I much preferred death. 
 
 'Twas here in old Danbury I took up my station ; 
 'Twas here in old Danbury I found my vocation ; 
 'Twas here in old Danbury where folks were so friendly, 
 'Twas here I found none but who treated me kindly. 
 Thirty years have elapsed. Oh, how fleeting is time ! 
 Thirty years have elapsed since sweet freedom was 
 
 mine. 
 Sweet liberty ! Freedom ! Thou most precious boon. 
 I reached out and grasped it in life's afternoon. 
 
 My sky many times has been quite overcast. 
 
 My frail barque been toss'd by the rough, howling 
 
 blast ; 
 'Tho' far from fair sailing, I clung to the oar, 
 " My anchor strong hope," while loud billows did roar. 
 When shot, shell, and cannon went whizzing 'round me, 
 I stood up and faced it as brave as could be ; 
 When the battle waxed hot, more determined was I, 
 Determined my colors to never "let fly." 
 
 52 
 
Thirty years have elapsed, and I 've never turned back 
 
 Since I first started out on sweet Hberty's track ; 
 
 But I've had to " rough it" thro' hail, storm, and sleet, 
 
 Which never has taken me off from my feet. 
 
 For freedom I started, and ran for the prize; 
 
 Bewildered and dazzled tho' oft were my eyes, 
 
 My courage and fortitude never cried halt ! 
 
 For I dreaded to turn to a " pillar of salt." 
 
 And now, dear old Danbury, if you '11 please to hear it, 
 Thou 'st reared quite a " hero," or one pretty near it. 
 She came to you hungry, she came to you poor ; 
 You opened your hearts, and you opened your door. 
 Thirty years have elapsed since you went out to meet 
 
 her, 
 Both Taylors and Jacksons were ready to greet her, 
 Browns, Travers and Cof^ns and Websters together, 
 Regardless of either the wind or the weather. 
 
 One more sweet remembrance I '11 mention right here, 
 There was one little Clarence I used to hold dear ; 
 He had sparkling black eyes and a pretty round face. 
 But now he 's a preacher way off in some place. 
 Should I leave any out, hope you will not feel slighted, 
 To name every one would be more than delighted. 
 There's George, Will, and Martin, the Butricks and 
 
 Gales, 
 And an old Mr. " Jewett," who used to drive nails. 
 
 Stillman Clark and his family I must n't leave out. 
 The Litchfields and Crocketts were somewhere about, 
 The reverend " Mr. Miriam," wife, an' little girl. 
 I would n't leave them out for all of the world. 
 
 S3 
 
There was one maiden lady whom I would not miss, — 
 The salt of the earth, I can tell you all this, — 
 "Clara Giles " was her name, who can ne'er be forgot; 
 Almost blind, I remember, yet she murmured not. 
 
 Quite a number of "Fields" (with never a pasture). 
 Should I forget them 'twould be quite a disaster; 
 Mr. Fields and his wife, Littlefields who did marry. 
 Then, just as you 're going, there 's Tom, Dick, and 
 
 Harry. 
 Lucy Litchfield married a young Mr. Jones; 
 That couple, I tell you, were none of your drones. 
 The reason the Littlefields had such full bins 
 They sow'd to the harvest and not to the winds. 
 
 Robert Ford and his wife I almost forgot, 
 
 Nice people they were, same 's the rest of the lot; 
 
 Mr. Ford was a preacher, an' a jolly man, too. 
 
 But his wife talked the most, same as most women do. 
 
 Two families of Sargents I liked pretty well ; 
 
 The Cloughs and the Wiggins the chorus to swell, — 
 
 Adnirum and Johnny, now is n't it queer 
 
 That I should fetch them in to bring up the rear? 
 
 So good-by, dearest Danbury, where once I did roam, 
 A pilgrim, as ever, without any home. 
 The beasts have a home, and the birds of the air, 
 But dim in the distance, 7ny home's " Over There." 
 And now, dearest Danbury, one word will I say 
 As I stand here beside your old hearthstone to-day, 
 'Though mountains and valleys between us do lie, 
 I '11 respect you forever and ever. Good-by. 
 
 54 
 
THAT LITTLE BROWN HOUSE IN DANBURY. 
 
 There 's a little brown house in Danbury 
 Where I worked thirty years ago ; 
 The very first place I encountered 
 After leaving the Shakers, you know. 
 For freedom I started, 's I told you, 
 That so long I had been seeking for; 
 But never have found on my journey 
 All the world full of sunshine and joy. 
 
 I imagined my pilot would guide me 
 Forever o'er smooth, friendly seas, 
 Until, by and by, he should land me 
 In the harbor of infinite peace. 
 I never once met a " tornado " 
 Inside of the first four miles. 
 So I thought myself close to the regions 
 Where folks everlastingly smile. 
 
 Oh, that little brown cottage in Danbury 
 
 I 'm longing to see just once more; 
 
 It had n't a bit of paint on it 
 
 Excepting the little front door. 
 
 The windows v/ere small and old-fashioned, 
 
 And up a long ways from the floor; 
 
 But I did n't care much about it, 
 
 While earning a few cents of " lore." 
 
 The folks were worth plenty of money, 
 But very small wages did pay; 
 But I thought it was almighty handy 
 To earn twenty-five cents a day. 
 
 55 
 
They say that brown house is still standing. 
 So I 'm going up to see it next week, 
 And presume I shall make quite a racket 
 Where I earned my two dollars a week. 
 
 Let us shake the old walls and the rafters 
 With the fife, with the fiddle and drum. 
 I wish that old couple could meet us, 
 But am 'fraid they 're not able to come. 
 Let me see the old tree that bore apples, 
 In the garden where dandelions grew ; 
 The beet, squash, the cabbage and turnip, 
 The currants and raspberries, too. 
 
 A mind wholly free and contented 
 Was to me a continual feast; 
 Even a wise man cannot bear oppression. 
 For oppression doth never bring peace. 
 I had left all my earthly possessions. 
 And land where good living was rife, 
 For the one thing we read of in the Bible, 
 "All a man hath will he eive for his life." 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 I am thinking to-day of that story 
 
 Mother told us twelve children while young. 
 How Jesus was born in a manger. 
 
 Of the songs which the angels have sung. 
 
 56 
 
And how we all listened in silence, 
 Asking questions in our childish way, 
 
 And if that was the same loving Saviour, 
 Who was coming to see us that day. 
 
 And how mother, with sweet smiles of sadness, 
 
 Told us Jesus was God's only son. 
 The one who was born in a manger; 
 
 Said Jesus was just the same one. 
 And that's when she told us the story 
 
 How Jesus was born in a stall, 
 For that inn, in the city of David, 
 
 Wasn't sufificient to accommodate all. 
 
 So I, in my young childish musings. 
 
 Thought the people were not very kind, 
 To occupy all of that tavern, 
 
 Leaving Joseph and Mary behind. 
 Oh, how my young heart pondered over 
 
 All the scenes that those people went thro', 
 For my own dearest mother had told it, 
 
 So I knew every word must be true. 
 
 She told us how he loved little children. 
 
 Embraced them, and told them to come, 
 "For of such is the kingdom of heaven," 
 
 Oh, welcome them every one. 
 Oh, that I had been one of those children, 
 
 Should liked to have lived in that time. 
 To have shared in his kindly embraces, 
 
 "With his eyes looking down into mine." 
 
 57 
 
Thank God for the teachings of mother, 
 Such teachings are wont to incite 
 
 A child to be spiritually minded ; 
 
 Thank God for my mother. Good-night ! 
 
 ONCE MORE. 
 
 "Once on the raging sea I rode," 
 With none to speak a friendly word ; 
 I 've told this many times before. 
 But want to tell it just once more. 
 Oh ! just once more, 'twas always so ; 
 Like the little child who begged to throw 
 Just one more pebble from the shore, 
 When his mother bade him throw no more. 
 
 The night was dark, a storm was nigh, 
 The lightning flashing thro' the sky. 
 And I, a sailor far from home, 
 No hand to rescue but my own. 
 Faster, weaker my heart beat, 
 Longing for a safe retreat ; 
 Tremblingly I plied the oar, 
 While foaming billows loud did roar. 
 
 Hark ! I hear a bugle horn, 
 Some one coming thro' the storm? 
 Some one coming to my aid? 
 *' 'Tis I, dear child ; be not afraid ;" 
 I see the glimmer of a light 
 Through the darkness of the night; 
 I see two arms stretched out to me, 
 'Tis Jesus, walking on the sea. 
 
 58 
 
He stoops to take me in His arms; 
 "Fear not, dear child, be not alarmed; 
 I've watched you long, so come to me, 
 I'll bear you o'er this dangerous sea." 
 Tears filled those sympathetic eyes. 
 As He waved his hand to the angry skies; 
 To the threatening clouds so thick and black, 
 He waved His hand and said, " Go back !" 
 
 Oh, how my heart with joy did thrill 
 
 When he said to the tempest, "Peace, be still;" 
 
 I know the face I've loved so long, 
 
 Hence, He's the burden of my song. 
 
 With courage safely now I ride 
 
 With my dear Saviour at my side; 
 
 Fearing nothing as I sail, 
 
 For I know my pilot will prevail. 
 
 TRIBUTE TO SOME OF OUR DISTINGUISHED 
 POETS. 
 
 I love to walk in the sounding woods, 
 
 With Tennyson, Bryant, and Blair, 
 For it raiseth my thoughts to Him who walketh 
 
 On the wings of the air. 
 
 I love to sing of " Home, Sweet Home," 
 With Wordsworth, Cowper, and Bell, 
 
 And take an effervescent draught 
 
 From the " Old Oaken Bucket in the Well." 
 
 59 
 
I love to walk in the " Sylvan Shades," 
 With Campbell and Carlyle, 
 
 And view the tops of the dark fir trees, 
 Leaning close against the skies. 
 
 I love to walk with the poet Watts, 
 And hear that anthem roll, 
 "Then I shall smile at Satan's rage, 
 And face a frowning world." 
 
 BIRTHDAY POEM— SAIL WITH ME, MOTHER. 
 
 Sixty-five years I have lived without mother. 
 
 Toiling 'mong strangers, far from my home ; 
 
 Swiftly o'er cable were flashed the last summons. 
 
 And just in a moment my mother was gone. 
 
 My heart is still weeping at that mournful picture, 
 
 'Tho' sixty-five years have elapsed since that day ; 
 
 Our mother was gone, our young hearts were left 
 
 bleeding, 
 For, oh, she so suddenly hastened away. 
 
 How awfully we missed her and her soft caresses ; 
 Father was left, and was so good and kind ; 
 Brothers and sisters all kind and obliging, 
 But mother was gone, and we were not resigned. 
 On rushed the years like the waves of the ocean, 
 And in their sad flight they all fell by the way; 
 So I in my loneliness only survive them ; 
 Seventy-five years I account for to-day. 
 
 Sail with me, mother, the rest of the journey. 
 For I have grown weary of sailing alone ; 
 
 60 
 
When the waters are still, and the storms are all over, 
 
 Sail with me, mother, till I 'm safe at home. 
 
 Oh, I do not ask you to face the rough billows. 
 
 Nor ask you to take all my burdens away; 
 
 So I '11 be content when you come to me, mother, 
 
 Content, if you only will meet me half way. 
 
 The angels are nearing, I hear their soft footsteps. 
 Hear the low beating of their " mufifled drums." 
 Sail with me, mother, the rest of the journey ; 
 Sail with me, mother, till I 'm safe at home. 
 I listen, and when I shall catch the last echo, 
 Catch the last echo of their "still alarm," 
 Sail with me, mother, the rest of the journey ; 
 Sail with me, mother, till I 'm safe at home. 
 
 I 've struggled along thro' the long, weary journey, 
 While all my companions have fallen by the way ; 
 The harbor 's in sight, and the sails are all hoisted. 
 Sail with me, mother, the rest of the way. 
 Minist'ring angels? I hear their low whispers. 
 The same as I have many times by the way. 
 Enraptured, I fancy I hear the band playing ; 
 Sail with me, mother, the rest of the way. 
 
 I send you this message, this solicitation, 
 
 And hope it will reach you, dear mother, to-day ; 
 
 The angels have joined me in swelling the chorus. 
 
 Sail with me, mother, the rest of the way. 
 
 Sail with me, mother, the storms are abating ; 
 
 The song of the Lamb has already begun ; 
 
 His arms are extended, he 's coming to meet us ; 
 
 You taught us to love him when we were all young. 
 
 6i 
 
Sail with me, mother, high o'er the rough billows; 
 Sail with me, mother, for bright is the day; 
 Sail with me, mother, the angels are singing; 
 Sail with me, mother, the rest of the way. 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 Come home, my muse, take me back once more 
 
 To my dear old native home ; 
 Let me see the " Grand Old Hills" again, 
 
 Where once I used to roam. 
 Oh, I could " kiss the very rocks," 
 
 They seem so dear to me ; 
 The rocks among those dear " Old Hills," 
 
 Where once I used to be. 
 
 Let me see my dear old mother's face 
 
 While standing in the door. 
 Calling us in at the eventide, saying 
 
 We mustn't play any more. 
 Let me see my dear old father's arms 
 
 Outstretched to us, every one ; 
 Even when he was working out on his farm 
 
 We were always welcome to come. 
 
 Take me back to that cottage, 
 That dear little cottage. 
 The little brown cottage 
 That stood on the lawn. 
 
 Take me back to the joys of my childhood years, 
 'Mong the birds, the flowers, and streams; 
 
 62 
 
Let me see the green mountains in summer time, 
 
 Later on, the autumn leaves. 
 Let me see that dear little humming bird. 
 
 For I love to hear him sing; 
 All around and about that dear old home 
 
 I just love every thing. 
 
 Oh, that little brown cottage, 
 That dear little cottage, 
 The little brown cottage 
 That stood on the lawn. 
 
 Take me back to the garden, the orchard, and dell. 
 
 Take me back to the pumpkins and corn ; 
 Take me back to the old " Oaken Bucket" 'n the well. 
 
 By the cottage that stood on the lawn. 
 Let me see that old iron "candlestick" 
 
 Mother hung on the back of a chair, 
 That she might see to mend our clothes after dark, 
 
 For not a kerosene lamp was there. 
 
 Oh, that little brown cottage, 
 That dear little cottage. 
 The little brown cottage 
 That stood on the lawn. 
 
 Let me see that dear little spinning-wheel 
 
 Plied so deftly by mother's feet. 
 Spinning thread out of flax, while humming a tune, — 
 
 Ah ! never was music so sweet. 
 Let me see my dear little sisters again 
 
 Standing 'round to see mother spin. 
 I remember she was fearful lest thro' a mistake 
 
 We might get our fingers caught in. 
 
 63 
 
Oh, that little brown cottage, 
 That dear little cottage, 
 The little brown cottage 
 That stood on the lawn. 
 
 Take me back to my home, let me live there and die. 
 
 I rather die where I was born ; 
 I 'm weary of living 'mong strangers alone, 
 
 For my comrades are all dead and gone. 
 Oh, what sorrow and parting we 've met on the way 
 
 Since we left the fond scenes at our home ; 
 May we meet at the landing at some future day 
 
 When I am done living alone. 
 
 Take me back to that cottage, 
 That dear little cottage. 
 The little brown cottage 
 That stood on the lawn. 
 
 "THOU SHALT HEAR MY VOICE IN THE 
 MORNING." 
 
 Let us bring our offerings unto the Lord 
 
 While the glorious day is dawning. 
 For the best time of day, our wise men say. 
 
 Is to praise the Lord in the morning. 
 There's a beautiful tree reaching out to me 
 
 As the glorious sun is dawning. 
 There's an Eye that peeps, which " never sleeps," 
 
 Into my room in the morning. 
 
 64 
 
That beautiful tree which delighteth me 
 
 Every time I awake in the morning, 
 Was wrought and planned by God's own Hand, 
 
 Nor touched by an artist's drawing. 
 The birds that fly in the beautiful sky 
 
 Come down when the day is dawning, 
 And sweetly sing while their tribute they fling 
 
 From that beautiful tree in the morning. , 
 
 If we want to reap e'er 'tis time to sleep, 
 
 Let us sow our seed in the morning. 
 While the dew is on, and the darkness gone, 
 
 And the radiant sun is dawning. 
 I direct my prayer in the balmy air. 
 
 My voice shalt thou hear in the morning ! 
 Bring your sacrifice in, 'tis a beautiful thing 
 
 To offer your gifts in the morning. 
 
 I listen and hear something chime on my ear, 
 
 As the first streak of daylight is dawning. 
 The first thing that stirs is the beautiful birds, 
 
 Oh, how sweetly they sing in the morning ! 
 E'er that sound dies away, and 'tis just break of day, 
 
 Something else to that hour seems belonging. 
 Little children have joined with the birds in their song; 
 
 Oh, how sweet are their voices in the morning. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 I'll again sing aloud 'mid the gay laughing crowd ; 
 
 Let my song at this time be a warning ! 
 How many are found with their armor laid down, 
 
 Never more to go forth in the morning. 
 
 65 
 
OUR TWO KITTENS. 
 
 And must I say the parting word 
 
 I hear so many say? 
 Rather would I say, I'm sorry, " Annar," 
 
 To have you go away. 
 If you forget poor Tommy Dick, 
 
 And leave him here to mourn, 
 The rats and mice v/ill be so thick 
 
 They'll plunder your new home. 
 
 Sometimes your kit has stayed with me, 
 
 When you have been away. 
 That's why I think so much of him. 
 
 This great eventful day. 
 He has a disposition rare, 
 
 I've marked, with all the rest, 
 Although, to be sincerely frank, 
 
 I love my kitty best. 
 
 Tours seems more like the feminine ; 
 
 Mine more like a business man ; 
 Now which's the greatest consequence ? 
 
 Please tell me if you can. 
 When your kit sees that danger's near, 
 
 He beats a fine retreat, 
 But 7mne would face a cannoti's mouth, 
 
 Before he'd own up beat. 
 
 My kit has large combativeness. 
 While youi' kit has just none; 
 
 So mine comes home with ears and toes 
 Scratched almost to the bone. 
 
 66 
 
But yours looks very delicate, 
 
 As if in all his life 
 He never knew a canine war, 
 
 Or even a petty strife. 
 
 One thing I've noticed, by the way, 
 
 When yours with mine has met, 
 He's heard all Dickey had to say, 
 
 And then he's put, "you bet! " 
 No serious outbreak has occurred 
 
 'Tween these two pussy-cats, 
 One thing they both are noted for. 
 
 To catch the mice and rats. 
 
 Well, I declare, I am a fool, 
 
 I might as well confess 
 That from the subject I began 
 
 I have so far digressed. 
 I meant to write a decent piece 
 
 When I this scrip began. 
 But since I've written so much of this, 
 
 I don't believe I can. 
 
 But one thing I must tell you, " Annar, 
 
 Before this scrip I close, 
 There's many a cat, as well as yours. 
 
 That no great warfare knows. 
 All this " Dick " seems to comprehend, 
 
 And so he lets them go ; 
 He says he rather meet a cat 
 
 That will his colors show. 
 
 67 
 
And so he searches day and night 
 For one that suits his mind ; 
 
 I think I never heard him say 
 Which were the genuine kind. 
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 I cannot in my later years 
 
 My former joys forget; 
 That by-gone history of Hfe 
 
 I hold as sacred yet. 
 We mustn't allow ourselves to mourn 
 
 O'er pleasures that have been ; 
 The same bright orb above our heads 
 
 Shines bright as it did then. 
 
 'Tis very pleasant to look back 
 
 On joys we leave behind, 
 If, in doing so, it don't disturb 
 
 Our peace at the present time. 
 Rather let it serve to exhilarate, 
 
 For 'tis our guiding star. 
 Pointing us to our future joys. 
 
 Seen only from afar. 
 
 And as we journey toward our friends, 
 Who 've reached those realms so fair. 
 
 We see their " footprints " on the sand, 
 So we know they traveled there. 
 
 68 
 
Oh, the footprints on the sands of time 
 
 Lead to the " harbor bar," 
 So we follow closely in their tracks, 
 
 Our only guiding star. 
 
 Now don't condemn the plans which God 
 
 So ingeniously has wrought; 
 The past to you sweet future brings ; 
 
 The very thing you sought. 
 
 JESUS. 
 
 Jesus, I have loved Thee long, 
 Thou art still my harp and song ; 
 All the way on life's dark sea 
 Thou hast been a light to me. 
 
 In my childhood thou wast near, 
 Also in my later years ; 
 And since the sheaves are fully ripe 
 Thou art never out of sight. 
 
 MY MUSE AND I. 
 
 The " close-shut leaves " are torn apart, 
 
 And now since I am old 
 Time doth reveal unto my heart 
 
 Its " calyxes of gold." 
 The bread that I so long ago 
 
 Upon the waters cast, 
 Has returned to me an " hundred fold," 
 
 An hundred fold at last. 
 
 69 
 
I used to go a-humming 'round, 
 
 And knew not what I sang ; 
 That heavenly muse was with me then, 
 
 When life was but a span. 
 Inscribed upon that " pictured urn," 
 
 Where heavenly light diffuseth, 
 "Are thoughts that breathe" and "words that burn,' 
 
 Sung by the heavenly muses. 
 
 God gave to me this heavenly muse, 
 
 Teacher of all his ways, 
 To light my path in after years. 
 
 As night succeedeth day. 
 I loved that muse with all my heart 
 
 When gaiety was rife, 
 But now I love it better still 
 
 In the afternoon of life. 
 
 A poet knows the bliss it yields 
 
 Better than anyone else, 
 For not a vain or trifling thing 
 
 Could yield such happiness. 
 That heavenly muse can travel fast. 
 
 As quick as lightning speed ; 
 Pursue you may, you never can 
 
 Outrun her mighty steed. 
 
 The " daring hand " that " wakes my lyre " 
 
 Will dare to turn you back; 
 You ne'er can tread upon the flowers 
 
 That deck the poet's track. 
 You cannot name a single thing 
 
 The muses cannot do. 
 
 70 
 
In princely palaces they live, 
 In humble dwellings, too. 
 
 As in the sunshine so she is 
 In dull or stormy weather ; 
 
 Thus arm in arm my muse and I 
 Have always walked together. 
 
 RESPONSE TO A LETTER WRITTEN BY A 
 LITTLE BOY WHO IS NOW A PASTOR. 
 
 I miss you, little Tenny dear, 
 
 And so does Grandma, too, 
 And 'gainst the time you meet us here 
 
 We '11 save a kiss for you. 
 I want to hear those little feet 
 
 Come patting on the floor; 
 Oh, can it be that I shall hear 
 
 Those little feet no more. 
 
 I loved you, little Tenny dear. 
 
 And mean to love you still ; 
 Hope yet to see your little feet 
 
 Come trudging o'er the hill. 
 Those jet black eyes and auburn hair , 
 
 How pretty they do look ; 
 I never saw a child more fair, 
 
 Not even in a book. 
 
 I wish I had your picture, dear, 
 That I might look upon 
 
 71 
 
Your pretty little smiling face 
 
 When you 're forever gone. 
 I thank you for the little scrip 
 
 You sent me, darling dear, 
 And wish that I might hear your voice. 
 
 My weary mind to cheer. 
 
 Your Kitty 's well ; I thought perhaps 
 
 You 'd like to hear from her. 
 I feed her from my little cup. 
 
 And love to hear her "purr." 
 And Dickey keeps his eyes well peeled, 
 
 As well you might expect ; 
 He always did an interest feel, 
 
 You know, in the fairer sex. 
 
 I'd write you more, but time is short 
 And " Grandsir " cannot wait ; 
 
 For even now the old brown horse 
 Stands waiting*at the gate. 
 
 POSIE'S CHRISTMAS TREE. 
 
 DEAR LITTLE POSY. 
 
 Should you attempt to mount that tree. 
 
 Take care and do not fall. 
 How many pretty things I see, 
 
 But the prettiest of all 
 Is the little one that owns the hand 
 
 That 's reaching up on high. 
 To grasp the things that hang thereon, 
 
 So pleasing to the eye. 
 
 72 
 
Tell me, ye flowers, is there a bud 
 
 That can with her compare? 
 Ye zephyrs, can you waft a breeze 
 
 Sweet as her kisses are? 
 I doubt it, for I 've felt the print 
 
 Of her kisses on my cheek, 
 And watched the daily windings 
 
 Of her cunning little feet. 
 
 Her rosy lips and cherub voice, 
 
 So full of childish mirth ; 
 I 've w^atched her long, and think she must 
 
 Be far too pure for earth. 
 " Behold the lilies of the field," 
 
 "They neither toil nor spin." 
 'Tis said that even Solomon 
 
 Could not compare with them. 
 
 Could they compass a little child, 
 
 This one, nineteen months old? 
 If she should live, time will reveal 
 
 Its calyxes of gold. 
 But if like thousands just such ones, 
 
 Born but to blush and die, 
 She '11 only be the sweeter there, 
 
 In the blessed " by-and-by." 
 
 But the little chair will vacant be, 
 
 Where once she used to sit, 
 And I shall pity those sad hearts, 
 
 Whose child they can't forget. 
 But, ah ! dear friends, it is not so 
 
 As yet, for she is here. 
 
 73 
 
Perhaps she '11 be the last to go 
 Beyond this vale of tears. 
 
 THE FROSTS OF TIME. 
 
 Tho' frosts may blight and flowers decay 
 
 And spring return no more, 
 The soul of one who 's passed away 
 
 Will live forevermore. 
 Scarce welcomed from her infant years, 
 
 Ne'er blossomed into youth, 
 Death set his seal upon the form 
 
 Of this sweet child of truth. 
 
 She was my brother's darling one. 
 
 Who by adoption came ; 
 He loved her almost as his own ; 
 
 To me she was the same. 
 We name her 'mong the precious lambs 
 
 Whom our dear Saviour claims. 
 For He receives such little ones 
 
 And calls them by his name. 
 
 Oh, when she joins the "angel band," 
 
 And claims a residence there, 
 Will she retain the same sweet smile 
 
 Which once she used to wear ! 
 Will she be changed from beautiful. 
 
 Such as she was while here ; 
 Exchange her golden curly hair 
 
 For something sad and drear? 
 
 74 
 
Oh, I should love to gaze once more 
 
 Upon those ringlets fair, 
 And kiss the breath perfumed with smiles, 
 
 Such as the angels wear. 
 Clad in a robe of lowliness. 
 
 Beyond the pomp of dress, 
 Which needs no earthly ornament. 
 
 Such as the angels bless. 
 
 Her form, once fresher than the rose 
 
 Wet with the dews of heaven, 
 Now mingles with its native clay, 
 
 No more by tempests driven. 
 She waited not for flowers to bloom. 
 
 Or snows to melt away ; 
 But when to her the summons came, 
 
 She quickly did obey. 
 
 I often sit beside her grave. 
 
 And wish that I might hear 
 The angels whispers, while they pass 
 
 My enthusiastic ear. 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 " There are songs enough for the heroes 
 
 Who dwell on the heights of fame," 
 But the song I 'm going to sing to-night 
 
 Will be in a different strain. 
 All the songs that 've been sung for the heroes 
 
 Cannot equal the song I shall sing, 
 'Tis the song of the old " Oaken Bucket," 
 
 Unto her this sweet tribute I bring. 
 
 75 
 
Let us sing our sweet songs to the ladies, 
 
 Who on " Santa Claus " wait with such care, 
 Bringing roses and beautiful presents. 
 
 With their sweetest of ways, " debonair." 
 Let us sing our sweet songs to the ladies ; 
 
 Dear comrades, we 've no time to waste, 
 For 'tis only the night before Christmas ; 
 
 Let us sing our sweet carols in haste. 
 
 Let us drink to the health of the ladies 
 
 From the old " Oaken Bucket" in the well, 
 Right in sight of that " full blushing goblet" 
 
 Of which Wordsworth delighted to tell. 
 That old " Oaken Bucket" hangs dripping 
 
 As fancy reverts to that day ; 
 Even the "nectar" that "Jupiter's sipping" 
 
 Cannot tempt us to once turn away. 
 
 Let the song of the old " Oaken Bucket" 
 Take the lead on this new Christmas eve ; 
 
 That same song the reapers are shouting 
 They sang long ago 'mong the sheaves. 
 
 J. G. Whittier long ago told it 
 
 In language most grand and sublime. 
 And so have our other great poets, 
 
 Whom I love to recall at this time. 
 You may talk of the songs of the angels 
 
 'Way off in a far distant clime. 
 But the song of the old " Oaken Bucket" 
 
 Their songs will forever outshine. 
 
 76 
 
Oh, the song of the old " Oaken Bucket " 
 
 Impresses my heart at this time, 
 Portraying the scenes of my childhood, 
 
 When nothing but pleasure was mine. 
 Even the song that was sung by the angels, 
 
 Where shepherds were watching by night 
 O'er their flocks on old Bethlehem's mountains, 
 
 Cannot rival our carol to-night. 
 
 THE OLD HOMESTEAD REVIEWED. 
 
 I'm journeying back to my childhood once more. 
 Am going to rap on the old cottage door; 
 But, oh, the sad thought as I wonder who'll come 
 To answer my summons and welcome me home. 
 Of that little brown cottage I'm coming in sight; 
 No light in the window, altho' nearly night. 
 No smoke from the chimney, am I here alone? 
 That once beaten track all with grass overgrown. 
 
 There stands the old barn, but the door is blown down. 
 
 Cattle and horses are nowhere around ; 
 
 Not one smiling face at the window I see. 
 
 The friends of my childhood, oh, where can they be? 
 
 I dare go no further, the place looks so sad, 
 
 Where once my young heart beat so merry and glad ; 
 
 The curb round the well has been taken away. 
 
 That " moss covered bucket" has gone to decay. 
 
 I hear something rustle ; may be that old brook. 
 Dancing merrily on, I'll run down and look, 
 
 77 
 
At the foot of that knoll where we children did play 
 
 'Mong grasses and ferns and the sweet meadow hay, 
 
 As I venture along I keep looking around 
 
 At the walls and the fences all tumbled down ; 
 
 Not even the voice of a stranger I hear, 
 
 Even the woods seem deserted I once held so dear. 
 
 Oh, if one little squirrel would just come in sight 
 I'd hail the little fellow, for he's all right; 
 This place so deserted seems dreadful to me, 
 Anything but a snake would be welcome to me. 
 Shall I open the gate and go up to the door. 
 Say good-by to this spot I may see nevermore? 
 No real consolation could that be to me, 
 To meet not a form that I once used to see. 
 
 Oh, what memories throng as I stand by the gate. 
 My once happy home lying so desolate ; 
 The pastures still live where the cattle once fed, 
 But " my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead." 
 Come back, oh, ye zephyrs, ye wanderers, come, 
 Help tell the sad tale of my dear native home, 
 The grass all grown over the porch at the door, 
 But the hills look eternal as ever before. 
 
 I've taken great pleasure living in the past, 
 
 But now my heart sways by the cold, chilly blast, 
 
 The cold, chilly blast of the winter of time, 
 
 Which taketh away every friendship of mine. 
 
 Notwithstanding the trials that I've had to meet, 
 
 To me, on an average, this life has been sweet. 
 
 My sun, in the morning, shone dazzlingly bright. 
 
 So I'll not blame the clouds that hang o'er me to-night. 
 
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Breathe softly, ye zephyrs, the day's nearly done; 
 Out of twelve in our family I am Jhe last one ; 
 Over there they will meet me as sweetly, I know, 
 As when we first met seventy-six years ago. 
 I thought I would tell you this story once more, 
 The same old story I've told you before ; 
 The song I've been singing to you here to-day, 
 I've only been singing in a different way. 
 
 THE MISSING LINK. 
 
 Dear brothers, I am coming ! 
 
 Oh, grasp your sister's hand, 
 And lead her away from the cold, dark stream, 
 
 Where she dare no longer stand. 
 Oh, what sorrow and heart-breaking 
 
 Since we parted at our door, 
 A stranger here, but over there 
 
 A stranger nevermore. 
 
 Dear sisters, I am coming ! 
 
 Years and years you've had to wait, 
 Watching, waiting, wondering 
 
 Why I should be so late. 
 I remember all your faces. 
 
 Do you remember me? 
 The " missing link" from the broken chain 
 
 You'll all be glad to see. 
 
 Oh, the missing link from the broken chain 
 Around our family tree, 
 
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Which you'll all be glad to see again, 
 
 Is out on the cold, dark sea. 
 I long to see you all once more, 
 
 I cannot tell you how ; 
 Long, long ago you crossed the flood 
 
 That I am crossing now. 
 
 Oh, that broken chain will be made whole, 
 
 Around our family tree, 
 For the missing link is coming home, 
 
 Coming over the sea. 
 No more a lonely wanderer 
 
 In this cold world of sorrow. 
 No more to go to bed at night, 
 
 Dreading the dark tomorrow. 
 
 I'm weary with the storms of life. 
 
 But if I could only come 
 And sit at my father's table again, 
 
 I could feast on the very crumbs. 
 Sometimes I fear you've forgotten me, 
 
 Through all the years that's rolled, 
 And have got so used to the broken chain. 
 
 You care not to have it whole. 
 
 That such a thing were possible, 
 
 I hardly dare to think ; 
 Awaiting all your sweet replies, 
 
 I linger at the brink. 
 
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