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Poems of Purpose 
 
 BY 
 HORACE C. CARLISLE 
 
 BALTIMORE 
 
 WILLIAMS & WILKINS COMPANY 
 
 1915 
 

 ij 
 
 .i\l^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1915 
 By H. C. CARLISLE 
 
 COMPOSED AND PRINTED AT THE 
 
 WAVERLY PRESS 
 
 By the Williams & Wilkins Compant 
 
 Baltimoee, Md., U. S. a. 
 
 JUN2I 1915 
 
 ©GI,A401465 
 

 
 r^' 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 To Dr. clarence J. OWENS 
 
 Managing Director of the Southern Commercial 
 Congress 
 
 whose timely suggestions, and additional helpful 
 hints, have been a veritable Light in the Valley to 
 the author in this, his initial step in presenting the 
 products of his verse to the literary vv^orld, is this 
 small volume of poems most gratefully dedicated. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 In the course of his service as a teacher in the schools 
 of Alabama and during his residence in the District of 
 Columbia, the author of this volume of poems has re- 
 corded his interpretation of his environment and has 
 given expression to his choicest thoughts and feelings- 
 
 Upward toward the better seems to be the impelling 
 influence that has guided his pen. The physical labor, 
 the mental toil and the soul struggle put into the pro- 
 duction of this book cannot be estimated. Whatever the 
 verdict of the reader as to its rank in the Republic of 
 Letters and whatever of difference of opinion there may 
 be on economic and social problems, it is certain that 
 here is contained the serious, earnest, honest efforts of a 
 soul imbued with high ideals, based on firm convictions 
 and guided by an unfaltering trust in the Most High. 
 
 With knowledge of the successful labors of the author 
 as an educator in the South during the past decade and 
 acquaintance with his hopes and desires to publish his 
 message to the world in verse, I have followed his career 
 and his literary accomplishments with sympathetic inter- 
 est. Gladly I express to the author the appreciation on 
 the part of his friends, for the pleasure he has brought 
 them through his poetry and cheerfully I commend the 
 volume to those who would be inspired to nobler pur- 
 poses and bespeak a wide distribution of the book into 
 many homes and a dissemination of its ideals into many 
 hearts. 
 
 Clarence J. Owens. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A. E. A. (1909) 101 
 
 Almighty Dollar, The 119 
 
 Atlantic, The 48 
 
 Bachelor's Wail, The 75 
 
 Bill Arp 89 
 
 Birth of Bachelorhood, The 76 
 
 Bhss of the Blues, The 30 
 
 BoU Weevil, The 133 
 
 Books 17 
 
 Calvary 140 
 
 Calvary's Pastor 141 
 
 Calvary's Pastor's Anniversary 143 
 
 Candidate, The 65 
 
 Carnegie, Andrew 150 
 
 Caustic Acrostic, A 38 
 
 Character of God, The 56 
 
 Charlottesville's Joys 62 
 
 Charm of the Church, The 139 
 
 Children's Day 42 
 
 Christian's Hope, The 28 
 
 Christmas Tree, The 15 
 
 Colonel's Ways, (U. of Va.) The 114 
 
 Conclusion, The 171 
 
 Consider the Lilies 29 
 
 Curiosities of the Cave, The 33 
 
 Davis 156 
 
 Death 113 
 
 Debt 94 
 
 Deity of Christ, The 83 
 
 Early Life of St. Paul, The 122 
 
 Farewell to Alabama 71 
 
 Farewell to Charlottesville 64 
 
 Folly's Fancy or Fancy's Folly 80 
 
 Fooling God 91 
 
 Fright of the Frogs ; 104 
 
 From the Old Maids (U. of A.) 99 
 
 Future, The 26 
 
 Gather the Fragments 138 
 
 George Washington 146 
 
 Girl that Pulls the Hoe, The 74 
 
 Give Us a Lift 145 
 
 5 
 
PAGE 
 
 God's Masterpiece 18 
 
 Grain and Its Growth, The 84 
 
 Grant 160 
 
 Greatness of God, The 19 
 
 Heart of the Home, The 54 
 
 Hellishness of Hate, The 132 
 
 Hero of the Hour, The 136 
 
 His Uniform 59 
 
 Ideal Woman, The 13 
 
 I never Do 126 
 
 Inner Life of Washington, The 147 
 
 Jefferson's Souvenir 60 
 
 Joy and Sorrow 18 
 
 July Trip to Corona's Tip, A 22 
 
 Lee 162 
 
 Life 112 
 
 Life's Length 26 
 
 Lincoln 152 
 
 Little Esther 85 
 
 Little Nina 122 
 
 Loved but Lost 70 
 
 Lover, The 130 
 
 Love's Rebuke 51 
 
 Love's Reward 68 
 
 Love's Pin Returned Again 144 
 
 Martha Washington 146 
 
 Memory's Office 164 
 
 Mike Cotton 134 
 
 Morning Somewhere 135 
 
 Mother 128 
 
 Mrs. J. L. T 93 
 
 Mule, The 67 
 
 My Choice 20 
 
 My Little Blue-Eyed Sweetheart 38 
 
 My Preference 67 
 
 My Sister Callie's Beaux 166 
 
 Mystery to Me, A 39 
 
 My Wisest Act 64 
 
 Narrow Way, The 31 
 
 National Prohibition 86 
 
 Nation's Wail, The 127 
 
 Niagara Falls 78 
 
 Nineteenth Psalm, The. 10 
 
 Now-and-Now, The 116 
 
 Old, Old Bible, The 55 
 
 Old Year and the New, The 12 
 
 Only Baby, The 92 
 
 6 
 
PAGE 
 
 On the Farm 105 
 
 Optimist, The 164 
 
 Oratory 68 
 
 Osborn Chapman 87 
 
 Our Country's Flag 40 
 
 Our Higher Love 170 
 
 Our National Suicide 27 
 
 Passing of the Pines, The 108 
 
 Peevish Poet, The 52 
 
 Perils of Poverty, The 110 
 
 Perils of Riches, The Ill 
 
 Persecution 30 
 
 Pessimist, The 165 
 
 Plea for the Defendant • 127 
 
 Poetry of Music, The 32 
 
 Poet's Heart, The 107 
 
 Poet's Pay, The 84 
 
 Prayer for Peace 16 
 
 Prejudice and Hate 25 
 
 Procrastination 72 
 
 Psalm of the South, The 148 
 
 Purity 19 
 
 Quit 92 
 
 Reaping of Rashness 14 
 
 Redeeming the Time 9 
 
 Rural Hospitahty 73 
 
 Sam Jones 90 
 
 Seaside Soliloquies 117 
 
 Shame Is the Same, The 53 
 
 Snows Declare God's Kindly Care, The 88 
 
 Springhill '. 95 
 
 Success of Failure, The 20 
 
 Summer School, The (U. of A.) 96 
 
 Sweet Springtime 42 
 
 Teacher's Reward, The 94 
 
 Telling of a Lie, The 66 
 
 Three Wonders 125 
 
 Thought of Home, A 118 
 
 Titanic Catastrophe, The 49 
 
 Tomorrow's Hope 11 
 
 To My Rival's Bride 79 
 
 Tongue, The 129 
 
 To the Old Maids (U. of A.) 100 
 
 Trails of Old 44 
 
 True Love Like the Roses 82 
 
 Truthfulness 23 
 
 Twenty-seventh Psalm, The 168 
 
 7 
 
PAGE 
 
 Twenty-third Psalm, The 168 
 
 Two Popular Lies 124 
 
 Two Sides to It All 13 
 
 Unsearchableness of God, The 21 
 
 Unloved Lover, The 81 
 
 Unlucky Luck 23 
 
 Up from the Farm 51 
 
 Wail of the Quail, The 58 
 
 Wait Not 28 
 
 Washington Monument, The 41 
 
 Watch the Words 165 
 
 Way of the World, The 24 
 
 When Maude Powell Draws Her Bow 121 
 
 Where Mother Waits 167 
 
 Woodrow Wilson 151 
 
 Working Girl of the City, The 69 
 
 Your Mother's Love, and Mine 10 
 
REDEEMING THE TIME 
 
 There is nothing so willfully wasted, 
 
 There is nothing so uselessly used, 
 There is nothing so sadly neglected, 
 
 There is nothing so badly abused, 
 There is nothing so murderously martyred — 
 
 Yet there's nothing so sweetly sublime — 
 As the years and the days and the hours. 
 
 As they measure our moments of time. 
 
 Our moments, like mercies from heaven. 
 
 Smile upon us, each one in its time, 
 And are gone, like the flakes on the river, 
 
 To be lost in an endless sublime — 
 To be lost! No, to live and keep sacred 
 
 Each impression of spirit and soul, 
 Till the ages have all been forgotten. 
 
 And the lengths of eternity roll. 
 
 We should treasure these God-given moments- 
 
 They are jewels more precious than gold, 
 That are ours to fashion and polish. 
 
 That are heaven's to have and to hold. 
 We can never recall the departed. 
 
 Be they moments or hours or years, 
 Tho we, sitting in sackcloth and ashes. 
 
 Would baptize even hope with our tears. 
 
 There is only one thing should concern us. 
 
 For the past can be om*s no more — 
 We must look to the present and future, 
 
 And use wisely, as never before, 
 Every moment the great Giver gives us. 
 
 For the gift is a gift most sublime — 
 If we rightly take care of the future 
 
 We can thus be "Redeeming the Time." 
 
YOUR MOTHER'S LOVE, AND MINE 
 
 There is, on earth, one perfect love, 
 
 And there is not another; 
 But, handed down from God's above, 
 Calm as the cooings of the dove — 
 Far sweeter than Naomi's love — 
 
 Abides the love of mother. 
 
 Her love stands from all love apart, 
 
 A mirror for the Nation, 
 Reflecting, by angelic art, 
 The love that's in the Father's heart — 
 To darkened earth's obscurest part — 
 
 Thus lighting all creation. 
 
 Not all the forces of the earth 
 
 Have power enough to smother 
 This love, of superhuman worth. 
 This love, born with us at our birth — 
 This love, the deepest love on earth — 
 The sacred love of mother. 
 
 THE NINETEENTH PSALM 
 
 The heavens declare the great glory of God, 
 The firmament showeth his handiwork too; 
 
 While day unto day uttereth speech after speech. 
 And night unto night showeth knowledge anew. 
 
 There is no speech nor language where their voice is not 
 heard; 
 
 Their line is gone out thru the earth, in their run, 
 And their words to the end of the wonderful world. 
 
 In them hath He set a new berth for the sun; 
 
 10 
 
Which is as a bridegroom coming out of his room, 
 Rejoicing in strength as a man for a race; 
 
 His going forth is from the ends of the skies, 
 His circuits unto the last limits of space. 
 
 The Lord's law is perfect, converting the soul; 
 
 His testimonies sure, making simple ones wise; 
 His statutes are right, yes, rejoicing the heart; 
 
 His commandment is pure, and enlightens the eyes. 
 
 The fear of the Lord is enduring and clean; 
 
 His judgments are righteous altogether and true — 
 Desirable more than gold, yea, than fine gold. 
 
 And sweeter than honey and the honeycomb too. 
 
 Moreover, by them is thy servant well warned. 
 And in keeping of them there is greatest reward. 
 
 Who can understand his own errors and wrongs? 
 Cleanse thou me from my secret faults, O, my Lord ! 
 
 Thy servant keep back from presumptuous sins — 
 Let them not have dominion, at all, over me; 
 
 And I shall be upright, and innocent from 
 The great transgression shall I ever be. 
 
 Let the words of my mouth, winged words of my mouth 
 And e'en the meditation that fashions my heart 
 
 Be worthy, acceptable, right in thy sight — 
 O, Lord, both my strength and redeemer thou art. 
 
 TOMORROW'S HOPE 
 
 Tomorrow's hope is like a shadow 
 Falling just beyond our feet. 
 
 But it can't protect a fellow 
 From today's harrassing heat. 
 
 11 
 
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW 
 
 One more year of pains and pleasures, 
 Joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. 
 
 Now lies buried in the shadows 
 Of the sepulchers of years. 
 
 Like the shifting summer showers, 
 Over fields and woods, that play. 
 
 Soon its memories, in mercy. 
 One by one, must pass away. 
 
 Years, like milestones racing by us. 
 Scarcely have the time to tell 
 
 Us how swiftly time is flying 
 
 Toward where Hopes eternal dwell. 
 
 Happily we hail each New Year, 
 
 Fraught with hope so bright and blest ! 
 
 But it bounds on backward ever 
 Toward the past where ages rest. 
 
 Rolling on the years are ever, 
 
 Like the rivers to the sea — 
 One by one, they spread and empty 
 
 Into vast eternity. 
 
 Not a minute, not a second, 
 Moving toward the great sublime. 
 
 Ever stops to spread stagnation 
 On the brimming breast of time. 
 
 May we follow this example 
 Of the minutes, months, and years, 
 
 Marching ever on and upward, 
 "To the music of the spheres." 
 
 12 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN OF AN IDEAL SOUTH 
 
 Whether mistress of the mansion, 
 
 Or the cozy cottage queen; 
 Whether keeper of the cabin, 
 
 Or the hut of humbler mien — 
 There's an underlying sweetness. 
 
 There's a beauty, there's a grace. 
 In the South's ideal woman, 
 
 That the world can not replace. 
 
 Every act is linked with kindness. 
 
 Every word is fraught with love, 
 Every impulse of her being 
 
 Seems like droppings from above; 
 And her sweet influence daily 
 
 On the ones that know her best 
 Is as pure and everlasting 
 
 As is Hope's eternal rest. 
 
 Monuments may crumble some day 
 
 Back to indestructive dust; 
 Woman Suffrage, as an issue. 
 
 Ought to die, for die it must; 
 But the hand that rocks the cradle, 
 
 And the songs from mother's mouth 
 Are those of The Ideal Woman 
 
 Of, indeed. An Ideal South. 
 
 TWO SIDES TO IT ALL 
 
 Every pleasure has its pain. 
 Every joy precedes a sorrow, 
 
 Tho today there's naught but rain 
 There may be sunshine tomorrow. 
 
 Every sorrow has its joy. 
 Every pain precedes a pleasure, 
 
 Things today that so annoy 
 May become tomorrow's treasure. 
 
 13 
 
REAPING OF RASHNESS 
 
 'We've done made up" — our hatchets lie 
 
 So deeply buried in the Past 
 That nothing but the By-and-by, 
 
 Whose record stands secure and fast, 
 Shall ever dig them up again — 
 To think upon them gives us pain. 
 O, haste the day when we'll forget 
 Those edged words, they hurt us yet. 
 
 Those heartless words, so hotly flung, 
 Like leaden balls with deadly aim, 
 
 So fresh and free from thoughtless tongue, 
 Productive of chagrin and shame. 
 
 Have left an ugly scar of hate 
 
 That time can not eradicate. 
 
 The wounds may heal, but oh ! the scars 
 
 Remain eternal as the stars. 
 
 Undying scar! eternal spot! 
 
 That lives forever and a day— 
 Whose ugly feature changes not. 
 
 Whose awfulness dies not away. 
 Just one severe, sharp, cutting word, 
 Altho but in a whisper heard. 
 Has often made the teardrops start. 
 And pierced a true friend's trustful heart. 
 
 A true friend's heart, 0, what is this? 
 
 A true friend's heart, what can it be? 
 A true friend's love — the purest bliss 
 
 That heaven drops to earth for me. 
 True friendship, that sweet heavenly thing. 
 The greatest gift that love can bring, 
 May be destroyed by one remark 
 Made in the unseen, silent dark. 
 
 14 
 
There are three things that come not back- 
 
 The arrow swift that has been spent, 
 The idle word whose deeds of black 
 
 Bring sadness, sorrow, and lament, 
 And opportunity — when lost — 
 For, like the sunshine on the frost. 
 It glistens in the fresh new light, 
 But, as it glistens, wings its flight. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS TREE 
 
 I love the dear old customs 
 
 Of the good old by-gone days, 
 So blest with mirth and merriment, 
 
 So rich in sports and plays. 
 I love the joyous Christmas time. 
 
 Such as it used to be. 
 When everybody, great and small, 
 
 Enjoyed the Christmas tree. 
 
 I love the smiles of gladness 
 
 That on a Christmas night 
 Lit up the children's faces with 
 
 Such innocent delight — 
 What brings one keener interest 
 
 Than just to sit and see 
 The deep, intense anxiety 
 
 Felt at the Christmas tree? 
 
 The great old tree, each Christmas, 
 
 Stood forth with outstretched arms, 
 All bending with its loads of gifts 
 
 And fascinating charms. 
 Eyes wide awake with hopefulness. 
 
 And hearts aglow with glee 
 Were thrilled with rapture always at 
 
 The old-time Christmas tree. 
 
 15 
 
A great tree full of Christmas 
 
 Presents a lovely sight, 
 All bending down beneath its weight 
 
 Of good-will and delight — 
 A golden gift for every one, 
 
 Tho small or great he be, 
 Made every heart hail with delight 
 
 The yearly Christmas tree. 
 
 I used to tire of waiting. 
 
 And watching other folks 
 Keep getting pretty things until 
 
 My heart despised the jokes; 
 Yet when at last Old Santa did 
 
 Call something out for me, 
 My heart within me blest the Lord 
 
 For such a Christmas tree. 
 
 The Christmas tree reminds us, 
 
 As it its boughs uplifts, 
 Of Him who is the giver of 
 
 All good and perfect gifts. 
 Fresh from the holy hand of God, 
 
 For selfish you and me, 
 Our present hung — upon the cross, 
 
 A lost world's Christmas tree. 
 
 PRAYER FOR PEACE 
 
 Come down, O, white-winged dove of peace. 
 
 And settle on Old Europe's brow, 
 And grant her peoples quick release 
 
 From all the wars that vex them now. 
 
 And from the Old World's weeping eye 
 
 Wipe all the tears of blood away, 
 And let her, 'neath a cloudless sky. 
 
 Behold again a joyous day. 
 
 16 
 
BOOKS 
 
 Our books are naught but tracks of thought 
 
 Made by a thinking mind, 
 And here and there and everywhere 
 
 Their impress we may find — 
 A book, just as a fossil cast, 
 Reveals, sometimes, a buried past. 
 
 The past would be an unknown sea, 
 
 If books had not revealed 
 The aged acts and folded facts 
 
 That it would keep concealed — 
 And like the future, blank, unknown, 
 The past would be forgot and gone. 
 
 From burnished books, like brimming brooks, 
 
 Whose waters onward wind, 
 True wisdom streams in golden beams ^ 
 
 Into the reader's mind, 
 And, tender as the tone of prayer. 
 It leaves its lasting impress there. 
 
 May those that look into this book, 
 This work in verse and rhyme, 
 
 That herein find my tracks outlined 
 Upon the sands of time, 
 
 Know that the poet's power shines 
 
 Not from, but from between his lines. 
 
 17 
 
JOY AND SORROW 
 
 Joy sits upon the mountain crown, 
 
 All wrapped in ice and snow, 
 While sorrow settles in the vale 
 
 Where lilies love to grow. 
 
 Poor mortal man can not afford 
 
 To have his sorrows cease. 
 For they prepare his locked-in soul 
 
 For sweet and sure release. 
 
 Most sorrows are like tempest clouds, 
 
 Tho black when far away. 
 They, when they come just overhead. 
 
 Are often scarcely gray. 
 
 Deep sorrow is the mind's dark night, 
 
 While joy is but its day — 
 And oh! how good the morning sun 
 
 When night has passed away. 
 
 The day reveals one world to us. 
 While night looks down in love. 
 
 And bids us see ten thousand worlds 
 Swung out in space above. 
 
 Joy makes a man love this cold world. 
 
 Of time and sense and sod. 
 But sorrow sets his hopes upon 
 
 Eternity and God. 
 
 GOD'S MASTERPIECE 
 
 A maiden, like the lily fair, 
 
 That springs from out the sod. 
 Becomes, when reared with proper care. 
 And nurtured by a mother's prayer, 
 
 The masterpiece of God. 
 
 18 
 
THE GREATNESS OF GOD 
 
 O, thou Eternal One! 
 
 Whose thought can compass Thee, 
 Thou builder of the sun, 
 
 The sky, the land, the sea? 
 
 Thy hand didst light the stars, 
 Swung out in space on high, 
 
 That sweep like blazing cars 
 Across a trackless sky. 
 
 The lighting's flash is but 
 The twinkling of thine eye, 
 
 Whose glaring glances cut 
 Like judgments from on high. 
 
 The thunder's rumbling rolls 
 Are but thy tones to tell 
 
 To never dying souls 
 That heaven is, and hell. 
 
 Thy handiworks are grand, 
 
 Beneath us and above, 
 But who can understand 
 
 The greatness of Thy love? 
 
 PURITY 
 
 From out the deep marshes of sorrow and woe 
 Sometimes whitest lilies of purity grow, 
 And, prayerfully lifting their petals above. 
 They live in the beautiful sunlight of love. 
 19 
 
THE SUCCESS OF FAILURE 
 
 There lives no truthful man today 
 Whose heart can not confess 
 
 That, in the springtime of his youth, 
 He planned for great success, 
 
 But failure's unrelenting waves 
 
 Laid all his projects in their graves. 
 
 But, on the saddened sepulcher 
 
 Of buried grief, a man 
 Will lay a new foundation, by 
 
 A better, wiser plan; 
 And build the better, for the fall. 
 Than he had hoped to build at all. 
 
 Tho failure is a tyrant strong. 
 
 He often smites to bless, 
 To fit one for ascendency 
 
 To permanent success— 
 Oft failure's past experience 
 Becomes the present's strong defence. 
 
 No great success has ever been, 
 
 Of any note or worth, 
 That stirred the hearts of men but that 
 
 Grim failure gave it birth — 
 The very lives of men confess 
 That failure is life's first success. 
 
 MY CHOICE 
 
 I'd rather be a man of thought, 
 
 Than be a man of muscle, 
 A man of brain that can't be bought 
 
 Amid Kfe's stir and bustle. 
 
 20 
 
THE UNSEARCHABLENESS OF GOD 
 
 The mind of man is finite, 
 
 It can not comprehend 
 Its own mysterious origin, 
 
 Its own unearthly end; 
 And yet it seeks continually 
 
 To rise above the sod, 
 And comprehend infinity, 
 
 Eternity, and God. 
 
 Back in the far beginning, 
 
 In wisdom fraught with love, 
 God made the world and all therein, 
 
 And built the great above; 
 Yet still a greater mystery 
 
 Pervades the mind of man — 
 It longs, in vain, to fully know 
 
 How God, Himself, began. 
 
 We ponder o'er the pages 
 
 Of God's eternal book. 
 Beneath high heaven's canopy 
 
 At night we upward look; 
 We wonder at His handiwork. 
 
 Of sky and sea and sod — 
 Yet wonder more how God began, 
 
 And whose hand fashioned God. 
 
 The mind of man grows frantic, 
 
 Imagination fails, 
 While soul and spirit tantalize 
 
 Each other with their wails. 
 Whenever, unreservedly, 
 
 In word or deed or thought, 
 Irreverently or reverently, 
 
 God's secrecies are sought. 
 
 21 
 
We know not how God started, 
 
 Because He had no start — 
 Eternity's a puzzle still 
 
 To every human heart — 
 But God is love, and love is good, 
 
 Eternity's to come, 
 And after death the Judgment — then 
 
 We'll all be gathered home. 
 
 Thou who hadst no beginning, 
 
 Thou who shalt have no end. 
 Thou author of eternity, 
 
 Thovi universal friend — 
 Reach down Thine hand omnipotent. 
 
 From Thy eternal throne. 
 And let me feel Thy sympathy, 
 
 And lead me safely on. 
 
 A JULY TRIP TO CORONA'S TIP 
 
 Upon the Fourth Day of July 
 
 We took the ''Moffat" trip. 
 To where the skies in blue surprise 
 
 Hang 'neath the mountain's tip. 
 
 Two monster locomotives pulled 
 
 Our train of cars that day. 
 As round and round they wound and wound 
 
 Their speedy, spiral way. 
 
 For on and on, and up and up. 
 
 We heard them puff and blow, 
 As higher raced they toward the waste 
 
 Of everlasting snow. 
 
 No suns molest Corona's crest, 
 
 Above the Great Divide, 
 But on her crown the snows come down 
 
 To evermore abide. 
 
 22 
 
TRUTHFULNESS 
 
 Of all the Christian graces, 
 
 That beautifully shine 
 Out from an upright character, 
 
 Wrought by the Hand divine, 
 Not one should be more coveted, 
 
 Yet few are longed for less. 
 Than straight, unbiased, unalloyed, 
 
 Sweet, simple truthfulness. 
 
 Some of us can't be pretty. 
 
 Some can't have comely forms. 
 Some can't, thru hope, see silver skies. 
 
 While in the midst of storms; 
 But Where's the woman or the man, 
 
 Or inexperienced youth. 
 Who, all the time and everywhere. 
 
 Can't tell the simple truth? 
 
 Truth is the light of heaven. 
 
 Truth is the law of love. 
 That's lasting as eternity, 
 
 That's good as God above. 
 When all the world, the wide, wide world. 
 
 Knows nothing but the truth. 
 The Golden Rule will be to us, 
 
 As Naomi to Ruth. 
 
 UNLUCKY LUCK 
 
 Wake up, sad heart, and quit perusing. 
 Other men gained while you were losing. 
 
 O, wipe away your tears of brine! 
 
 Your luck, poor man, is just like mine — 
 My luck is ''Always losing." 
 
 23 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 When a man is sinking, sinking, 
 
 Kick him on; 
 Keep the downtrod fellow thinking. 
 While his cup of gall he's drinking, 
 That the world will never miss him fj 
 
 When he's gone. 
 
 Make his bitter cup more bitter, 
 
 If you can; 
 Let no hope of promise glitter 
 Thru his wretched life that's fitter 
 To be ended than be borne by 
 
 Sinking man. 
 
 Pile his faults on one another, 
 
 In the strife. 
 Tell tales on him to his mother, 
 Till they, all united, smother 
 Every good intent and purpose 
 
 In his life. 
 
 Crush his fruitless expectations 
 
 As they rise; 
 Fill his heart with aggravations. 
 Trials, troubles, and vexations. 
 And make hope reveal disasters 
 
 In disguise. 
 
 Cut him, carve him, stab him, stone him — 
 
 Crush his life — 
 Cause the friends that long have known him 
 And his kinsmen to disown him, 
 Making him a worthless nuisance 
 
 To his wife. 
 
 24 
 
Let the world take cruel pleasure 
 
 Every day, 
 In oppressing without measure 
 Him who has no hope to treasure, 
 But is fainting, and is falling 
 
 By the way. 
 
 When the hard old world has slain him 
 
 By degrees. 
 And her guilty hands have lain him 
 Where no earthly ill can pain him — 
 Then, but not till then, can he see 
 
 Any ease. 
 
 PREJUDICE AND HATE 
 
 Sometimes when I am watching 
 
 The ugly acts of men 
 I can't refrain from painting 
 
 Their pictures with my pen; 
 My thoughts, somehow, will not disperse, 
 Till fancy fixes them in verse. 
 
 Of all indignant evils, 
 
 However small or great, 
 Methinks, the most obnoxious 
 
 Are prejudice and hate — 
 That prejudice that must express 
 Its hate at other men's success. 
 
 I would that everybody, 
 
 Whom prejudice controls. 
 Could see how hate is harbored 
 
 In their revengeful souls; 
 For peace and love must needs depart 
 When hate is hiding in the heart. 
 
 25 
 
THE FUTURE 
 
 We never know what winds may blow, 
 Nor what a day is bringing, 
 
 But oftentimes we hear the chimes 
 Of Future's promise ringing; 
 
 And, yet, her promise often dies 
 
 Before her hopes materialize. 
 
 Yet often quite, to our delight, 
 She bears her promised flowers, 
 
 Whose loveliness blooms but to bless 
 The loneliest of hours. 
 
 And make more beautiful the day 
 
 Along life's melancholy way. 
 
 Fair Future, thou art laden now 
 With hopes so bright and pleasing — 
 
 But ah! how fast encroaching Past 
 With chilling blast is freezing 
 
 The high and happy hopes of youth 
 
 Into the trying facts of truth. 
 
 When Future dies the Present's eyes 
 
 Weep over her a minute. 
 Then drawing near her lonely bier, 
 
 Shed tears of sorrow in it; 
 Then lengthening Past begins to keep 
 His watches where her ashes sleep. 
 
 LIFE'S LENGTH 
 
 Every life is but a ripple 
 
 On the silver sea of time, 
 Moving on and on forever, 
 
 With an endlessness sublime. 
 
 26 
 
OUR NATIONAL SUICIDE 
 
 When all our mules and horses, 
 
 Except the wornout plugs, 
 And all our wheat, whatever, 
 
 Except that full of bugs, 
 When all our ammunition. 
 
 And every idle gun. 
 Are gone — the War of Nations 
 
 On us may be begun. 
 
 Our Mammon-menaced Nation, 
 
 With money deified. 
 Is, in these days of danger. 
 
 Committing suicide 
 By shipping all her treasures 
 
 Beyond the ocean's foam. 
 While universal wrangles 
 
 Wreck happy hopes at home. 
 
 She'd better draw a ''dare mark" 
 
 Around herself, right now, 
 And keep within her borders 
 
 While other nations row. 
 Away with foreign commerce! 
 
 At first it may seem hard. 
 But we just now are safer 
 
 Inside our own back yard. 
 
 When woods around are burning, 
 
 We let those woods alone. 
 But plow at once — or sooner — 
 
 A furrow round our own. 
 Then stand with ready pinetop 
 
 To beat down every flame 
 That dares to leap the furrow 
 
 Around the woods we claim. 
 
 27 
 
THE CHRISTIAN'S HOPE 
 
 The Christian's hope shines from above, 
 
 An ever brilliant star, 
 Whose tender rays are beams of love 
 
 That twinkle from afar. 
 And light his way, so often dark. 
 With heaven's holy, happy spark. 
 
 When life is cold and dark and dull, 
 
 And wrapped in sorrow's night, 
 The Christian's hope, more rich and full, 
 
 Shines forth a clearer light; 
 And seems his saddened soul to soothe. 
 And makes his rugged pathway smooth. 
 
 The Christian's hope will ever shine, 
 
 With soft, benignant ray. 
 More beautiful and more divine, 
 
 Unto the Perfect Day — 
 Until his soul can realize 
 Its highest hopes beyond the skies. 
 
 O, give to me that perfect trust, 
 
 That faith and hope in God, 
 That when this body, from the dust, 
 
 Shall turn back to its sod. 
 My soul may live in endless youth 
 Where hope is lost iii love and truth. 
 
 WAIT NOT 
 
 As the tender twig is bent 
 
 So the stalwart tree's inclined. 
 And influence, early lent. 
 
 Stamps its impress on the mind. 
 In the fresh young dawn of youth. 
 
 Ere the evil days draw nigh, 
 Should be sown the seeds of truth 
 
 For the reaping by-and-by. 
 
 28 
 
CONSIDER THE LILIES 
 
 The lily said to the preacher: 
 
 "Be sweet the livelong day, 
 
 Be kind and good to everyone 
 
 You meet along the way, 
 Have something fresh and sweet and good 
 
 For everyone you meet" — 
 Be like the little lily told 
 
 The preacher: "Yes, be sweet." 
 
 The lily said to the preacher: 
 
 "Be beautiful today, 
 Let shine a perfect character 
 
 Along life's lonely way; 
 O, Be ye also ready for 
 
 The Master's hand to cull"— 
 Be like she told the minister — 
 
 Ah! yes, "Be beautiful." 
 
 The lily said to the preacher: 
 
 "Submit to being pruned;" 
 For every time God scars a heart 
 
 He beautifies the wound. 
 And oh! how grandly sings the life 
 
 That Sorrow's hand has tuned! 
 The lily told the preacher to 
 "Submit to being pruned." 
 
 The lily spake to the preacher 
 
 These silent thoughts of truth — 
 He spake them thru his sermon to 
 
 The adult and the youth. 
 Some doubtless fell on listless ears — 
 
 Some of these thoughts of gold — 
 But some fell where they surely must . 
 
 Bring forth their hundredfold. 
 
 29 
 
PERSECUTION 
 
 No Christian life, however pure, 
 
 Can feel its real worth. 
 Till Persecution's cruel hand 
 
 Has crushed it to the earth; 
 But when a martyred Christian dies, 
 It brings the tears to Mercy's eyes. 
 
 The sweet, forbearing life of Christ 
 Could not have been complete. 
 
 Except the spear and nails had pierced 
 His side and hands and feet. 
 
 Except his head, 'mid buffs and scorns. 
 
 Had worn the crown of cruel thorns. 
 
 In persecution's dying breath. 
 
 He prayed for me and you: 
 ''Forgive them, Father, O forgive! 
 
 They know not what they do" — 
 O, God, with grace prepare my heart 
 To pray this prayer as I depart. 
 
 THE BLISS OF THE BLUES 
 
 I'm as blue as the bleak and blue ocean, 
 I'm as sad as the songs of the sea, 
 
 I'm as weird as the winds of the winter 
 That are sighing their sadness to me. 
 
 Would to God I could groan off my grieving 
 For my faithful, but far away, friends, 
 
 And could trust to His truth in my troubles. 
 And not sigh at the sorrow He sends. 
 
 O, my life is so locked-in and lonely, 
 And my days are now darker than death, 
 
 And I weep, for the world and its worry 
 Are upbraiding my brutalized breath. 
 
 30 
 
THE NARROW WAY 
 
 There is a path, a narrow path, 
 
 So beautifully straight, 
 That leads, thru this benighted world, 
 
 Up to the Golden Gate. 
 
 Thru valleys deep with shadows dark, 
 And o'er the mountain's crest, 
 
 It leads the traveller along 
 Toward heaven, home, and rest. 
 
 The way is cold and rough and steep, 
 And cursed by many an ill, 
 
 But Jesus lends a loving hand 
 To help at every hill. 
 
 And when the heavy load of life 
 Would crush us with alarms, 
 
 He takes us and our burdens up, 
 And bears all in His arms. 
 
 O, God, give us the faith to lay 
 
 Our sorrows and our cares 
 On Him who is the answerer 
 
 Of all our earnest prayers; 
 
 Then by thy spirit lead us, Lord, 
 
 Rejoicing on our way. 
 That shines more beautiful and bright 
 
 Unto the Perfect Day. 
 
 Increase our faith, revive our hope, 
 
 And fill us with Thy love. 
 And take us, when we come to die. 
 
 To Thine own self above. 
 
 31 
 
THE POETRY OF MUSIC 
 
 Music's sweet and tender tone, 
 
 Falling softly on the ear, 
 Often melts a heart of stone 
 
 By its charming notes of cheer — 
 But the light by which it shines 
 Is the poet's measured lines. 
 
 Music's soft cadences fall, 
 
 Gently as the snows at night. 
 Shedding beauty over all, 
 
 Baptizing a world with Hght — 
 But the sweetest parts belong 
 To the poetry of song. 
 
 Music's echoes, that resound 
 
 Thru the evening's balmy air, 
 Strew their sweetness all around, 
 
 Waft their sweetness ever5rwhere — 
 But the joy that music brings 
 From the poet's verses springs. 
 
 Music is a heaven-born thing. 
 
 That has dropped down from the skies, 
 
 Where angelic voices sing 
 Lovesongs up in paradise — 
 
 But the songs the angels sing 
 
 Are real poems to their King. 
 
 Music's echo gladdens earth 
 
 With its sweet, voluptuous breath. 
 
 But its pleasing chords of mirth 
 Can not reach the realm of death — 
 
 Poetry, when music's flown, 
 
 Sings our epitaphs in stone. 
 
 32 
 
THE CURIOSITIES OF THE CAVE 
 
 In the old State of Kentucky, 
 
 Where the long green grasses wave, 
 Is a dark and dismal cavern, 
 
 That is called ''The Mammoth Cave." 
 Breezes softly sigh around it, 
 
 Sadder than a dying breath. 
 And its rocky mouth, wide open. 
 
 Seems a gateway down to death. 
 
 There my guide lit two small lanterns, 
 
 One for me and one for him. 
 And, preceding, bade me follow 
 
 Down the stoneway dark and dim. 
 Soon we reached the "Gate of Iron," 
 
 Which back on its hinges swung 
 With a screaking as bewailing 
 
 As a dirge by devils sung. 
 
 When the gate was locked behind us. 
 
 How my heart within me whirled! 
 For I, in that darkened dungeon. 
 
 Felt locked in from all the world. 
 And the silent rocks above us, 
 
 And below, and all around, 
 Seemed to change that cheerless stillness 
 
 Into fancied freaks of sound. 
 
 On we walked, three miles and over. 
 
 Till we reached an open space, 
 Where, beside a spring of water. 
 
 Is "The Traveler's Restingplace." 
 There he left me in the darkness 
 
 With no Hght — he'd put out mine — 
 And, as he went farther from me. 
 
 Less did his dim lantern shine. 
 
 33 
 
Out of sight and out of hearing, 
 
 With his light's last glimmer gone, 
 Not a sight or sound to scare me, 
 
 I felt foolish there alone; 
 For my breath, like breezes blowing, 
 
 And my watch, like some big mill, 
 Raising such an awful racket, 
 
 Wouldn't let my soul be still. 
 
 While I sat, entranced and troubled. 
 
 High above, my wondering eyes 
 Saw the silver stars all shining 
 
 In the blue dome of the skies; 
 And, while I beheld their beauty. 
 
 They began to disappear; 
 And it seemed that day was breaking. 
 
 And I felt that day was near. 
 
 And, just then, my guide, returning, 
 
 Asked me if I'd seen the stars; 
 And I, looking up, beheld the 
 
 Rock above just as it was. 
 Then I begged him to explain the 
 
 The mystery that round us shone, 
 And he said 'twas but reflections 
 
 From his lantern on the stone. 
 
 Nature in that shade of shadows, 
 
 With the greatest pains and care, 
 Has erected in the darkness 
 
 What is called "The Old Armed Chair." 
 There the great of earth have rested 
 
 On their journey thru the cave; 
 So, of course, I took seat in it — 
 
 Just to see how I'd behave. 
 
 There's a real post office fashioned 
 By dame Nature's hand alone. 
 
 With a writing shelf and window 
 Carved out in the solid stone. 
 
 34 
 
No postmaster has to keep it, 
 
 Neither does it keep itself, 
 For no line was ever written 
 
 On that rockwrought window shelf. 
 
 As we walked, we crossed a footway 
 
 O'er a dark hole, deep and round. 
 And 'tis said that bottom never 
 
 Has, as yet, to it been found; 
 And that narrow bridge was covered 
 
 With a pure, white, fibrous mold, 
 Like the frost that comes in winter 
 
 When the nights are still and cold. 
 
 In a wide, extensive chamber 
 
 Certain heaps of rocks are shown, 
 And each State is represented 
 
 By one of these piles of stone. 
 Every traveler, so wishing. 
 
 Whether he be small or great. 
 May one stone add to the pile that 
 
 Represents his native State. 
 
 In one place there stands the queerest 
 
 Stone theater of the age. 
 With its sloping floor, and with its 
 
 Seats of stone and stony stage. 
 In another place there stands the 
 
 Methodists' rock-house of God, 
 Builded not with hands, eternal 
 
 As the sky and sea and sod. 
 
 Walking underneath great bowlders. 
 
 Frowning down upon my head. 
 Turning to my guide, I asked him 
 
 If he didn't feel afraid 
 That those hanging rocks would tumble 
 
 Down upon us unawares, 
 Without any note of warning. 
 
 And no time to say our prayers. 
 
 35 
 
Pointing to the most romantic 
 
 Stone we'd seen while on our march, 
 Said he: ''That stone arch above you 
 
 Is the famous 'Bridal Arch,' " 
 Once a girl assured her mother 
 
 She'd not marry any man 
 On the face of all the earth, and. 
 
 True, she carried out her plan. 
 
 To the Mammoth Cave she and her 
 
 Sweetheart made their wedding march, 
 And the twain were joined together 
 
 Underneath that stony arch. 
 Tho the marriage ceremony 
 
 On the earth was never heard, 
 Yet it was a legal marriage, 
 
 And the bride thus kept her word. 
 
 But of all the funny features 
 
 Of the cave is "Lover's Leap" 
 Just a long stone beam extending 
 
 O'er a chasm dark and deep. 
 It is said that he who'll leap off 
 
 Into that abyss below. 
 From that beam of stone, can marry 
 
 Any girl that he may know. 
 
 Heaven knows I want to marry, 
 
 But I feared to take the leap, 
 For I feared I'd keep on going 
 
 Toward where devils wail and weep. 
 But if any other fellow 
 
 Tries it, and gets back again. 
 To the Mammoth Cave I'm going 
 
 On the very next thru train. 
 
 But of all queer freaks of nature 
 
 On which wondering gazes fall, 
 Martha Washington's weird statue 
 
 Is the frightfulest of all. 
 
 36 
 
And the guide, to make me see it, 
 
 Left me on a little stone. 
 Twenty-five or thirty minutes, 
 
 In the darkness there alone. 
 
 While I stood and stared steadfastly, 
 
 Any thing but ''Stout and brave," 
 Surely saw I something coming. 
 
 Creeping slowly up the cave. 
 Clear and clean and white and silent 
 
 As lost Harry's "Lone guide-post," 
 Cheerless as a dying murmur, 
 
 Fearless as a living ghost. 
 
 Every step it changed its figure, 
 
 Growing smaller some in size, 
 Till it came up nearly to me, 
 
 When, before my v/ondering eyes, 
 It became as fair an image 
 
 As the sun e'er shone upon 
 Of the loved and long lamented, 
 
 Saintly Martha Washington. 
 
 All alone there, while I watched it. 
 
 Filled with wonder, fear, and doubt, 
 Sweetly smiled the image at me 
 
 In the darkness, and went out. 
 Where it went, indeed, I know not; 
 
 Whence it came I'll never know; 
 What it was I can't imagine, 
 
 Tho I ^aw it come and go. 
 
 So it is with all the living — 
 
 Who can tell from whence they come? 
 When life's little dream is ended. 
 
 Where and what shall be their home? 
 Some have highest hopes of heaven, 
 
 Some have drastic dreads of hell — 
 What and where and when is heaven? 
 
 When and where and what is hell? 
 
 37 
 
A CAUSTIC ACROSTIC 
 
 Ever since I can remember, 
 Love's sensations, so divine, 
 Even up unto the present. 
 Always sweetly have been mine. 
 Never tho has female beauty 
 On my heart been so impressed, 
 Reigning gently over all the 
 
 Sweet emotions of my breast. 
 
 Until I am dead I feel that 
 Real and true my love shall be. 
 Queen of beauty, may I hope that 
 Until death you will love me? 
 How my heart shall sigh and sorrow 
 After we have gone apart. 
 Resurrection Day shall prove it — 
 That you've touched the poet's heart. 
 
 MY LITTLE BLUE-EYED SWEETHEART 
 
 Some girls are slim and slender. 
 
 Some girls are fat and fine. 
 But who e'er had a sweetheart 
 As good and sweet as mine — 
 As good and sweet as mine! 
 Tho little she may be — 
 For my little blue-eyed sweetheart 
 Is very dear to me. 
 
 Her face is like the sunshine, 
 
 Her eyes bright as the stars, 
 Her voice is ten times sweeter 
 Than mother's ever was — 
 Than mother's ever was. 
 And none's so dear as she. 
 But my little blue-eyed sweetheart. 
 
 Who's very dear to me. 38 
 
A MYSTERY TO ME 
 
 There is one perplexing question, 
 Troubling me the most of all — 
 
 O, I truly long to know what 
 Constitutes a preacher's call. 
 
 Does he have some special calling, 
 Differing from other saints? 
 
 Does God show him wiser wonders — 
 Bind him back by more restraints? 
 
 Is he freer from temptation, 
 
 Is he holier in thought, 
 Than his oft repenting brother. 
 
 That lives not just as he ought? 
 
 Can a called, God-serving pastor, 
 
 With a calling so divine. 
 Leave the flock without a shepherd, 
 
 When it suits him to resign? 
 
 When his deacons all implore him 
 To serve out his own set time, 
 
 Should he quit and "hike it," is he 
 Unsusceptible to crime? 
 
 If the Master's undershepherds 
 
 Selfishly neglect his sheep. 
 Will they, too, not be neglected? 
 
 What they sow, shall they not reap? 
 
 All the world is looking to them 
 As the salt — salt of the earth. 
 
 If the salt has lost its savor, 
 What can be such parsons' worth? 
 
 39 
 
OUR COUNTRY'S FLAG 
 
 Long our country's flag has floated, 
 Fanned by heaven's hallowed breeze, 
 
 O'er a land revered and noted — 
 Far beyond the glassy seas — 
 
 Honored for her stripes and stars, 
 
 For her heroes and their scars. 
 
 Every star that shines upon her. 
 
 Like the candles of the skies. 
 Is a thing of sacred honor, 
 
 Worthy of our sacrifice, 
 Shining each as bright a gem 
 As the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Every stripe of crimson beauty 
 
 On her pure, unsullied side 
 Was a silent call to duty 
 
 To our fathers till they died — 
 Living sons of loyal sires. 
 Let's fulfill their hearts' desires! 
 
 May our flag's majestic splendor, 
 
 On the mountain tops and hills, 
 Where the breeze's voice so tender 
 
 Echoes to the whippoor will's, 
 Wave and furl and fold and nod 
 In the balmy blue of God. 
 
 Her stars shall not cease their shining. 
 
 Her stripes shall not fail nor fade, 
 Till the sky's blue, starry lining 
 
 Shall have fallen and decayed — 
 Till the sun has hid his face 
 In his last long resting place. 
 
 40 
 
THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT 
 
 Near the beautiful, placid Potomac, 
 Where she stretches her silvery strands 
 
 By America's capital city, 
 The Washington Monument stands. 
 
 Like a great giant ghost that is reaching 
 Up to kiss the blue lips of the sky, 
 
 It impresses a permanent lesson 
 On the millions of minds passing by. 
 
 Tho it started as low as the lowest. 
 It has builded up stone upon stone, 
 
 Until into that wonderful structure 
 Of mechanical skill it has grown. 
 
 Select stones were brought in from a distance, 
 Every State subscribed one to the stock, 
 
 And the sculptor has lastingly chiseled 
 All the names of the States in the rock. 
 
 And the rock-written words of remembrance 
 On those fadingless pages of stone. 
 
 By the States from all over the Country, 
 Form a petrified book of their own. 
 
 Many years have been born and been buried 
 Since this building of stone from the sod, 
 
 Like a tree by the rivers of water, 
 
 Started up toward the blue skies of God. 
 
 It will stand like the Rock of Gibraltar, 
 While the ages and centuries roll, 
 
 Pointing upward and skyward and Godward 
 Toward the beautiful home of the soul. 
 
 And the halo of light at its summit. 
 
 When the shadows of night gather nigh, 
 
 Prophesies that the light is eternal 
 In the beautiful, happy On High. 
 
 41 
 
SWEET SPRINGTIME 
 
 O, thou sweet, lovely Spring! 
 Thy handiwork is seen, 
 Which tastefully weaves the tender young leaves 
 To robe the trees in green. 
 Thou too hast brought the roses 
 Of loveliest shades of hue, 
 And violets sweet to bloom at our feet, 
 Fresh with the morning dew. 
 
 And thou wilt clothe the fields. 
 So naked now and bare, 
 With verdure's cool dress of beautifulness 
 Which they were wont to wear. 
 Soon thou wilt send the songsters 
 Into the shady grove 
 To warble away the musical day 
 In joyfulest notes of love. 
 
 O, may we ne'er forget 
 The lesson thou hast taught. 
 When winter has gone the spring will come on, 
 With balmiest breezes fraught. 
 The deeper the snows of winter, 
 The fiercer its stormy blast. 
 The sweeter we'll sing in the beautiful spring. 
 When life's long winter has past. 
 
 CHILDREN'S DAY 
 
 The greatest oaks of every land 
 
 From little acorns grow, 
 The largest rivers everywhere 
 
 From little fountains flow; 
 And naturally the King of Kings 
 
 Looked down in love and smiled 
 To see the perfect purity 
 
 Implanted in the child. 
 
 42 
 
The Master took the little ones 
 
 And set them on His knee, 
 And sweetly said: Forbid them not, 
 
 But let them come to Me. 
 Except ye be converted, and 
 
 Be as a little child. 
 Ye can not enter heaven with 
 
 The pure and undefiled. 
 
 Accordingly, we've set apart 
 
 What's known as Children's Day — 
 A time in which we may be taught, 
 
 In their sweet, simple way, 
 Of willingness and purity, 
 
 Of hope and faith and love, 
 By these sweet little innocents 
 
 Lent to us from above. 
 
 O, God, give us that simple faith. 
 
 That holy, child-like trust. 
 That, when our earthly bodies fail 
 
 And crumble back to dust. 
 Our spirits may be carried home 
 
 To rest in perfect peace. 
 To sing the everlasting song, 
 
 Where pleasures never cease. 
 
 O, in that heavenly city where 
 
 The streets are paved with gold, 
 Where congregations ne'er break up 
 
 And people ne'er grow old. 
 We'll sing the song, the grand new song, 
 
 With never tiring tongue; 
 And when we've sung ten thousand years 
 
 We'll still be fresh and young. 
 
 43 
 
TRAILS OF OLD RE-TROD AND TOLD 
 
 I took a stroll one Sunday, 
 
 One summer afternoon, 
 And re-surveyed my childhood scenes. 
 
 Until the mystic moon 
 Arose in all her brilliancy. 
 
 The quiet queen of night. 
 To make my melancholy way 
 
 Most beautifully bright. 
 
 I'd asked my younger brother 
 
 To take this walk with me. 
 And coming to the "Parker Pool," 
 
 Or where it used to be, 
 My heart grew sad and sorrowful — 
 
 There's not one single thing 
 To mark the pool's old standing place 
 
 Except the little spring. 
 
 Its little rill I followed, 
 
 But as I onward stepped. 
 And saw sad changes everywhere, 
 
 My heart within me wept — 
 There on the same old hillside slope 
 
 The same old gullies stand; 
 But ah! no more my hands may make 
 
 Playhouses in their sand. 
 
 A mound down *neath the willows. 
 
 Like lost Love's grave to me. 
 Still marks the boyish bathing pond, 
 
 Where once I loved to be. 
 The silver chord is broken now, 
 
 Which held its waters back; 
 The run-around, its cistern wheel, 
 
 Has, too, gone "all-to-rack." 
 
 44 
 
The next beloved object 
 
 I saw was Nalls's Spring, 
 And kneeling at the same old trough 
 
 I drank, and heard it sing 
 The same old merry lullaby 
 
 It sang long years ago. 
 As its clear, sparkling waterspout 
 
 O'erflowed the tub below. 
 
 Twas there one Sabbath evening 
 
 I carved my sweetheart's name 
 Upon a tree, but now there are 
 
 No traces of the same. 
 Ah! yes, such sweet remembrances 
 
 Shall evermore entwine 
 Around the dear old '^Nalls's Spring" 
 
 Below the field of pine. 
 
 The same old saucy signboard 
 
 Still overlooks it all; 
 'Tis: "Warning! keep out of my field!! 
 
 I mean it!!! J. P. Nail!!!!" 
 We climbed the fence into the field, 
 
 And went some steps beyond, 
 Until we reached the broken dam 
 
 Of Nalls's bathing pond. 
 
 But all his ponds are broken, 
 
 His fishing ponds and all — 
 The dams are naught but gravelike mounds 
 
 To mark the ponds of Nail. 
 We strolled on toward the old millpond, 
 
 Which every Trojan knows — 
 The place where every Saturday 
 
 The schoolboy-fisher goes. 
 
 45 
 
When I had reached the millpond, 
 
 I glanced its waters o'er, 
 Then walked along the same old dam 
 
 I'd often walked before; 
 But all the pretty poplar trees, 
 
 And every gum and bay, 
 That used to grow upon its dam, 
 
 Have now been cut away. 
 
 Methinks, the same old toadfrogs, 
 
 That croaked long years ago, 
 Croaked that same song of solitude 
 
 That all the toadfrogs know. 
 An old batteau sat on the pond, 
 
 But what was that to me. 
 For it was held, secure and fast, 
 
 Chained to a blackgum tree. 
 
 We left the dear old millpond, 
 
 And, sauntering thru the wood, 
 Came on to where Persimmon Creek 
 
 Flowed 'cross the public road; 
 And there we stopped, both wondering. 
 
 For nothing natural seemed 
 Except the same Persimmon Creek, 
 
 Which thru the hollow streamed. 
 
 Where once we went a-fishing 
 
 There's nothing now but weeds. 
 Or else a massive tanglement 
 
 Of cattails, rush, and reeds. 
 We then walked onward till we passed 
 
 The road-side 'Walnut Tree," 
 And then we passed the road-side "Spring," 
 
 All bubbling in its glee. 
 
 46 
 
The branch then crossing over 
 
 Beneath the Nail red hill, 
 There in the bliss of solitude. 
 
 With all so sweet and still, 
 Upon the fence we both took seat, 
 
 In evening's soft twilight. 
 With naught but croaking frogs to break 
 
 The quietude of night. 
 
 We heard the church bells ringing, 
 
 And hence resumed our roam, 
 And passed the dearest spot on earth, 
 
 For years our childhood home. 
 The same front gate of long ago, 
 
 The same old front yard fence, 
 Look as they did — but O, the trees 
 
 Have grown to be immense. 
 
 How often in my childhood, 
 
 Upon a Sabbath night, 
 I've walked that dear old sidewalk, 
 
 With heart so free and light; 
 And, passing by my sweetheart's home — 
 
 Ah! who can know the bliss 
 That in the darkness thrilled my heart, 
 
 As I threw her a kiss. 
 
 We went on to the church house. 
 
 And sat where we could rest. 
 And hear the minister proclaim 
 
 The Gospel of the blest. 
 O, in that land of heavenly bliss, 
 
 To which all Christians go. 
 Far sweeter joys than even this 
 
 Shall ever round us flow. 
 
 47 
 
THE ATLANTIC 
 
 I have stood on the tops of the mountains, 
 
 And have knelt in the valleys below; 
 I have laughed at the fidgety fountains, 
 
 And I've wept where the wide waters flow; 
 I have feasted in mansions romantic. 
 
 And have fasted in huts with the poor — 
 But the deep, rolling, raging Atlantic 
 
 Never stops stirring me to the core. 
 
 His wild waters, in wave columns miarching 
 With a double-quick speed from their home, 
 
 Scud along, like the sky's scattered arching. 
 As they burst into feathery foam — 
 
 And the same savage song of the ocean. 
 That he sang to the ships that he nursed, 
 
 Thrilled my soul with peculiar emotion. 
 
 As his waves slapped the shore and dispersed. 
 
 In my dreams, as it were, 'neath the willows. 
 
 As I tumble and tustle and turn, 
 I still hear the rough roll of the billows. 
 
 As they chatter and chuckle and churn; 
 And my soul becomes fretted and frantic, 
 
 For no rest nor repose can it find, 
 When the rough, rolling, raging Atlantic 
 
 Hurries on in his haste in my mind. 
 
 What a singular sight is the ocean 
 
 With the dashing and splashing and roar 
 Of his billows that ever in motion 
 
 Rush along in their race to the shore! 
 But he teaches one lesson of beauty. 
 
 By the waters that wave his broad breast, 
 That the life that is doing its duty 
 
 Never stops until death gives it rest. 
 
 48 
 
THE TITANIC CATASTROPHE 
 
 Out on the wild Atlantic 
 
 The proud Titanic rides, 
 Unshaken by the troughs and crests, 
 
 Unhampered by the tides. 
 She splits the storms and rips the calms 
 
 With equal grace and ease, 
 The grand, majestic queen of queens, 
 
 The Mistress of the Seas. 
 
 Her captain and her pilot 
 
 And all her valiant crew 
 Think no task on the water is 
 
 Too great for her to do; 
 While her great host of passengers. 
 
 Some multi-millionaires, 
 To her commit their confidence, 
 
 To her entrust their prayers. 
 
 With matchless pomp and splendor 
 
 The rich their revels keep, 
 While at the rate of eighteen knots 
 
 They plow the pathless deep. 
 With hearts aglow they onward go. 
 
 Rejoicing in good cheer — 
 They little dream that danger and 
 
 Swift death are lurking near. 
 
 The great Titanic, right and left. 
 
 With reckless smash and smack. 
 Knocks out the huge icebergs that lie 
 
 Along her fearless track 
 Until her prow staves into one. 
 
 Too massive and too great — 
 Disabled then from stem to stern, 
 
 She, sinking, feels her fate. 
 
 49 
 
Her captain and her pilot, 
 
 And all her valiant crew, 
 And all her host of passengers, 
 
 Now know not what to do; 
 For slowly, surely, inch by inch, 
 
 Up, up, the waters creep, 
 As their disabled ship sinks down 
 
 Into the thievish deep. 
 
 That grand self-martyred captain. 
 
 With megaphone in hand, 
 Now lifts aloft his mighty voice, 
 
 And gives his last command: 
 'The women and the children first 
 
 Must take the life-boats, then, 
 If there be any space not filled, 
 
 We'll fill that space with men." 
 
 One oarsman to each life-boat. 
 
 With pistol firm in hand. 
 Implicitly there carries out 
 
 The captain's last command; 
 And when these boats were put to sea. 
 
 With sweetheart, wife, or child. 
 Full many a manly heart broke down, 
 
 Full many a grief went wild. 
 
 To add still greater terror. 
 
 Night gathers on the deep. 
 And, later, out go all the lights, 
 
 As, up, the waters creep; 
 While wails from life-boats echo back 
 
 The sobs of mighty men, 
 And sobs of doomed men echo back 
 
 The life-boats' wails again. 
 
 50 
 
For four Satanic hours 
 
 The Mistress of the Seas, 
 In death's most direful agony, 
 
 Keeps sinking by degrees. 
 At last the fatal moment comes — 
 
 To her eternal sleep 
 She sinks full many a fathom, and 
 
 Lies buried in the deep. 
 
 On Nebo's lonely mountain 
 
 There lies one unknown grave, 
 And, in the cold Atlantic, there 
 
 Lies one beneath the wave. 
 May He who watches Moses' grave 
 
 His ceaseless watches keep, 
 Where those that sleep the sleep of death 
 
 Lie buried in the deep. 
 
 LOVE'S REBUKE 
 
 I loved her hard, I loved her well, 
 But she grew cold and distant — 
 
 I thought to love her any more 
 Would be too inconsistent, 
 And I quit. 
 
 UP FROM THE FARM 
 
 Way back in Eden's garden, 
 Where life was first begun, 
 
 Where singing birds 
 
 Pronounced the words 
 That made the first twain one — 
 Back there began the first young man 
 That by his sturdy arm 
 
 Should be the first, 
 
 Tho sore accursed, 
 To hail — ''Up from the farm." 
 
 51 
 
Because Cain killed his brother, 
 The world looks down till now 
 On those that get 
 Their bread by sweat 
 Of body, or of brow. 
 To till the soil with arduous toil 
 Can be what ill or harm? 
 Then why on earth 
 Ignore the worth 
 Of him down on the farm? 
 
 The farm is but the fountain 
 
 From which Earth's blessings flow — 
 
 Her bounties come 
 
 To every home, 
 However high or low. 
 Of all great men with tongue or pen, 
 With finger, hand, or arm — 
 
 The greater part 
 
 All got their start 
 Back yonder on the farm. 
 
 All honor to our farmers, 
 Whose horny hands of toil 
 
 Are hard and rough 
 
 And tough enough 
 To proudly till our soil! 
 Let Earth ignore their worth no more. 
 Nor cast her slurs and slings — 
 
 The farmers stand. 
 
 In every land. 
 Our stalwart, uncrowned kings. 
 
 THE PEEVISH POET 
 
 His nightly chapter then he read, 
 And, quite disgusted, 
 Went to bed. 
 
 52 
 
THE SHAME IS THE SAME 
 
 A thoughtless young couple go out for a walk 
 
 On a beautiful bright afternoon. 
 So pleasant the ramble and clever the talk 
 
 That they stay until after the moon 
 Looks down in a silent and sudden surprise 
 From a rift in the cloud high above in the skies. 
 
 Aweary with walking, they set themselves down 
 On the grass by the side of the hill, 
 
 Away from the racket and noise of the town, 
 Near the haunt of the lone whippoorwill. 
 
 At last she succumbs, when careened and caressed, 
 
 And heaven herself hides her face from the rest. 
 
 He soon runs away, and is gone for a while — 
 Runs away from the scene of his shame, 
 
 And soon he returns, to be met with a smile, 
 Free from every suspicion of blame. 
 
 Society lovingly covers his sin. 
 
 And takes him right back to its bosom again. 
 
 She goes to her home. In a short little time 
 She must hide, and keep hidden, her face; 
 
 For she has committed th' unpard'nable crime — 
 She's a victim of lifelong disgrace. 
 
 Discarded by friends, and despised by her own, 
 
 She suffers in sorrow, and suffers alone. 
 
 He rises to power in Church and in State, 
 
 Respected and honored by all — 
 She falls to despair, a vile victim of hate. 
 
 Despised on account of her fall — 
 While the babe that's born not of legitimate birth 
 Is considered a sort of intruder on earth. 
 
 53 
 
He dies and is buried. All over the land 
 
 The people bewail and bemoan — 
 The papers proclaim it on every hand, 
 
 That a great and a good man is gone; 
 And the people all over the country forget 
 That the girl that he ruined is suffering yet. 
 
 She dies and is buried. The mourners are not. 
 
 Her parents may weep at her grave, 
 But the tears are soon dried, and as quickly forgot, 
 
 As the ministering deeds of the slave. 
 A poor fallen woman — O, God! when she dies. 
 It takes God to be sorry, and still sympathize. 
 
 They go to the Judgment — -this Biblical twain, 
 That the Scriptures declare to be one — 
 
 To give an account, and to fully explain 
 Every act that they, each one, have done. 
 
 And the pleasures and pains from without and within, 
 
 That have followed them, each, from their earlier sin. 
 
 Tho the world may forgive such a sin in a man. 
 Yet condemn the poor woman to shame, 
 
 Impartial is God, and His purpose and plan 
 Is to justly place censure and blame. 
 
 Since the World frees the man from his sin, it occurs 
 
 That High Heaven must free the poor woman of hers. 
 
 THE HEART OF THE HOME 
 
 A home is a home, yet not a home. 
 Whatever was, or may be, 
 
 Till it becomes real home, sweet home. 
 Monopolized by baby. 
 
 54 
 
« 
 
THE OLD, OLD BIBLE 
 
 There is an innate sweetness, 
 
 A beauty, not of earth, 
 A richness and a tenderness 
 
 Of supernatural worth — 
 A something indescribable. 
 
 Divinely strange and odd — 
 Thruout the sacred pages of 
 
 The Holy Word of God. 
 
 This book, our blessed Bible, 
 
 Stands by itself alone, 
 Our only revelation of 
 
 The future's great unknown — 
 Our guide-book, our directory, 
 
 Our waybill, sure and wise, 
 Directing unmistakably 
 
 Our journey to the skies. 
 
 The language of the Bible, 
 
 Peculiarly its own, 
 Is just as sweet today as when 
 
 King James sat on his throne. 
 Our age's skillful scholars may 
 
 Revise it at their will, 
 But Old King James's version must 
 
 Remain THE VERSION still. 
 
 Our mothers and our fathers, 
 
 For generations past, 
 Have loved the King James Version, and 
 
 They loved it to the last; 
 And we, unworthy children of 
 
 A worthier parenthood, 
 Methinks, should need no substitute 
 
 For such a lasting good. 
 
 55 
 
To discount its integrity 
 
 No infidel would care, 
 To question its authority 
 
 None but a knave would dare; 
 But in death's direful agony, 
 
 No matter who he be. 
 There comes this prayer of penitence: 
 
 Have mercy. Lord, on me. 
 
 No book is like the Bible, 
 
 Mysterious, strange, and odd — 
 Nor can be, for its author is 
 
 None but the Living God. 
 A great encyclopedia 
 
 Is it — conceived on high — 
 In teaching man the way to live 
 
 It teaches how to die. 
 
 THE CHARACTER OF GOD 
 
 The mind of man is powerless 
 
 To fully comprehend 
 Our Heavenly Father's holiness, 
 Nor has it power to express 
 
 Its vision's hallowed trend; 
 But all the nightly hemisphere. 
 And all earth's jewels everywhere, 
 And e'en the flowers of the sod, 
 Bespeak the holiness of God. 
 
 The wisdom of the King of Kings 
 
 Is far beyond our ken. 
 But we may know enough of things. 
 And of the sweets that wisdom brings 
 
 To all the best of men. 
 To see, admire, revere, and love 
 The wisdom of our God above, 
 And have a vision, heaven-wide, 
 That God is wisdom deified. 
 
 56 
 
57 
 
 But He who is too wise to err, 
 
 And holy as He's wise, 
 Deals perfect justice, as it were, 
 
 To every creature, him or her, 
 Beneath the burning skies. 
 His just commandments all must keep. 
 That as men sow, so shall they reap. 
 Some things we think and hope and trust. 
 But this we know — that God is just. 
 
 Our God is holy, wise, and just; 
 
 But, O, His fatherhood 
 Could not beget that perfect trust 
 In human weakness that it must. 
 
 Unless our God was good. 
 God's goodness is most fully shone 
 In that He sent His only son 
 To die upon the cruel cross 
 To save us from eternal loss. 
 
 Tho wise and holy, good and just, 
 
 The great I AM above 
 Remembers that we are but dust, 
 Regenerated by our trust 
 
 And hope in Whom we love; 
 And from His high celestial throne 
 He hears the weakest of his own. 
 And every penitential prayer 
 He answers with a Father's care. 
 
 The human mind with hope is fraught, 
 
 But little does it know — 
 Imagination, over- wrought. 
 Brings all our reckonings to naught. 
 
 When mean and vile and low; 
 But, when we reach for higher things. 
 The mind becomes a king of kings. 
 And, step by step, and, rod by rod. 
 May trace the character of God. 
 
THE WAIL OF THE QUAIL 
 
 The turkey's flown, 
 
 The deer has gone, 
 The wild bear is no more. 
 
 And I and mine 
 
 Must fall in line 
 With those now gone before. 
 
 No man, I know. 
 Counts me his foe, 
 
 Yet every man I see 
 With dog and gun. 
 For sport and fun. 
 
 Is enemy to me. 
 
 My kind do harm 
 
 To no man's farm, 
 But when we're let alone 
 
 We kill more worms 
 
 And insect germs 
 Than he has ever known. 
 
 Cloudy or clear, 
 
 Twelve months a year. 
 We fight his crops worst foes, 
 
 Yet have no friend 
 
 That will defend 
 Us in our times of woes. 
 
 Crack-shots from town 
 
 Just shoot us down, 
 And bag us by the score; 
 
 But he who could 
 
 Save if he would 
 Is coward to the core. 
 
 58 
 
Our owner fears 
 
 Tlie taunting jeers 
 Of saucy sports from town. 
 
 He hates — but sits, 
 
 And still submits , 
 To let them shoot us down. 
 
 Tho snakes molest 
 
 Full many a nest, 
 And hawks catch half our young, 
 
 And bad boys still 
 
 Attempt to kill. 
 Whene'er *' bob-white" is sung; 
 
 Prolific, we 
 
 Would grow to be 
 As countless as the sands, 
 
 If we were freed 
 
 But from the greed 
 Of heartless hunters' hands. 
 
 The turkey's flown, 
 
 The deer has gone. 
 The wild bear is no more; 
 
 And shortly we 
 
 Extinct shall be. 
 Like those now gone before. 
 
 HIS UNIFORM 
 
 His overcoat is reddish brown, 
 
 His vest is speckled grey, 
 His knickerbockers, mostly white. 
 
 Are nearly hid away, 
 His cap is but a darkened crest. 
 But corresponds with all the rest — 
 These — and his leggings, never warm- 
 All constitute his uniform. 
 
 59 
 
JEFFERSON'S SOUVENIR 
 
 On the summit of a mountain, 
 High above the lower lands, 
 
 Monticello in historic, 
 Solitary beauty stands, 
 
 While Rivannah's waves repeat 
 
 Murmuring musics at her feet. 
 
 Old Dominion's sons and daughters, 
 All the time and everywhere, 
 
 Hold the place in sweet remembrance, 
 For their chief lies buried there — 
 
 For their hero, now at rest, 
 
 Sleeps on Monticello's breast. 
 
 North and South, in one united. 
 
 Point with patriotic pride 
 To the spot where once our leader 
 
 Loved and labored, lived and died; 
 And, in unity, proclaim 
 Highest honors to his name. 
 
 All the world delights to honor 
 Him whose brain divinely planned 
 
 Such a government, so suited 
 To the future of our land. 
 
 For the nations of the earth 
 
 All now recognize his worth. 
 
 Plain, unaltered, Monticello 
 Thru the ages must be kept, 
 
 Where our chieftain's ashes gently 
 Thru so many years have slept. 
 
 May it, as it now appears, 
 
 Mock the changes of the years. 
 
 60 
 
Four score years of anxious effort 
 By the Levys, with their means, 
 
 Have restored old Monticello 
 To her Jeffersonian scenes; 
 
 And to them we owe a debt 
 
 We can't pay and can't forget. 
 
 Half a million honest dollars 
 
 Is the sacrifice, in part, 
 Made by liberal J. M. Levy, 
 
 From his patriotic heart — 
 That the Nation might become 
 Landlord of her Hero's Home. 
 
 Monticello's gate, as ever, 
 Stands, like Zion's gate, ajar, 
 
 With a cordial, world-wide welcome 
 To all peoples, near and far — 
 
 North and South and East and West — 
 
 To becom_e the Nation's guest. 
 
 Ages tread on heels of ages, 
 New years push the old aside, 
 
 But the world will worship always 
 Jefferson, our Nation's guide; 
 
 For the doctrines of his pen 
 
 Still control the lives of men. 
 
 Moses brought from Sinai's mountain 
 Ten Commandments. These have been, 
 
 Ever since, the rule of action 
 For the government of men; 
 
 And the lapsing lengths of time 
 
 Make their truths the more sublime. 
 
 So the Sage of Monticello 
 Laid foundations for our laws. 
 
 Lasting as the Ten Commandments, 
 Without one superfluous clause — 
 
 Shattered not by shell nor shock, 
 61 They are written in the Rock. 
 
And, like Moses, he was buried 
 On a chosen mount of God; 
 
 And, methinks, the angels still are 
 Sitting by his silent sod. 
 
 Moses' tomb — no man knows where; 
 
 Jefferson's — our souvenir. 
 
 CHARLOTTESVILLE JOYS 
 
 I love to live in Charlottesville, 
 
 The place and I precisely suit, 
 For when I weary of my books 
 
 I find so sweet a substitute 
 In wheeling with a clever friend 
 
 Out by the Rawlings Institute. 
 
 For, every time we take a spin, 
 
 It is a curious fact, and cute. 
 That both our wheels just twist and turn, 
 
 Not finding any street to suit. 
 Until they find the very one 
 
 That passes by the Institute. 
 
 How often have I watched my friend, 
 
 As timid as a new-born brute, 
 While nearing to the charming place — 
 
 His white eyes — how they'd dance and shoot 
 As they betwinkled to the girls 
 
 That beautify the Institute. 
 
 My friend and I *' skeedaddle" by. 
 Like two scared darkies clad in jute, 
 
 This formal age says it is style 
 To pass strange ladies like a mute; 
 
 So we can't *' howdy" to the girls 
 Inside the Rawlings Institute. 
 
 62 
 
While passing by, my friend's red nose 
 Looks like a musket fixed to shoot; 
 
 But, gee! he rides like fifty hounds 
 Were on his track in hot pursuit — 
 
 And all the girls, when we get by, 
 With laughter shake the Institute. 
 
 My friend, he puckers out his lips, 
 And whistles music, like a flute — 
 
 I think the ''cute" accompaniment 
 In "sissy" poetry to suit — 
 
 And both of us, like two lost fools. 
 Thus often pass the Institute. 
 
 My friend likes peaches, plums, and pears. 
 And many other kinds of fruit; 
 
 But he would give a world of these, 
 And his abnormal heart "to-boot," 
 
 For one sweet kiss from two sweet lips, 
 That light the Rawlings Institute. 
 
 Mind can't conceive my weird heart's love, 
 Nor pen frame sentences to suit 
 
 The pleasures of my thought that chase 
 Each other on in swift pursuit, 
 
 While rhyming verses on the girls 
 That grace the Rawlings Institute. 
 
 When Gabriel, on the Judgment Day, 
 Gives his eternal horn its toot, 
 
 I trust that both my friend and I, 
 In an inverted parachute, 
 
 Will land where all will be as sweet 
 As at the Rawlings Institute. 
 
 63 
 
FAREWELL TO CHARLOTTESVILLE 
 
 Farewell, sweet Charlottesville, farewell! 
 
 I leave thee with a sigh. 
 O, cruel Fate! that makes us tell 
 
 Our friends the last goodby. 
 When we are months and miles apart 
 Still Charlottesville will have my heart. 
 
 I love, and I shall always love 
 
 My Old Dominion friends, 
 Until my summons from above 
 
 Brings my thoughts to their ends — 
 And, O, in death's dream let there be 
 A fairy Charlottesville for me. 
 
 Yet, should the Future never bring 
 
 Me back again to her. 
 May memory each budding spring 
 
 Grow even lovelier — 
 And may sweet thoughts grow sweeter still, 
 While musing back on Charlottesville. 
 
 MY WISEST ACT 
 
 The wisest act 
 
 In all my life 
 Was when, in fact, 
 
 I wooed my wife. 
 
 Her worst mistake 
 Was made when she 
 
 Vowed she would take, 
 Of all men, me. 
 
 64 
 
65 
 
 THE CANDIDATE 
 
 It aggravates the candidates 
 Because they cannot know their fates — 
 Tho each one feels he ought to win, 
 There's something secretly within 
 So sadly singing all the while: 
 "You're apt to 'Miss the thing a mile.' " 
 
 He with his peers electioneers, 
 And puts a "bug" into the ears 
 Of those down on the lower plain — 
 And hopes he labors not in vain, 
 Yet something warns him all the while 
 That he may "Miss the thing a mile." 
 
 He often pays, in hidden ways, 
 The papers for their tons of praise, 
 And feels that what they say alone 
 Should bring the votes from hearts of stone. 
 He's sure success on him will smile — 
 Yet he may "Miss the thing a mile." 
 
 He tells his wife: "Bless your sweet life! 
 If I'm successful in the strife, 
 I'll paint the house, and fix it, too, 
 With new conveniences for you, 
 And we will live in grander style — 
 But I may "Miss the thing a mile!" 
 
 As time draws near his hope and fear 
 Will rise and fall, or disappear — 
 And come again — until he feels 
 Like running off his very heels; 
 And tho he wears a borrowed smile, 
 He's 'fraid he'll "Miss the thing a mile." 
 
 His prayers he sees, while on his knees, 
 Rise up no higher than the trees. 
 
His faith, unlike the Mustard Seed, 
 Can't move a vote in time of need — 
 He'd pray for votes and get a pile. 
 But fears he'd "Miss the thing a mile." 
 
 Nobody knows his pains and woes. 
 Nor how suspense each hour grows 
 On him who has to work and wait — 
 Poor weary, wornout candidate! 
 Within he wails, without he smiles, 
 He'll win, or "Miss ten million miles." 
 
 THE TELLING OF A LIE 
 
 If a man gets into trouble. 
 
 And can't give the reason why. 
 And his comrades taunt and tease him, 
 
 Till he wishes he could die, 
 Would he not be justified 
 If he technically lied? 
 
 If a fellow loves a maiden. 
 
 And the twinkle in her eye 
 Tells him that if he had money 
 
 He could win her by-and-by, 
 Would he not be justified 
 If he beautifully lied? 
 
 If a convict on the scaffold, 
 
 Doomed to hang 'twixt earth and sky. 
 Could annul the execution 
 
 By the telling of a lie. 
 Would he not be justified 
 If he devilishly lied? 
 
 No. There never comes the hour 
 
 When the cause can justify 
 Any mortal man or woman 
 
 In the telling of a lie — 
 Truth can't stoop to compromise 
 With the very least of lies. 66 
 
67 
 
 MY PREFERENCE 
 
 Vd rather be an old plug mule, 
 And tug along o'er sand and hill, 
 
 Than be a slim, sleek thoroughbred, 
 "Drove" by the dudes of Charlottesville. 
 
 The man that drives the old plug mule. 
 While loading, gets his own shirt wet, 
 
 But dudes that kill out thoroughbreds 
 Know nothing of fatigue and sweat. 
 
 I'd rather be a hide-bound ox. 
 
 With naught but shucks my paunch to fill. 
 Than be a steed of splendid speed, 
 
 "Drove" by the dudes of Charlottesville. 
 The man that works the hide-bound ox. 
 
 Himself, must toil and tire some, too; 
 But dudes that drive fine steeds to death. 
 
 Themselves, have nothing else to do. 
 
 I'd rather be a suckling sow, 
 
 With pigs to punch me at their will, 
 
 Than be a clear, clean, clever horse, 
 "Drove" by the dudes of Charlottesville. 
 
 The sow, that's sucked by fine fat pigs, 
 Can wean the rascals when she will, 
 
 But how can horses hope to wean 
 The heartless dudes of Charlottesville? 
 
 THE MULE 
 
 Of all dumb animals on earth 
 
 Which man assumes to rule, 
 There's none of such intrinsic worth 
 
 As is the faithful mule. 
 He toils till death ends his career, 
 
 And then the buzzards come. 
 In multitudes from everywhere, 
 "To bear his spirit home." 
 
ORATORY 
 
 Pure argument in all debate 
 
 Is simple, clear, and plain. 
 Directed to the intellect — 
 
 A product of the brain. 
 The subject matter circumscribes 
 
 Its ordering, style, and ton.e, 
 And forms the base for reasoning, 
 
 With reason on the throne. 
 
 Rich oratory soars above 
 
 The language of debate. 
 Infusing fire and interest 
 
 To lift up and elate 
 The mind by calling into play 
 
 Emotion's tender strain. 
 That plays a milder melody 
 
 Upon the hearer's brain. 
 
 When oratory in her might 
 
 Sways by her magic skill 
 Imagination, intellect. 
 
 Emotion, and the will, 
 Great congregations spellbound stand; 
 
 And multitudes rejoice, 
 Where'er the true born orator 
 
 Is lifting up his voice. 
 
 LOVE'S REWARD 
 
 I loved her hard, I loved her well; 
 
 My hopes hung high and level, 
 But she, in turn, got mad as — well, 
 
 She raised the very mischief. 
 
 68 
 
69 
 
 THE WORKING GIRL OF THE CITY 
 
 Arising soon in the morning, 
 
 The working girl of the town, 
 Her person neatly adorning, 
 
 Comes cheerily tripping down. 
 She shakes up the beds and the pillows, 
 
 Then grasping the neck of the broom, 
 With a stroke, like the sweep of the billows, 
 
 She raises a dust in the room. 
 
 And then you can hear her "a-pitchin," 
 
 Like a hurricane after a blast, 
 A-hustling up things in the kitchen, 
 
 Like every good day was her last; 
 And, soon as her breakfast is swallowed. 
 
 She's off like a flash to the shop — 
 Like a measuring worm on a collard, 
 
 She's louping her way to the top. 
 
 Behind the old counter you'll find her, 
 
 At just any time of the day. 
 With people before and behind her, 
 
 All buying, and going their way. 
 She sells to the belle of the city 
 
 Her fanciful notions in silk, 
 And stoops to the poor in her pity. 
 
 And sells him his bread and his milk. 
 
 And when the trade ceases to hinder 
 
 She still has no moments to waste, 
 But fixes the things in the window 
 
 With tactful and elegant taste. 
 Full many a passer-by wonders — 
 
 His wants — they grow rapidly worse. 
 She pleases his fancy, but plunders, 
 
 And frequently empties, his purse, 
 
In haste she runs down to her dinner, 
 
 With no — not a minute to lose. 
 There isn't a lazy bone in her, 
 
 From her hat to the toes of her shoes. 
 She wears a sweet smile on her features, 
 
 As bright as a new silver spoon. 
 And her words are as pure as a preacher's, 
 
 And her thoughts are as high as the moon. 
 
 As soon as her supper is ended, 
 
 Till late in the night she is seen, 
 Her fair form gracefully bended 
 
 Above the old sewing machine. 
 For hours she sits and she stitches, 
 
 A-sewing up ruffles and seams, 
 And when she retires the witches 
 
 Keep sewing them up in her dreams. 
 
 LOVED BUT LOST 
 
 (Acrostic) 
 
 Long I've looked to find a maiden 
 In whose eyes my soul could see 
 Naught but purity and beauty 
 Drifting lovingly toward me. 
 And I feel that now I've found 
 Her in whom those traits abound. 
 
 Can I leave your little city, 
 And not tell my little friend, 
 Rosy-cheeked, sweet little beauty. 
 That I'll love her to life's end? 
 Ever shall fond memories twirl 
 Round my little laughing girl. 
 
 70 
 
FAREWELL TO ALABAMA 
 
 Fare thee well, sweet Alabama! 
 
 Thou hast been my home so long ! 
 At thy name my better being 
 
 Bursts into a joyous song. 
 
 Cradled in thy sunny borders, 
 
 Reared unknown to wealth or fame, 
 
 May I long be spared to cherish 
 Fond remembrance of thy name. 
 
 May thy sunshines shine more sweetly 
 As the summers come and go. 
 
 And thy shadows only rest thee 
 From the noontide's glare and glow. 
 
 May Prosperity continue. 
 With an ever generous hand, 
 
 To make thee, our Alabama, 
 E'er a good and favored land. 
 
 Born and bred in Alabama, 
 
 Reared beneath a Southern sky, 
 
 Tho I roam afar, O, let me 
 There be buried when I die. 
 
 Alabama ! Alabama ! 
 
 Here we rest, O, Here we rest! 
 Take me back into thy bosom, 
 
 When the pulse dies in my breast. 
 
 71 
 
PROCRASTINATION 
 
 What is this day's besetting sin, 
 
 The sin that breeds stagnation? 
 Where is the man that hasn't been 
 The needless victim of chagrin 
 From this, our universal sin — 
 
 Sin of procrastination? 
 
 Is this a sin? Why is it not, 
 
 When it affects the Nation? 
 Forerunner of the ''I forgot," 
 The worst excuse in all the lot — 
 It knows the good, but does it not, 
 
 So does procrastination. 
 
 It breeds deceit, gives birth to lies, 
 
 And creates alienation 
 From everything beneath the skies 
 That's systematic, safe, and wise; 
 But still the world postpones — it lies 
 
 Still in procrastination. 
 
 Intemperance has brought its woes, 
 
 Its griefs, its desolation; 
 But "put off" duty, as it goes, 
 Increasing troubles, often grows 
 Into an avalanche of woes — 
 
 So works procrastination. 
 
 Let old sick-germs and fresh hookworms 
 
 Play havoc with the Nation, 
 But give us on some sort of terms 
 A remedy to kill the germs. 
 And thus eradicate the worms 
 
 That cause procrastination. 
 
 72 
 
73 
 
 RURAL HOSPITALITY 
 
 There's still a trace of one sweet grace, 
 
 Not faith, nor hope, nor charity, 
 Whose placid place time can't efface — 
 
 But, O, 'tis such a rarity. 
 Yet, like the dove that sat above 
 
 The King of Immortality, 
 Are faith, hope, charity, and love 
 
 All crowned with hospitality. 
 
 It can't abide the stilted pride 
 
 Of any great metropolis, 
 Nor can it hide down by the side 
 
 Of combines and monopolies. 
 But, clean and clear, from year to year, 
 
 Twin sister to frugality, 
 Out in the rural atmosphere, 
 
 Abides real hospitality. 
 
 Its impulse starts in humble hearts — 
 
 In hearts that hate hypocrisy — 
 And plies its arts, and plays its parts, 
 
 As does ideal democracy. 
 Far from the toil of town's turmoil. 
 
 Away from immorality, 
 Where honest rustics till the soil, 
 
 Dwells whole-soul hospitality. 
 
 With happiness may heaven bless 
 
 Our Nation's noble peasantry. 
 Whose lives impress unselfishness 
 
 And pure and perfect pleasantry — 
 As true as truth, as young as youth, 
 
 As real as real reality, 
 As sweet as Naomi to Ruth, 
 
 Is rustic hospitality. 
 
 i 
 
THE GIRL THAT PULLS THE HOE 
 
 I have seen our pretty damsels 
 
 Of a score and more of States, 
 From sweet fourteen up to forty, 
 
 Of all sorts of shapes and weights; 
 And I can not keep from sparking 
 
 Them some ever5rwhere I go — . 
 But I like to tip my derby 
 
 To the girl that pulls the hoe. 
 
 I have seen them dressed in laces. 
 
 Just as fine as fine can be, 
 With their rings and jeweled watches. 
 
 And their ribbons flowing free; 
 But there's naught more truly pleasant, 
 
 Of the sweetest things I know — 
 Than to tip my Sunday derby 
 
 To the girl that pulls the hoe. 
 
 I have seen them in their parlors, 
 
 When their fingers kissed the keys 
 Of the organ or piano 
 
 With such elegance and ease, 
 That my heart within me wilted 
 
 When the time rolled round to go — 
 But I love to lift my derby 
 
 To the girl that pulls the hoe. 
 
 Alabama's full of maidens 
 
 That, are jewels rich and rare. 
 And they hoe in gloves and bonnets. 
 
 And on Sunday look as fair 
 As a bunch of waxen flowers 
 
 On the mantel, kept for show — 
 And I'll die, or doff my derby 
 
 To the girl that pulls the hoe. 
 
 74 
 
THE BACHELOR'S WAIL 
 
 O, that I knew just what to do ! 
 
 Each day I'm growing older; 
 And my old heart, warm at the start, 
 
 Is ever growing colder. 
 It loves not, as it used to do, 
 The girls that once it yielded to. 
 
 Now I'm inclined to drop behind, 
 And spark the younger misses, 
 
 And feel that I would like to try 
 Some of their candied kisses; 
 
 And I forget I'm growing old 
 
 Till some shy damsel kicks me cold. 
 
 I can't erase from off my face 
 Time's ever deepening wrinkles, 
 
 And I'm afraid that now my head 
 Betrays his silver sprinkles; 
 
 And soon I fear the girls will say 
 
 That I have seen my brightest day. 
 
 But still I trust, for trust I must, 
 
 That there is now created 
 A maiden fair with silken hair 
 
 To whom I'll yet be mated. 
 May years like minutes speed away 
 Till I behold my wedding day. 
 
 Should early death cut off my breath, 
 
 And there be none to cover 
 With roses rare the mound so bare 
 
 Where lies her sleeping lover, 
 If souls can sleep, my soul shall weep 
 Till angels sing my soul to sleep. 
 
 75 
 
BIRTH OF BACHELORHOOD 
 
 The harvest is past and 
 
 The summer is ended. 
 My thirty-fifth year has 
 
 Upon me descended. 
 It finds me still single, 
 
 And, tho it's a shame, 
 I think, altogether, 
 
 That I'm not to blame. 
 I've frolicked with hundreds. 
 
 And courted a few, 
 And sparked in dead earnest 
 
 A couple or two. 
 
 I've longed for the time when 
 
 I'd see myself married; 
 I've lingered and loved, and 
 
 I've talked and I've tarried; 
 I've preached and I've prayed, and 
 
 I've pouted and past 
 Like a strict Pharisee in 
 
 The midst of his fast; 
 But thirty-five years have 
 
 Assuaged like the Flood, 
 And I have now entered 
 
 Old-bachelorhood. 
 
 The first girl I loved was 
 
 A young fellow- student, 
 So graceful and sweet, and 
 
 So pretty and prudent. 
 She went to the Judson — 
 
 I went to the farm. 
 She came back too cultured 
 
 To lean on my arm. 
 She afterwards married 
 
 A schoolmate of ours, 
 And sweetens his home with 
 
 Her magical powers. 
 
 76 
 
77 
 
 I told to another 
 
 My heart's ''honey" story; 
 She listened uniquely, 
 
 And then to my glory 
 She made my heart feel mid 
 
 Its swellings and stirs 
 That she would be mine and 
 
 That I should be hers — 
 Promiscuously sparking 
 
 Wherever I ran, 
 She "kicked" me and married 
 
 A faithfuUer man. 
 
 To three other beauties 
 
 I started to telling 
 My story of love, but 
 
 It seemed so repelling, 
 I sadly repented 
 
 Of making the start 
 Of letting them know how 
 
 I felt in my heart; 
 And when they discovered 
 
 My lukewarm estate, 
 Our courtship exploded, 
 
 And love became hate. 
 
 The harvest is past, and 
 
 The summer is ended; 
 Old-bachelorhood has 
 
 Upon me descended. 
 He's dimming my eyes and 
 
 He's frosting my hair, 
 And plowing my features 
 
 In furrows of care. 
 Tho I feel like a pig in 
 
 The trough, left to dance, 
 I wouldn't take half of 
 
 The world for my chance. 
 
NIAGARA FALLS 
 
 In prehistoric ages, 
 
 When Nature first began, 
 Back in the infancy of years, 
 Before the births of sighs and tears. 
 Before the thought of hemispheres, 
 She drew Niagara's plan. 
 
 For centuries unnumbered 
 
 Her memory recalls 
 The song the falling waters sweet 
 In soft serenity repeat 
 To rainbows round the foaming feet 
 
 Of great Niagara Falls. 
 
 No sculptor, painter, poet — 
 
 With chisel, brush, or pen — 
 However earnestly he's sought. 
 However arduously he's wrought. 
 Into the heart has ever brought 
 Niagara back again. 
 
 So marvelous in beauty, 
 
 In grandeur so sublime, 
 As in the ages past and gone, 
 So in the future coming on, 
 Niagara can smile upon 
 
 The birth and death of Time. 
 
 78 
 
TO MY RIVAL'S BRIDE 
 
 When the moon in fullest splendor 
 Shines in beauty, light, and love 
 
 From her high and stately station 
 In the hemisphere above, 
 
 All the larger stars grow pale 
 
 And the little twinklers fail. 
 
 So didst thou ere thou wert married 
 Shine with such bedazzling rays 
 
 That the very place resounded 
 With thy well deserved praise; 
 
 And thy light, so rich and full. 
 
 Made all lesser lights grow dull. 
 
 May thy days be bright and sunny- 
 May thy hopes all crystallize 
 
 Into truths as rich and radiant 
 As thy heart wouldst realize; 
 
 And may all "you touch and hold" 
 
 Turn into the purest gold. 
 
 May this night be filled with music, 
 And may he, whose heart is thine, 
 
 Clasp thy dainty hand and help thee 
 Thru the coming years to shine — 
 
 And may Heaven's hallowed smile 
 
 Rest upon you all the while. 
 
 79 
 
FOLLY'S FANCY OR FANCY'S FOLLY 
 
 I wrote to a girl that I knew not. 
 And if in my heart there's a true spot, 
 
 'Tis the spot set apart 
 
 In the heart of my heart 
 For the girl whom I loved that I knew not. 
 
 I've tenderly loved from the fleet start 
 The girl that I claim as my sweetheart, 
 
 Tho never we've met, 
 
 I shall never forget 
 The girl that I've loved from the fleet start. 
 
 She's as dear as the dew in the moon-light, 
 And as soft as a saint at a coon fight, 
 
 And as sweet as the drip 
 
 From the honeycomb's lip, 
 And as kind as a kiss in the moon-light. 
 
 Tho I never have had from her one sign. 
 My hope is as high as the sunshine, 
 
 Tho founded on naught 
 
 But the fanciful thought 
 That she'll give me yet more than the one sign. 
 
 I shall see her some day in the blue skies, 
 If never on earth with my two eyes — 
 
 Then, happy, above 
 
 We'll live in the love 
 Of each other way up in the blue skies. 
 
 80 
 
THE UNLOVED LOVER 
 
 O, when the heart is sick for love 
 
 It pines for solitude — 
 It seeks some unfrequented grove 
 
 Where nothing will intrude, 
 And discommode the fairy strain 
 That sifts its sadness down like rain. 
 
 Sometimes the lonely lover seeks 
 
 The city of the dead; 
 And to himself he thinks and speaks, 
 
 Because he is afraid 
 For any other heart to know 
 That love is working on him so. 
 
 He sits upon a ghostly tomb 
 
 And meditates for hours, 
 And in his melancholy gloom 
 
 He makes love to the flowers, 
 Imagining how sweet 'twould be 
 If one of these were only she. 
 
 He writes her name upon the ground. 
 
 And carves it on the trees, 
 And tells it, like a fool, around 
 
 To everyone he sees. 
 Till less than little does he lack 
 Of mimicing a maniac. 
 
 The unloved lover dares not tell 
 
 The worst of all his woes, 
 Nor how the horror of his hell 
 
 On earth each hour grows; 
 But longs for that good time to come 
 When death will take his spirit home. 
 
 81 
 
TRUE LOVE LIKE THE ROSES 
 
 When the day is calm and bright, 
 
 While the sun is sweetly shining, 
 With a rich, resplendent light, 
 
 From the sky's soft silken lining; 
 When the dewdrop's silver gleam 
 
 Glitters from the bed of posies — 
 Then thy heart may fondly dream 
 
 That true love is like the roses. 
 
 When thy joyous, happy feet 
 
 Pace the pearly path of pleasure, 
 Where the babbling brooklet sweet, 
 
 Seaward, sings in milder measure; 
 When thy hope hangs heaven-high, 
 
 And no evil interposes, 
 Thou canst say, and tell no lie, 
 
 That true love is like the roses. 
 
 When prosperity's broad hand 
 
 Fills thy barns to overflowing, 
 When thy richly fertile land 
 
 With still greater crops is growing, 
 When sweet manna seems to fall, 
 
 As it did in days of Moses — 
 Thou canst vow amid it all 
 
 That true love is like the roses. 
 
 When adversity's black veil 
 
 Shrouds thy sighing soul in sorrow, 
 And thy deep, heart-rending wail 
 
 Prophesies a worse tomorrow — 
 Mid the agony and pain 
 
 That misfortune's hand imposes — 
 Mid the thorns, we still complain 
 
 That true love is like the roses. 
 
 82 
 
THE DEITY OF CHRIST 
 
 There is nothing in all of this wonderful world 
 
 That the world so admires and reveres 
 As a character beautiful, gentle, and mild, 
 
 Clarified in the solace of tears — 
 Let us look where we will, in the present or past, 
 From the first of the first to the last of the last, 
 Only One that is perfect has ever been seen. 
 And it lives in the lowly and meek Nazarene. 
 
 There is nothing in all of this aesthetic age 
 
 That the age so respects and esteems 
 As it does Christianity, trusted and tried. 
 
 Lending light to our visions and dreams. 
 But with all of our boasts of this civilized age, 
 We can point to no prophet, no priest, and no sage, 
 That is sinless and perfect in deed and in thought, 
 That is living like Jesus — He lived as he taught. 
 
 There is no one of all of the children of men 
 That can claim from the depths of his heart 
 
 To be holy like God, to be equal with God — 
 Of Jehovah a parcel and part. 
 
 Tho we claim to be born of the spirit of God, 
 
 We deplore to the death our return to the sod. 
 
 We can hope, we can trust — that is all we can do. 
 
 We can not, like the Savior, claim Deity, too. 
 
 How we argue today about "cause and effect!" 
 How we write about "matter and mind!" 
 
 But we can't comprehend Jesus' miracles yet — 
 Our eyes of today are too blind. 
 
 Not the elect of God, as we know them today. 
 
 Can perform in a Christly, apostolic way 
 
 Any miracle worthy of notice at all — 
 
 For the power passed out with the passing of Paul. 
 
 83 
 
Tho we cleverly claim to be children of God, 
 
 And declare that our Father is He, 
 We are bound to admit that resemblance is not, 
 
 When we know what He wants us to be. 
 When we all get to living like we all know we should, 
 And the world sees its own set apart from the good, 
 When we live our religion like the Lord did while here. 
 Then will miracles many spring up everywhere. 
 
 THE POET'S PAY 
 
 Some men abuse the poet 
 With slings and slurs and stabs, 
 
 Yet reverence him, and show it 
 In death upon their slabs. 
 
 Poor fellow, heavy-hearted 
 
 He lives thru all his days; 
 But after he's departed 
 
 The world wakes to his praise. 
 
 But compliments and praises, 
 
 By whomsoever said. 
 Like daffodils and daisies. 
 
 Mean nothing to the dead. 
 
 THE GRAIN AND ITS GROWTH 
 
 Except a grain of wheat shall fall 
 
 Into the ground and die. 
 It can not hope to lift itself 
 
 Toward God's eternal sky; 
 
 But if it dies it comes again. 
 
 And, from its tender shoot, 
 Comes first the blade, and then the ear, 
 
 And then the full-grown fruit. 
 
 84 
 
85 
 
 LITTLE ESTHER 
 
 One by one the Master calleth, 
 One by one the old, the young, 
 
 Like an autumn leaflet falleth, 
 And life's little song is sung. 
 
 She is gone — sweet little treasure! 
 
 Peaceful be her resting place. 
 Never more 'twill be our pleasure 
 
 To behold her childish face. 
 
 Gentle Earth, lay light above her — 
 Her grave is a hallowed spot, 
 
 That is fondly covered over 
 With one sweet forget-me-not. 
 
 Evening Shades, while ye are creeping, 
 Softly, gently pass the place. 
 
 Where our little friend lies sleeping 
 In death's long, sad, cold embrace. 
 
 She was such a precious jewel 
 That the Master saw her worth, 
 
 And, methinks, he thought it cruel 
 For her to remain on earth. 
 
 While her little form's reclining 
 In the grave wherein she lies. 
 
 Her sweet little spirit's shining 
 Like a jewel in the skies. 
 
 One charm less to earth secures us 
 By its tender chords of love. 
 
 One charm more in heaven allures us 
 To our happy home above. 
 
NATIONAL PROHIBITION 
 
 When love stops men from lying, 
 
 And makes them live the truth; 
 When faith stops men from dying, 
 
 And gives them endless youth; 
 When hope stops men from shrinking, 
 
 And gives them fearless lives — 
 Will law stop men from drinking, 
 
 And give them happy wives. 
 
 When this dram-drinking Nation 
 
 Confiscates all her rum. 
 And blots it from creation. 
 
 Will Prohibition come. 
 Till this is our condition. 
 
 Will all inebriates 
 Ignore the Prohibition 
 
 Of these United (?) States. 
 
 When Prohibition thinkers 
 
 Get every law each wants. 
 The sneak, blind-tiger drinkers 
 
 Will all have hidden haunts. 
 For liquors, like the waters. 
 
 Will flow — to overflow — 
 Till Law first dams headquarters. 
 
 Then dams the streams below. 
 
 Until the Nation's willing 
 
 To confiscate her rum, 
 'Twould not be worth a shilling, 
 
 Should Prohibition come. 
 But with the confiscation 
 
 Of liquor everywhere. 
 Our Prohibition Nation 
 ''Can read her title clear." 
 
 86 
 
OSBORN CHAPMAN 
 
 "No sex is spared, no age exempt," 
 
 But at Death's signal wave 
 The spirit casts the body down 
 
 To perish in the grave, 
 And wings its flight to realms above 
 To live in sweet, eternal love. 
 
 But when the summons comes to one 
 
 Just in life's early bloom, 
 And makes a void in many a heart 
 
 To fill one new-made tomb — 
 Amid our sorrows we forget 
 That he with Christ is living yet. 
 
 For twenty years God suffered him 
 
 In this rough world to roam. 
 But on his twentieth birthday called 
 
 His noble spirit home. 
 We can't awake him from the sod, 
 But we may, too, find rest in God. 
 
 He's been relieved of many a toil, 
 
 Of many an ache and pain. 
 Of many a sorrow, many a sigh — 
 
 Then why should we complain? 
 Since God has laid His child to sleep, 
 Why should our mournful spirits weep? 
 
 No more his anxious friends shall watch 
 
 Around his lonely bed. 
 For angel spirits from above 
 
 Watch o'er the sleeping dead, 
 While flowers round his silent sod 
 Breathe prayers of perfumes up toward God. 
 
 O, Christ, give us the faith to trust 
 
 That with a sweet accord 
 All things together work for good 
 
 To them that love the Lord; 
 And by this death, so premature, 
 87 O, make our sinful lives more pure. 
 
THE SNOWS DECLARE GOD'S KINDLY CARE 
 
 From the sunless scenes above 
 
 To the earth below, 
 With an icy, achy breath, 
 Colder than the calm of death, 
 
 Comes the quiet snow. 
 Hiding e'en earth's humbler things 
 'Neath her cozy coverings. 
 
 And, as comes the candid snow, 
 
 Silently and odd, 
 To us thruout all our days. 
 In a million mindful ways. 
 
 Comes the care of God — 
 Comes His tender, loving care 
 For His creatures everywhere. 
 
 As impartial as the snow 
 
 From the blue above. 
 Hiding from high heaven's sight 
 All earth's defects with her white, 
 
 Is the Father's love — 
 Love that since Creation's birth 
 Has encircled all the earth. 
 
 When the sun in Heaven shines, 
 
 Noiselessly, the snow 
 Melts her silent self to tears 
 As she sadly disappears 
 
 From the earth below; 
 But the love the Father sends 
 Never melts and never ends. 
 
 88 
 
BILL ARP 
 
 Bill Arp has laid his interesting pen and paper down; 
 No more he'll write us letters full of fun. 
 
 He's gone back home to heaven 
 
 To receive his robe and crown, 
 And hear the blest applaudit of Well Done. 
 
 His writings, penned for people in the humbler walks of life, 
 Were much admired by those in higher spheres. 
 
 He wrote of home and mother 
 
 And of children and of wife — 
 He wrote to bring us smiles instead of tears. 
 
 He told the truth, unbiased, in a cute and catchy way — 
 He watched the words and daily deeds of men. 
 He taught the people knowledge 
 Thru the papers day by day; 
 The Solid South paid homage to his pen. 
 
 He is not dead, but living in the hearts that loved him best; 
 His name shall live as long as life shall last; 
 His voice, forever silent. 
 Like his body, is at rest; 
 But still his pen is teaching from the past. 
 
 His writings, like a river that increases with its length, 
 While flowing on in beauty to the sea, 
 
 Will grow in worth and splendor, 
 
 And become of greater strength, 
 As time rolls on to swell eternity. 
 
 89 
 
SAM JONES 
 
 So faithful to the Nation, 
 
 So loyal to the South, 
 'Sam Jones" is but a household word 
 
 In everybody's mouth; 
 But ah! the State of Georgia, and 
 
 The quiet Cartersville, 
 Where was his earthly home, sweet home- 
 
 They know him better still. 
 
 The Country now laments him, 
 
 The South bewails him more, 
 Old Georgia mourns with deeper grief 
 
 For him who's gone before; 
 And o'er the Town of Cartersville 
 
 There hangs a blackened pall — 
 But oh! a home there misses him 
 
 The most — the most of all. 
 
 No crime could be too heinous 
 
 For him to condescend 
 To lift his voice, and fight against 
 
 Unto the bitter end. 
 He spake of sin in warmer words 
 
 Than most of men can tell. 
 And every hot word burnt its way, 
 
 Like embers fresh from hell. 
 
 The great Sam Jomes has left us. 
 
 His voice in death is stilled; 
 We'll never see his like again — 
 
 His place can not be filled. 
 ."He taketh his beloved sleep" 
 
 Beneath the settling sod, 
 And, like the patriarchs of old, 
 
 His spirit's with its God. 
 
 90 
 
FOOLING GOD 
 
 Of all the fools that ever fooled, 
 
 This side the Land of Nod, 
 Hell holds none half so dear as those 
 
 That think they're fooling God 
 By liberal giving, now and then. 
 That they may have the praise of men. 
 
 At church they pose as holy Saints — 
 They take the Bread and Wine, 
 
 And wall their eyes like dying calves, 
 And try to look divine — 
 
 And in their hears, cold as the sod, 
 
 They think they're wisely fooling God. 
 
 Sometimes they put up prayers as long 
 
 As Jacob's ladder was — 
 Prayers full of ''royal diadems" 
 
 Aglow with human stars! 
 They hope for these to turn apart 
 The brain of God, and sack his heart. 
 
 They wreck the weak, deprive the poor— 
 
 To more enrich themselves; 
 And thank God for the gold thus piled 
 
 Upon their sordid shelves, 
 And think that God feels honored when 
 They "donate" — for the praise of men. 
 
 Of all the fools that ever fooled, 
 
 This side the Land of Nod, 
 Hell hotly hopes to fool the fools 
 
 That think they're fooling God, 
 But all of hell may be too cool 
 To melt the heart of one such fool. 
 
 91 
 
THE ONLY BABY 
 
 The week was drawing to its close, 
 
 The hours swiftly flying; 
 The only light of a darkened home 
 
 Lay in its cradle dying. 
 
 Its mother, overcome by grief, 
 Gave vent to sorrow's feeling, 
 
 While near the dying infant's crib 
 Its old grandma was kneeling. 
 
 God sometimes takes away the light 
 That fills a home with beauty. 
 
 And leaves it cheerless, cold, and dark 
 To make us feel our duty. 
 
 The light is gone, and yet it shines, 
 More beautiful than ever. 
 
 Upon the silver strand beyond 
 Death's dark and rolling river. 
 
 O, let us travel toward the light 
 That's shining now in glory. 
 
 Where angels to our baby sing 
 The ever new Old Story. 
 
 QUIT 
 
 My feet are cold, my head is hot, 
 I seek for thoughts, but find them not; 
 My heart today will not permit 
 My hand to write, so I must quit — 
 So I must quit — 
 Must quit — 
 Quit. 
 
 92 
 
MRS. J. L. T. 
 
 A purer woman never breathed 
 
 This old world's atmosphere, 
 A sweeter lady never walked 
 
 The Western Hemisphere, 
 A dearer mother never lived 
 
 For those she loved the best, 
 A nobler life ne'er fell asleep 
 
 To sweet, eternal rest. 
 
 A husband thus bereft can but 
 
 Lament, and mourn for years; 
 A life-time isn't long enough 
 
 To dry away his tears. 
 No matter what success he meets, 
 
 His soul within him sighs 
 To be with her whose spirit dwells 
 
 In mansions in the skies. 
 
 The two young ladies — oh! good Lord! 
 
 The angels only know 
 How great their loss, how keen their grief, 
 
 How deep their sorrows go. 
 But He who marks the sparrow's fall 
 
 Loves those bowed down in grief, 
 And in His own good time and way 
 
 Sends sorrow its relief. 
 
 The only son — God bless the boy! 
 
 He can not realize 
 How mamma loved her boy until 
 
 He meets her in the skies; 
 But little Lucy, mamma's pet, 
 
 The sweetest and the best, 
 Will miss her mamma's loving care 
 
 Still more than all the rest. 
 
 93 
 
THE TEACHER'S REWARD 
 
 The teacher often toils at night, 
 
 When daily tasks are done, 
 And often by the late lamp-light 
 God guides his puzzled brain aright. 
 
 And leads him ever on. 
 
 Sometimes his life's o'erhung with clouds 
 
 Of agonizing gloom, 
 Sometimes his hope is hid in shrouds 
 Till grim despairs in groups and crowds 
 
 Make him long for the tomb. 
 
 Just then he lays in Jesus' arms 
 
 His heart's distressful cares; 
 Then all his tempests turn to calms. 
 And all his sighings into psalms 
 And consecrated prayers. 
 
 The teacher may make life as sweet 
 
 As he would have it be; 
 For God will grant whate'er is meet 
 To him who falls before His feet. 
 
 And begs on bended knee. 
 
 And tho the teacher's task is hard, 
 
 His task but makes him wise; 
 It teaches him to not regard 
 Mere money as the chief reward. 
 But points him toward the skies. 
 
 DEBT 
 
 No one thing yet so much as debt 
 Has had so great a tendency 
 
 To bind and band our sunny land 
 In desperate dependency. 
 
 As happy as the saints above 
 
 We'd be if we owed naught but love. 
 
 94 
 
95 
 
 SPRINGHILL 
 
 There's a lively little village 
 
 That is builded in the sand, 
 With no gaudy homes nor houses, 
 
 Either beautiful or grand; 
 But her people are as clever 
 
 As a hundred-dollar bill; 
 And they paid me every nickel 
 
 That they owed me at Springhill. 
 
 She can boast more merry maidens 
 
 Than most towns of twice her size, 
 And their pretty eyes are brighter 
 
 Than the candles of the skies. 
 Tho I saw them every morning, 
 
 I could never get my fill; 
 But the best thing of it all is— 
 
 They don't owe me at Springhill. 
 
 Tho her church affairs run loosely, 
 
 And her sunday school is not, 
 Tho a few will drink their liquor 
 
 Till their blood is boiling hot, 
 Tho she has one busy-body. 
 
 Stirring every stink and ill, 
 I am pleased with all the people, 
 
 For they paid me at Springhill. 
 
 When a teacher's done his duty 
 
 By his people day and night — 
 Done his best, and prayed to God to 
 
 Keep him ever in the right. 
 Isn't it a helpful pleasure 
 
 When his people praise him, still 
 Isn't it a "whole heap" better 
 
 When they pay him like Springhill? 
 
May High Heaven bless the people 
 
 For their straight and honest ways, 
 May Old Father Time be pleased to 
 
 Lengthen out their useful days, 
 May each decade find them wiser. 
 
 Purer, better, nobler still, 
 x\nd may heaven be the home of 
 
 All that paid me at Springhill. 
 
 THE SUMMER SCHOOL OF THE ''U. OF A." 
 
 I can't give you useful lectures 
 
 Like the Dr. Hart — ah! no; 
 I can't teach you Nature Study 
 
 Like the ''big gun," Bigelow; 
 I can't speak like Dr. Hully — 
 
 No, friends, I'm too big a fool. 
 But I can give you a poet's 
 
 Snapshot of your Summer School. 
 
 I have spent two weeks and over 
 
 At the Teachers' Summer School, 
 Where the oaks refreshing shades are 
 
 Aided by the breezes cool, 
 Where the pedagogues and schoolma'ams 
 
 In the evenings have their talks, 
 Sitting on the lovely lawns, or 
 
 Walking long the winding walks. 
 
 I have watched them at the table — 
 
 There obeying nature's law — 
 When each one is busy working 
 
 Up and down his under jaw. 
 There the restless cups and saucers, 
 
 And the noisy forks and knives 
 Make a music that's as busy 
 
 As the buzz about the hives. 
 
 96 
 
'Mongst the teachers there are maidens 
 
 That are in their tender teens; 
 And they wield a greater power 
 
 Than a hemisphere of queens 
 Over little one-horse teachers, 
 
 That have long since passed their prime, 
 Filling full the Campus Course, that's 
 
 Overflowing all the time. 
 
 There are many married couples, 
 
 Sitting side by side in class — 
 Wife and husband, both uneasy — 
 
 'Fraid they're not a-going to pass. 
 How they lean to one another, 
 
 Each the other's sugar lump; 
 For these blamed examinations 
 
 Make both wife and husband hump. 
 
 There are some old maids — God bless them! 
 
 That are growing sadly gray, 
 And the beauty from their faces 
 
 Fast is vanishing away. 
 They just vow that they can't study — 
 
 Each one's mind's on some old beau, 
 That became some woman's husband 
 
 Thirty-odd long years ago. 
 
 No, poor things, they can not study, 
 
 Their blank minds are cold as frogs. 
 Thinking thoughts about unmated. 
 
 Antiquated pedagogues. 
 Lord, have mercy! aren't they silly? 
 
 Seems to me they ought to know 
 If these ^'scapers" were worth having 
 
 They'd been taken long ago. 
 
 Here are domiciled young widows, 
 
 Talkative as maniacs, 
 And they are as interesting 
 
 As are last year's almanacs; 
 
 97 
 
And they eye these antiquated 
 
 Pedagogues, that long ago 
 Saw their hopes of matrimony 
 
 Melt, like sunshine melts the snow. 
 
 But, besides these campus courses, 
 
 There are other courses too 
 That are interesting, no matter 
 
 What's the teacher's aim in view. 
 These will do him good forever, 
 
 They'll stay with him till he dies. 
 And will make of him a better 
 
 Saint to dwell in paradise. 
 
 Soon we shall be separated, 
 
 Soon, too soon, we shall forget 
 Most of these sweet, winsome faces 
 
 That we in this place have met; 
 But as long as life shall linger. 
 
 Yes, as long as love shall last, 
 There are some ties here created 
 
 That are firmly fixed, and fast. 
 
 There's one little black-haired beauty, 
 
 Smaller than a ten-year old. 
 That her sandy-haired young sweetheart 
 
 Thinks is worth her weight in gold; 
 And she keeps on, by her antics. 
 
 Telling him his love's returned. 
 Till we fear they've both forgotten 
 
 Everything they've ever learned. 
 
 But the wittiest and weirdest 
 
 Of expressions ever heard 
 Came from him whose "Manual Training" 
 
 Prompts his every act and word. 
 •We heard him accost his "wootsy," 
 
 Late one evening on this wise: 
 ^Coming round tonight — look for me — 
 
 Coming with blood in my eyes." 
 
 98 
 
Fellow teachers, study's over. 
 
 We no more shall meet in class. 
 May all on examination 
 
 Make a decent, honest pass. 
 May the very God of Heaven 
 
 Guide each head and heart and hand, 
 Giving that real preparation 
 
 By which everyone can stand. 
 
 (These verses read I, one by one, 
 Before the Summer School, for fun; 
 And just below you'll clearly see 
 What mad Old-maidhood did for me.) 
 
 FROM THE OLD MAIDS AT THE ''U. OF A." 
 
 *Tt? Mr. Carlisle and other Bachelors:^^ 
 
 '^Here's to the bachelors of the U. of A. 
 May they ever stay single forever and aye," 
 Is the wish of all old maids that out here do stay. 
 We hope that the campus course never will give 
 A degree to its students or any old prig. 
 That happens to have a few minutes to spare. 
 To stroll or to talk or to get some fresh air. 
 Now, Mr. Carlisle, we don't mind a hit. 
 As old maids we care not, not even a bit. 
 But of old bachelors, we heard in your song 
 Not a line. So we fairly confess to many. 
 That of beauty old bachelors have never had any. 
 July 19, 1907. 
 
 (Of all this paragraph above. 
 
 No, not a single line 
 Would I, for money or for love, 
 Dare set claim to as mine; 
 99 
 
I've copied tho their self-same words 
 
 To let my readers see 
 What rich and rare and radiant birds 
 
 Those old maids were to me.) 
 
 TO THE OLD MAIDS AT THE ^^U. OF A." 
 
 The poem we penned to your fancy, 
 
 That tickled your touchous-box so, 
 Amuses us, elderly sisters, 
 
 Far more than you ever can know. 
 The widows enjoyed it immensely. 
 
 The young girls were tickled to death, 
 And you, down in sackcloth and ashes, 
 
 Are wailing, and wasting your breath. 
 
 There's hope for you yet — we are single, 
 
 And have been for thirty-five years. 
 Be patient and wait — ^we are coming. 
 
 Dry up your hysterical tears. 
 Put putty and paint on your faces, 
 
 Our eyesight is failing us now. 
 And we will imagine there's beauty 
 
 In your sweet, wrinkled face anyhow. 
 
 To the naughty, yet nameless old sister 
 
 That penned us those elegant lines, 
 We'll say that we'll spark her as surely 
 
 As water-melons grow on the vines. 
 We know she's a treat and a treasure 
 
 To pen such a beautiful rhyme — 
 Dear old maid, name yourself, if you dare to. 
 
 And we'll have such an ''elephant" time. 
 
 100 
 
THE A. E. A. OF 1909 
 
 Ours is the grandest country 
 
 In all the wide, wide earth; 
 Our State, of all the gallant States, 
 
 Is of the greatest worth; 
 This County, named for Jefferson, 's 
 
 The pride of Uncle Sam; 
 This city is our Mecca — yes, 
 
 Our bustling Birmingham. 
 
 This is the banner building 
 
 In this place, anywhere; 
 This is the greatest gathering 
 
 That ever gathered here. 
 The teachers of a thousand schools 
 
 Have centered here today 
 To love and live, to get and give 
 
 Good at the A. E. A. 
 
 Responsive to the welcome 
 
 Of Colonel Sam Will John, 
 The greatest benefactors that 
 
 The heavens smile upon 
 Will prove appreciation, for 
 
 A score of years to come, 
 By sowing seeds, acquired here, 
 
 In their own schools at home. 
 
 The greatest and the grandest. 
 
 The very best of all. 
 That ever fell from wisdom's lip 
 
 In this majestic hall — 
 So full of good and timely truth. 
 
 So perfect in intent — 
 Proceeded from the fertile brain 
 
 Of our young President. 
 
 101 
 
His address should be published, 
 
 And scattered everywhere, 
 So fearless, yet so beautiful, 
 
 So rigid, yet so fair. 
 The doctrines of the Book of Books, 
 
 Inspired in days of old, 
 Methinks, most surely must have lent 
 
 This man those thoughts of gold. 
 
 Another speech, resplendent, 
 
 Delightful, rich, and sweet. 
 Pronounced by all a masterpiece, 
 
 A treasure, and a treat. 
 Was by a lady orator, 
 
 From up in Yankee Land. 
 She'd come way down to Dixie to 
 
 Lend us a helping hand. 
 
 The music by the children 
 
 Of cultured Birmingham 
 Unknotted the monotony 
 
 And clarified the calm. 
 For what is so inspiring, so 
 
 Uplifting, and so strong 
 As music by the children in 
 
 The cadences of song? 
 
 The subjects here presented, 
 
 Tho splendidly discussed, 
 When given from the manuscript 
 
 Revealed a vague distrust. 
 Methinks, our Southern gentlemen. 
 
 Our educators, ought. 
 By Northern lady orators. 
 
 On bended knee be taught. 
 
 102 
 
We teachers make our pupils 
 
 Learn many things "by heart." 
 We like to train their memories, 
 
 And revel in the art — 
 Then heap on you high compliments, 
 
 When you have lost your grip 
 Upon your audience to hold 
 
 Tight to your manuscript. 
 
 No phase of education 
 
 Has been neglected, but — 
 Some have, as usual, been discussed 
 
 In that old self -same rut, 
 Time-honored as the continents. 
 
 Unchanging as the sun. 
 Eternal as a destiny 
 
 When once it is begun. 
 
 If we, who ought to listen, 
 
 Could let our long tongues rest. 
 Those that are far more competent 
 
 Could better give their best — 
 The good we give, the good we get, 
 
 Would be enhanced ten-fold 
 If we would but eliminate 
 
 This dross from out the gold. 
 
 May we, who shall be living 
 
 In April, Nineteen- ten, 
 Determine, unreservedly. 
 
 To meet and mix again. 
 May Heaven's richest blessings come, 
 
 And come to ever stay. 
 With every real well-wisher of 
 
 Our own great A. E. A. 
 
 103 
 
THE FRIGHT OF THE FROGS 
 
 It used to be the custom of 
 
 A daring dairy-man 
 To add some water, at the branch, 
 
 To his half -full milk can. 
 One day he dipped his pail between 
 
 Two low, half-hidden logs, 
 And, as the water turned to milk, 
 
 In turned two big bullfrogs. 
 
 The female frog swam round awhile 
 
 In wonder, fear, and doubt; 
 Then broke out in a big "boo-hoo" — 
 
 That she could not get out. 
 ''I can't get out! I'm going to drown! 
 
 I'm gone! I'm gone!" she said; 
 And toward the daisies turned her toes, 
 
 Exhausted, cold and dead. 
 
 The male frog, when his wife went down, 
 
 Determined not to die; 
 But swam and kicked, and kicked and swam — 
 
 And this was all his cry: 
 *'I wont stay here! I will not drown! 
 
 Long as I have my breath 
 I'll kick and splash and slap and slash 
 
 Against such devilish death!" 
 
 And so he kicked and kicked and kicked, 
 
 Until he churned a cake 
 Of butter, making him a boat 
 
 Upon his milky lake; 
 Then, seated in this buttery boat, 
 
 Safe from a milky grave. 
 Triumphant over death, he sang: 
 ''A life on the ocean wave." 
 
 104 
 
ON THE FARM 
 
 I've spent twelve years upon the farm, 
 
 And love its memories still, 
 And of its sweet experiences — 
 
 I'm sure I've had my fill. 
 The farmers pay in briny sweat 
 For all the pleasures that they get. 
 Fatigue and toil and sacrifice 
 To them has always been the price. 
 
 What good things do the farmers have 
 
 That city folks have not, 
 But plenty of good room and air 
 
 And sunshine bright and hot? 
 The town folks live in ease and rest, 
 And yet they always have the best 
 Of everything the farmers raise 
 Thruout the long, hot summer days. 
 
 The man that's born and reared in town 
 
 Has had no chance to know 
 How hot the burning sun shines down 
 
 On country folks below. 
 His penetrating rays I've felt 
 Until it seeemed that I would melt. 
 While, undisturbed by breeze or breath, 
 All nature was as still as death. 
 
 I've watched summer's evening sun 
 
 Hang hours near one spot, 
 I've listened for the dinner bell 
 
 For hours, and heard it not. 
 I've felt a new-ground root fly back 
 And hit me on my shins — ''ca-whack!" 
 Which made me, like a crazy fool, 
 Beat up my unsuspecting mule. 
 
 105 
 
IVe plowed with wet dirt in my shoes 
 
 Till I could scarcely go; 
 My arm's been almost paralyzed 
 
 While plowing a hillside row. 
 IVe often felt the sweat profuse 
 "A-squshing" in my brogan shoes, 
 As on and on, round after round. 
 My mule and I tore up the ground. 
 
 How often have I loosed one trace, 
 
 And left my trusted mule; 
 And, kneeling at the unkept spring. 
 
 So shady, clear, and cool. 
 Beneath the steep and rugged bluff, 
 IVe drunk until I got enough; 
 Then from the spring, refreshed and cool, 
 I'd hasten back to plow my mule. 
 
 I've watched the summer's gathering clouds 
 
 Roll up, and watched them pass; 
 I've seen neglected, spindling crops, 
 
 Half-hidden in the grass — 
 I've plowed up snakes and stamped them dead 
 Half mad, half glad, and half afraid — 
 I've felt cold lizzards, sleek as eggs. 
 Crawl half-way up my breeches legs! 
 
 Those dear old days are past and gone, 
 
 My old plow mule is dead, 
 And gray hairs fast are gathering 
 
 Upon my helpless head. 
 But Just as long as God shall give 
 Me might and mind, and let me live, 
 I'll envy no man of his warm 
 Experiences down on the farm. 
 
 106 
 
THE POET'S HEART 
 
 When the birds begin to sing 
 In the fresh and frostless spring, 
 
 And the leaves begin to beautify the trees, 
 And the croaking of the frogs, 
 From the lagoons and the bogs, 
 
 Mix their musics with the murmurs of the breeze- 
 Then the poet's passions start 
 Stately steppings in his heart. 
 
 When the quails pair off in pairs, 
 
 And the dove moans up her prayers 
 For her undefended, unprotected nest; 
 
 And the mockingbird's sweet note 
 
 All but bursts her little throat. 
 As she sings her tiny, baby birds to rest — 
 
 Then the poet's verses smart, 
 
 Yet unborn, within his heart. 
 
 When the flowers in their bloom 
 
 Waft their fragrance and perfume 
 Broadcast thru the soft and sunny atmosphere, 
 
 And the monarchs of the wood, 
 
 That thru centuries have stood. 
 Bud anew to greet the spring time of the year — • 
 
 Then his masterpiece in art 
 
 Issues from the poet's heart. 
 
 When the bright and morning sun 
 Drinks the dewdrops, one by one. 
 
 As they drip in jewelled beauty from the grass; 
 While a billion beams unite 
 To baptize a world with light, 
 
 And awake her sleeping flowers, as they pass- 
 Then the poet's lines impart 
 To the world his inner heart. 
 
 107 
 
THE PASSING OF THE PINES 
 
 Before Columbus ever sailed 
 
 Across the Unknown Sea, 
 Before the Red-skin saw the moss 
 
 On ''one side of the tree," 
 Some unseen Hand, as surely as 
 
 The sun in Heaven shines, 
 Reached forth and planted plenteously 
 
 Our Southern Plains in pines. 
 
 For centuries they grew and stood 
 
 In beauty side by side. 
 And moaned their dirge of solitude, 
 
 As ceaseless as the tide. 
 As countless as the stars above, 
 
 In one unbroken band. 
 For miles and multitudes of miles, 
 
 They beautified the land. 
 
 How long the Indians laid claim 
 
 To these lands as their own. 
 To them their "Happy Hunting Grounds," 
 
 Is never to be known ; 
 But long as they alone lived here. 
 
 Within their broad confines, 
 They loved to live, and lived to love 
 
 Their wilderness of pines. 
 
 But when the White Men from the East 
 
 Began in crowds to come, 
 They drove the Red-skin Savages 
 
 From their God-given home; 
 They sent surveyors thru these woods. 
 
 Establishing their lines. 
 And afterwards began wholesale 
 
 Destruction of the pines. 
 
 108 
 
They've been boxed nearly round their roots, 
 
 And chipped up twelve feet high, 
 And burnt by maddened forest fires, 
 
 That swept like hell-hounds by. 
 They've shed a billion tubs of tears — 
 
 We call it turpentine; 
 But it is more — ah! it's the blood, 
 
 The real life of the pine. 
 
 These might have been our rich reserves — 
 
 These stalwart pines of old, 
 More valuable in years to come 
 
 Than silver or than gold; 
 But, like spoiled children trying to mend 
 
 Their broken toys with whines, 
 Some day our Sunny South shall mourn 
 
 For her departed pines. 
 
 Our wasteful Age can't rest content 
 
 Till every pine is gone, 
 With nothing but the stumps to mark 
 
 The grounds they grew upon; 
 For, since the output is too large 
 
 To be made away with here, 
 It's shipped across the ocean to 
 
 The other Hemisphere. 
 
 Soon, soon, ah! soon America, 
 
 Especially the South, 
 Shall wail for what she's wasting now — 
 
 Then what shall stop her mouth? 
 For all her sighs and all her cries. 
 
 And long, protracted whines, 
 And all her tears, for all the years. 
 
 Can not replace her pines. 
 
 109 
 
THE PERILS OF POVERTY 
 
 Of all of the trials and troubles 
 
 With which human beings are cursed, 
 
 Real poverty, abject and wretched, 
 Methinks, must be surely the worst. 
 
 For who can feel healthy, while hungry. 
 
 Or who can go ragged, yet glad. 
 Or who can be happy, if homeless — 
 
 As poverty, what is so bad? 
 
 It makes a man kneel to his neighbors, 
 
 It makes him afraid of his friends, 
 It makes him neglect his devotions 
 
 To Him upon whom he depends. 
 
 It oftentimes makes him evaded 
 And hated by those he would love, 
 
 Suspected, neglected, rejected. 
 Except by the Father above. 
 
 For poverty's friends are not many — 
 They are woefully lacking on earth, 
 
 But gather by hundreds and thousands 
 Round riches and honor and worth. 
 
 We're taught tho that in the hereafter 
 The poor, that are pious, shall rise 
 
 To Mansions not builded with hands, in 
 The beautiful Up-in-the-skies ; 
 
 Where all will be spotless and perfect 
 And peaceful and pretty and pure. 
 
 Where people are happy forever. 
 And all things forever endure. 
 
 no 
 
THE PERILS OF RICHES 
 
 Of all of the beautiful blessings 
 
 With which human beings are blest, 
 
 Great riches and superabundance 
 Are dangerous more than the rest. 
 
 For they that are wealthy, tho vdcked, 
 And they that have millions, tho mean, 
 
 Are often excused from correction. 
 And veiled by Society's screen. 
 
 Wealth makes a man harsh toward his neighbors, 
 Sometimes, and a fear to his friends. 
 
 And makes him divide his devotions 
 To Him upon whom he depends. 
 
 It often makes mother a stranger 
 
 To her little angel on earth, 
 And murders the motherly instinct 
 
 That's born with a babe at its birth. 
 
 Tho wealth has her friends by the thousands, 
 That follow in swarms and in droves. 
 
 The motive that moves them is simple — 
 A few little fishes and loaves. 
 
 It easier is for a camel 
 
 To go thru the needle's small eye. 
 Than 'tis for a rich man to enter 
 
 The Kingdom of God by and by. 
 
 But he that's proved truest, when trusted 
 With honor and wealth and renown, 
 
 Methinks, will be richly rewarded 
 With even more stars in his crown. 
 
 Ill 
 
LIFE 
 
 Mysterious in its origin, 
 
 Uncertain in its scope, 
 Life with its varied tendencies, 
 Its downfalls and ascendencies, 
 
 Lives on in hopeful hope — 
 E'en mid its worst calamities 
 
 It lives in hopeless hope. 
 
 Prosperity may nourish it, 
 
 Adversity may scorn. 
 Encouragement may cherish it. 
 Disparagement may perish it 
 
 With each succeeding morn; 
 Yet life lives on continuously, 
 
 When once it has been born. 
 
 Renown and fame may honor it. 
 Remorse and shame may chide; 
 
 It may have popularity, 
 
 But may procure from charity 
 Its wherewith to abide. 
 
 Yet life leaps onward blindedly, 
 Led by no loyal guide. 
 
 Each step is an experiment 
 
 Out in the weird unknown. 
 There is no real security 
 Against the fierce futurity 
 
 That's coming ever on. 
 Till, pressing o'er the present, it 
 
 Becomes the past and gone. 
 
 Life has a present and a past 
 
 O'er which it "pondereth" 
 With lingering regretfulness. 
 Or sorrowful forgetfulness. 
 
 Long as it has its breath; 
 But future and eternity 
 
 Belong alone to death. 
 
 112 
 
113 
 
 DEATH 
 
 O, Grave, where is thy victory? 
 
 O, Death, where is they sting? 
 Thou real of all realities, 
 Thou final of finalities. 
 
 Life's only lasting thing! 
 Thou art, in deed, the master-thought 
 
 Of our eternal King! 
 
 As certain as eternity, 
 
 Is death's mysterious change, 
 
 Creating unreality 
 
 Into its immortality 
 
 By means divinely strange. 
 
 Where feeble, faltering, finite mind 
 Can never, never range. 
 
 If heaven is a certainty. 
 
 Then hell's a fearful fact; 
 If God does love humanity. 
 And hates deceit and vanity, 
 
 Then how ought we to act. 
 With God to bless eternally, 
 
 And devils to distract? 
 
 O, Death, thou art no enemy — 
 
 Good messenger thou art. 
 So merciful and dutiful. 
 So sorrowful, yet beautiful, 
 
 Fresh from the Father's heart, 
 Inviting wearied, worried life 
 
 To lay itself apart. 
 
 Death has no present and no past — 
 
 No future it controls — 
 Between Time and Eternity, 
 It warns ail Earth's fraternity 
 
 Of never dying souls 
 To rise above — not fall to where 
 
 Hell's hot eternal rolls. 
 
THE COLONEL'S WAYS (U. VA.) 
 
 Full many a man has stamped his name 
 
 On History's page eternal, 
 By lofty lays and deeds of praise; 
 But none by such impressful ways 
 
 As has our kingly Colonel. 
 
 He rules all with an iron rod 
 
 That come within his power; 
 And often rears, like two she bears 
 Had rushed upon him unawares, 
 
 In an unguarded hour. 
 
 Oh! when the Colonel comes in mad, 
 
 The man that makes a blunder 
 May kneel and beg on bended leg. 
 But, like the dog that sucked the egg, 
 He always catches thunder. 
 
 The Colonel seldom compliments 
 
 The fellows in his classes. 
 But magnifies to wondrous size 
 Our errors right before our eyes. 
 
 Till we wax dumb as asses. 
 
 His peevish face for pity frowns 
 
 At every awkward blunder; 
 And should one make a bad mistake 
 Another man is called to "take 
 
 It up" — and then there's thunder! 
 
 114 
 
It's fun to sit and hear him when 
 
 He gets upon a sweller, 
 As long as all his scoldings fall, 
 Like some hot, heavy cannon-ball, 
 
 Upon the other fellow — 
 
 But when the thing comes closer home. 
 
 And I, myself, am in it, 
 I Just implore the flinching floor 
 To part its planks, as ne'er before, 
 
 And hide me for one minute. 
 
 Yet, all the students love "Old Pete," 
 
 Altho we dread and fear him; 
 And every one, he's pecked upon. 
 Respects him now, and when he's gone 
 Will honor and revere him. 
 
 However, every now and then, 
 The Colonel's fussy features 
 Put on a smile a little while, 
 Which by its queer and comic style 
 Would tickle even preachers. 
 
 May his declining years be sweet. 
 
 And happily diminished. 
 Until life's close shall bring repose 
 To rest him from its toils and woes, 
 
 And whisper: It is finished. 
 
 115 
 
THE NOW-AND-NOW 
 
 One by one the days are dying, 
 
 One by one the years go by; 
 Babes are born to fill the places 
 
 Of the adults as they die. 
 
 Time that's lost is lost forever, 
 
 Search for it howe'er we will. 
 Like the stream that comes back never 
 
 After it has turned the mill. 
 
 So the duties here neglected. 
 
 Weep for them howe'er we will, 
 On the final Day of Judgment, 
 
 Must remain neglected still. 
 
 Life is short and death is certain — 
 
 Opportunities can't last — 
 They live in the present only. 
 
 Never in the perished past. 
 
 Trust not too much in the future. 
 
 For it is a weird unknown; 
 Preciously improve the present. 
 
 For it only is your own. 
 
 Truly Now is the accepted 
 
 Time to do Today's demands. 
 For Tomorrow may require 
 
 Other duties at our hands. 
 
 He who seizes wisely all the 
 
 Opportunities that rise 
 On the earth shall sow contentment, 
 
 And reap heaven when he dies. 
 
 116 
 
SEASIDE SOLILOQUIES 
 
 As I sit with myself by 
 The side of the sea, 
 And look out on its waters so wide, 
 While the whining mosquitoes 
 Are singing their tunes 
 To the flow and the ebb of the tide, 
 I am penning a poem to my friends far away, 
 That may read my vague verses with pride 
 In the live little town where 
 I live and I love, 
 And I hope many years to abide. 
 
 It is sweet to steal off, thru 
 The lone piney woods, 
 Driving many a worrisome mile. 
 Over sand upon sand with 
 A wearisome tread. 
 Like a wandering, wanton exile; 
 But the end of the journey makes all of it sweet, 
 When dear mother, with angelic smile. 
 
 Throws her arms round my neck, hugs 
 My form to her breast. 
 And there breathlessly lingers a while. 
 
 The a man stay away till 
 The trials of life 
 Write their wrinkles down deep in his face. 
 And the passing of years paints 
 A fragment of frost 
 Thru his hairs that no sun can erase; 
 When he comes back again to the humble old home 
 Always met with a mother's embrace, 
 How his heart melts to tears as 
 As he weeps o'er the years 
 Wasted far from the dear sacred place. 
 
 117 
 
But I know, yes, I know, in 
 A few farewell years, 
 That this dear, darling mother of mine. 
 That has loved me so long, must 
 Be taken away 
 To a home most sublime and divine; 
 Then a-weary I'll wait in the world for a while. 
 Until life with its cares I resign. 
 To respond to the call of 
 The good Lord of All, 
 Like the stars, then forever to shine. 
 
 A THOUGHT OF HOME 
 
 A few more weeks, and I shall clasp 
 
 A hand so kind and clever, 
 A few more weeks, and I shall hear 
 
 A voice more loved than ever, 
 A few more weeks, and I shall see 
 
 Eyes dearer than all others, 
 A few more weeks, and I'll go home 
 
 To see the best of mothers. 
 
 I count the hours as they pass 
 
 Me by in quick succession — 
 O happy thoughts of home, sweet home, 
 
 How blest their sweet impression! 
 Tho separated now from home 
 
 By months and miles and mountains, 
 Soon I shall drink those holy joys 
 
 That flow from home's fair fountains. 
 
 When I get home I'll sit me down 
 
 With father, sisters, brothers — 
 And, drawing up my rockingchair 
 
 Close to the side of mother's. 
 
 118 
 
I'll vow anew, no matter where 
 My restless steps may wander, 
 
 The sweetest place is, after all, 
 The dear old home back yonder. 
 
 If aught on earth can imitate 
 
 That pleasant place above us. 
 It is the peaceful, happy home, 
 
 Where there are those that love us — 
 Where love is law, and law is love. 
 
 And life's a thing of beauty, 
 Of harmonizing truth and trust, 
 
 Of blending love and duty. 
 
 But Time consumes the sweetest homes. 
 
 And Death claims those most cherished; 
 But God's eternal love lives on 
 
 When earthly things have perished — 
 And in His own "Sweet-by-and-by," 
 
 Whose days diminish never. 
 We'll meet in our eternal home 
 
 To live and love forever. 
 
 THE ALMIGHTY DOLLAR 
 
 What is there in America 
 
 That wields such mighty powers 
 O'er every branch of industry 
 
 In this good land of ours — 
 What is there that all sorts of men 
 
 Unitedly will follow 
 Except the trustless, treacherous, 
 
 Much sought Amighty Dollar? 
 
 What lawyer on this continent 
 
 Would not form an alliance 
 With men in high society 
 
 To clear the worst of clients? 
 
 119 
 
Ah! will he not throw off his coat, 
 
 And ''shuck out" of his collar, 
 Defending vilest vagabonds 
 
 For that Almighty Dollar? 
 
 What doctor in these latter days 
 
 Does not love real possession 
 Of every sort of property 
 
 More than his praised profession? 
 What makes him go at dead of night? 
 
 Is it Distress's hollo 
 That makes him move, or isn't it 
 
 The great Almighty Dollar? 
 
 What teacher in the land is there. 
 
 So fixed in his profession. 
 That money can not make resign 
 
 Before the closing session? 
 What old-maid school-ma'am anywhere 
 
 Would not swell up and swallow, 
 And wed the widower that rules 
 
 The great Almighty Dollar? 
 
 Where is the preacher who would think 
 
 It somewhat inconsistent 
 For him to feel divinely called 
 
 To go to fields far distant, 
 And leave an obscure pastorate, 
 
 To preach to learned scholars. 
 If by the change he knew he'd save 
 
 Few souls, but many Dollars? 
 
 Yes, all of us, the good and bad. 
 
 The simpletons and sages. 
 The multi-millionaires and those 
 
 That starve on stinted wages — 
 Tho high on fame's illustrious top. 
 
 Or shut in shame's worst wallow. 
 Earth's millions all are reaching out 
 
 For that Almighty Dollar. 
 
 120 
 
WHEN MAUD POWELL DRAWS HER BOW 
 
 The whole world loves string music — 
 
 Of it she'll never tire; 
 Tho it shall spring from mandolin, 
 
 Guitar, or from the lyre, 
 From fiddle, or the violin. 
 
 Or from the old banjo — 
 But all that hear are breathless — when 
 
 Maud Powell draws her bow. 
 
 Brass bands sit down in silence, 
 
 Grand orchestras grow dumb. 
 The choirs of the continents 
 
 Stand motionless and mum, 
 Musicians under every sky 
 
 On bended knee sink low, 
 •And hear with heads uncovered — when 
 
 Maud Powell draws her bow. 
 
 The world looks up, enraptured, 
 
 With eager, anxious ear. 
 The moon looks down admiringly 
 
 To see what she can hear, 
 While heaven, methinks, gives recess 
 
 Just to let the angels know 
 How sweet and rich the music — when 
 
 Maud Powell draws her bow. 
 
 121 
 
LITTLE NINA 
 
 She came and she went, 
 Like a flake of the river, 
 
 We loved her so dearly — 
 We lost her forever. 
 
 We've lost her — ah! no; 
 
 There never has perished 
 A baby so good and 
 
 So tenderly cherished. 
 
 Bereft of our babe, 
 
 How can we but sorrow? 
 But, O, we must meet her 
 
 In Heaven's tomorrow. 
 
 So sweet and so good, 
 Her Savior above her 
 
 Has taken her home to 
 Relieve and to love her. 
 
 He loaned her to us — 
 She never was ours — 
 
 The Master has right to 
 The best of His flowers. 
 
 EARLY LIFE OF ST. PAUL 
 
 In the cultured city, Tarsus, 
 
 Many, many years ago. 
 Lived a quiet, steady schoolboy 
 
 Of whose birth we little know. 
 
 But we know he was a student 
 
 Of no ordinary cast 
 By the writings he has left us — 
 
 These shall live while time shall last. 
 
 122 
 
At the feet of old Gamaliel 
 Earnestly he sat and thought, 
 
 Drinking in the philosophic 
 Truths the wise old doctor taught. 
 
 He was so enthused with learning 
 
 All his long, eventful life 
 That he found no time for "sparking," 
 
 So he never had a wife. 
 
 He admired woman's beauty. 
 For it pleased him to declare 
 
 That the glory of a woman 
 Is the beauty of her hair. 
 
 So, methinks, mid all his studies 
 
 In philosophy and art. 
 That he too felt love's sensations 
 
 Linger sweetly in his heart. 
 
 He was proud to be a Roman, 
 
 And as proud to be a Jew; 
 And was always "dead in earnest" 
 
 In all that he tried to do. 
 
 Such a perfect type of manhood — 
 
 Mind and body, spirit, all — 
 That the people, all that knew him, 
 
 Feared to measure arms with Saul. 
 
 He believed the early Christians 
 
 Were a superstitious sect — 
 That by them his own religion 
 
 Would be set at naught, and wrecked. 
 
 Hence he got permission from the 
 Chiefs and rulers of the Jews 
 
 To bring bound both men and women 
 To them for them to abuse. 
 
 123 
 
So he started for Damascus 
 
 On a tour like this one day, 
 When there shined a light about him 
 
 In a most astounding way; 
 
 And a voice from heaven saying, 
 Just as plain as plain could be: 
 
 'Saul, O, Saul, why persecutest — 
 Saul, why persecutest Me?" 
 
 Blinded Saul arose upstartled — 
 For he'd fallen to the ground, 
 
 Terrified at being blinded 
 
 By the light that shone around. 
 
 Genuinely there converted, 
 
 He became a Christian Jew, 
 And cried out: "O, Lord, what wilt thou- 
 
 What wilt thou have me to do?" 
 
 So the fearless Saul of Tarsus, 
 
 Learned, intellectual Saul, 
 In a moment strangely came to 
 
 Be the great Apostle Paul; 
 
 Preaching everywhere the Gospel, 
 
 Which he'd openly belied — 
 To the Jews and to the Gentiles — 
 
 Of the Christ, the crucified. 
 
 TWO POPULAR LIES 
 
 '•'What-some-body-said" and " What-I-heard" 
 Are twins, disgusting and absurd; 
 For oftener than otherwise 
 They are real falsehoods in disguise. 
 
 124 
 
125 
 
 When "What-I-heard" starts on a trip 
 She goes and grows from lip to lip 
 Till she becomes so big a lie 
 That hell itself should pass her by. 
 
 When '^What-somebody-said" starts out, 
 We scarcely know what she's about, 
 But as she goes she grows in size 
 Into a masterpiece of lies. 
 
 ''What-somebody-said" and " What-I-heard, 
 Lies in intent, tho not in word, 
 Have torn enough of friends apart 
 To make the devil sick at heart. 
 
 THREE WONDERS 
 
 Consistency, thou art a jewel, 
 
 So radiant, yet so rare! 
 Pray tell me now where dwellest thou? 
 
 Thou must be gone somewhere. 
 
 Hypocrisy, hid in religion; 
 
 So popular, yet so base — • 
 Where is the spot where thou art not? 
 
 I want to see the place. 
 
 Sincerity, handmaid of virtue, 
 Preserver of justice and truth, 
 
 Shouldst thou depart from out the heart 
 Ere manhood buries youth? 
 
 Consistency, when thou art wanting 
 
 Hypocrisy holds full sway; 
 Sincerity dies before our eyes. 
 
 And hope falls to decay. 
 
 )) 
 
I NEVER DO 
 
 I never go a-fishing 
 
 Without some sort of hook, 
 I never learn my lesson 
 
 Without I have a book, 
 I never go to preaching 
 
 Without my pretty pants, and 
 I never kiss my sweetheart 
 
 Without I have a chance. 
 
 I never plow a furrow 
 
 Without some sort of plow, 
 I never saw ma milking 
 
 The calf without the cow, 
 I never eat my supper 
 
 In the morning of the day, and 
 I never see my sweetheart 
 
 When she's fifty miles away. 
 
 I never see the shadows 
 
 When my face is toward the light, 
 I never take the lefthand 
 
 When I'm turning toward the right, 
 I never know a sorrow 
 
 When I'm bubbling o'er with glee, but 
 I always love my sweetheart 
 
 When I know that she loves me. 
 
 I never eat a biscuit 
 
 Till I get it in my mouth, 
 I never travel toward the North 
 
 While traveling toward the South, 
 I never see the sunshine 
 
 In the darkness of the night, but 
 I love my little sweetheart 
 
 When I know her heart is right. 
 
 126 
 
127 
 
 THE NATION'S WAIL 
 
 Beloved McKinley, thou art gone! 
 
 A Nation mourns thy tragic end! 
 The North and South now weep as one, 
 
 And mourn their leader and their friend. 
 
 Thru storm and calm, thru day and night, 
 Thy hand hast steered us safe along, 
 
 Thy face turned ever toward the right. 
 Thy back turned always toward the wrong. 
 
 May angel spirits from the skies 
 
 Their unseen vigils softly keep. 
 For where our worthy chieftain lies 
 
 The evening breezes sigh and weep. 
 
 Tho lapse of years with sure decay 
 Shall change thy body back to sod, 
 
 Thy noble spirit, far away, 
 
 Sleeps on the bosom of its God. 
 
 PLEA FOR THE DEFENDANT 
 
 While hanging on the cross. He cried, 
 
 If Holy Writ be true. 
 Forgive them. Father, O, forgive! 
 
 They know not what they do. 
 
 Our mother State does not chastise 
 
 Her wayward children, lest 
 ''Beyond a reasonable doubt" 
 She sees their guilt expressed. 
 
 And, lest a single spot of guilt 
 Should on this man be found, 
 
 She takes the robe of innocence 
 And wraps it all around. 
 
MOTHER 
 
 No matter where my steps may roam, 
 
 To this place or the other, 
 I think sweet thoughts of home, sweet home, 
 
 And my dear, darhng mother, 
 Whose tender, soft, consoHng voice 
 Once made my infant heart rejoice. 
 
 Each sunken furrow in her face, 
 
 That's daily deeper growing, 
 Was plowed to fit her for that place 
 
 To which she's some day going — 
 My wicked ways helped guide the plow 
 That cut the furrows in her brow. 
 
 Her fading eye with age now dim 
 
 Is still a gem of beauty, 
 Her broken voice, a hallowed hymn 
 
 Of love and hope and duty. 
 Whose tender sweetness, soft and clear, 
 Is music always to my ear. 
 
 Her hand, one time so smooth and white, 
 
 Is now engloved in wrinkles; 
 Her hair, once dark, is growing light 
 
 With age's silver sprinkles — 
 Yes, many a shining, silver thread 
 Now richly beautifies her head. 
 
 She taught me in my tender youth 
 
 To know and do my duty — 
 To live for peace and right and truth. 
 
 That life might beam with beauty — 
 If I had lived like mother taught. 
 My life would be more as it ought. 
 
 May her declining days be sweet — 
 
 Be free from anxious sorrow. 
 High Heaven can not be complete 
 
 Till she, some sweet tomorrow, 
 Shall lay her wearied body down, 
 And go up home to wear her crown. 128 
 
129 
 
 O, God, select, Thyself, the spot 
 Where soon must lie my mother, 
 
 And plant, Thou, one forget-me-not. 
 And let me plant another; 
 
 And let them, till the Judgment, be 
 
 A covenant 'twixt Thee and me. 
 
 THE TONGUE 
 
 Full many a man would be happy today 
 
 If somebody, while he was young, 
 Had taught him one lesson, and taught it to stay, 
 To keep in subjection, by night and by day. 
 
 That unruly member, the tongue. 
 
 A person can count on his fingers with ease 
 
 The men — all he knows of — ^among 
 His acquaintances, who can control as they please — 
 Like the pilot, his ship on the breast of the seas — 
 
 That unruly member, the tongue. 
 
 But where is the woman, so good and so pure — 
 
 Altho she will vow that its wrong — 
 Who thru tribulation can grin and endure, 
 And hold with a grip, that is steadfast and sure. 
 
 That unruly member, the tongue? 
 
 A terror by day, and tormenter by night. 
 
 To the old, middle aged, and young, 
 Is the unruly member, whose frequent delight 
 Is fraught with deceit, and opposed to the right — 
 
 That unruly member, the tongue. 
 
 If falsehoods were buried, and slanders and lies 
 
 Should everywhere cease to be sung, 
 Methinks, heaven itself would descend from the skies 
 To the earth — then, O, why can't the world civilize 
 
 That unruly member, the tongue? 
 
THE LOVER 
 
 The old world, it jeers, 
 
 And all mankind sneers. 
 And gossipers gossip it over, 
 
 Whenever they spy 
 
 The wink in the eye 
 Of him who is really a lover. 
 
 He awkwardly stands, 
 With both of his hands 
 "Soused" down half knee deep in his pockets, 
 While his dreamy-like eyes. 
 Like a fellow's that lies. 
 Roll around their distress in their sockets. 
 
 When speaks his old chum, 
 
 He's silent and mum — 
 His heart has gone after its treasure. 
 
 Few words does he say — 
 
 At work or at play — 
 But he thinks in a multiplied measure. 
 
 Tho father may tease, 
 
 And mother may squeeze, 
 And sisters and brothers upbraid him, 
 
 He sits thru it all 
 
 Like a knot on the wall. 
 For plagues, such as these, can not fade him. 
 
 While working he feels 
 
 .A something that steals 
 Like dreams thru his heart's still recesses. 
 
 And breeds a desire 
 
 To quit, and retire 
 Somewhere to relieve its distresses. 
 
 130 
 
131 
 
 What once brought him joys 
 
 Now only annoys — 
 Old pastimes now haunt him with horror. 
 
 What once was delight, 
 
 Now darker than night, 
 Wraps round him but sadness and sorrow. 
 
 With slumber all fled 
 
 From his burdensome bed, 
 He's turned and he's tustled and tumbled, 
 
 Till to him it seems 
 
 That love and its dreams 
 Into hell and its torments are crumbled. 
 
 His magnetic eyes 
 
 Work wonders crosswise — 
 In any great throng they can find her — 
 
 They then never stir, 
 
 But, fastened on her, 
 They're set till she feels them behind her. 
 
 He, jealous in heart. 
 
 Can't let her take part 
 In any little social endeavor. 
 
 But wants her to be 
 
 Like a vine to its tree. 
 Right beside him forever and ever. 
 
 When he is alone 
 
 With his coveted own. 
 He tries and he treats and he troubles — 
 
 He fears he will say 
 
 His words the wrong way. 
 And oh! how his "botherment" bubbles. 
 
 The world ought to feel — • 
 
 The world ought to deal 
 More tenderly with the real lover; 
 
 For God only knows 
 
 The trials and woes 
 That he tries to keep under cover. 
 
THE HELLISHNESS OF HATE 
 
 A lying tongue despises 
 
 The victim of its lies, 
 Its hate increases with the years, 
 
 Its venom never dies. 
 Tho it may vow repeatedly 
 
 To be its victim's friend, 
 It proves a life-long enemy, 
 
 A devil to the end. 
 
 The liar, the deceiver, 
 
 The swindler and the thief. 
 If they succeed successfully, 
 
 Stand out in bold relief — 
 The warped world worships wickedly 
 
 Position, power, and wealth, 
 Tho held by swindling, robbery, 
 
 Deception, fraud, and stealth. 
 
 When one man does another 
 
 A mean, malicious wrong. 
 His hard heart hates as cruelly 
 
 As does the lying tongue — 
 And, as the opportunities 
 
 Arise, we hear his "whack!" 
 As he unmercifully stabs 
 
 His victim in the back. 
 
 He "moves and has his being" 
 
 In his "mysterious way," 
 Unmindful that the passing years 
 
 Must melt the mists away — 
 Unmindful that eternity 
 
 Shall scatter all his schemes, 
 And that the devil waits for him, 
 
 The idol of his dreams. 
 
 132 
 
THE BOLL WEEVIL 
 
 Quite a while our business thinkers 
 On one point have all agreed, 
 
 That diversity in farming 
 
 Is, perhaps, just what we need — 
 
 That our good, industrious farmers. 
 Each might be a king of kings. 
 
 If they'd all plant less of cotton, 
 And plant more of other things, 
 
 Every plan has proved a failure 
 To cut cotton acreage down, v 
 
 Whether fathered in the country 
 Or engendered in the town. 
 
 But the little sly boll weevil 
 Has a sane and simple plan, 
 
 That will make our cotton raisers 
 Cut the acreage, to a man. 
 
 When he comes he'll show the farmer 
 In a few short years, they say, 
 
 How to cut his cotton acreage — 
 Then he'll go his eastward way. 
 
 So the dreaded pest, Boll Weevil — 
 Since our farmers won't be wise — 
 
 After all may prove to be a 
 Blessing to them in disguise. 
 
 It may kill the credit system. 
 
 That has built our banks in stone, 
 
 But may make our farmers really 
 Own what now they seem to own. 
 
 133 
 
MIKE COTTON 
 
 'No sex is spared, no age exempt," 
 
 But at Death's silent call 
 The spirit and the body part, 
 The soul bids farewell to the heart, 
 The life mysteriously unlinked 
 Becomes immediately extinct. 
 
 And sorrow's shadows fall. 
 
 Yet when one like Mike Cotton dies, 
 
 So manly and so good, 
 So wise in ways, so young in years. 
 We can but look up thru our tears, 
 And trust more sweetly in the love 
 Of Him who needed him above 
 
 For greater Christianhood. 
 
 All Dothan mourns, and long may mourn 
 
 This death, so premature; 
 But time, that tempers all our grief. 
 Alone can bring our hearts relief. 
 E'en tho the life he lived displayed 
 The sweet assurance that he made 
 
 His caUing an election sure. 
 
 He's dead, and yet he is not dead — 
 
 He's gone, and yet he's here — 
 For memory, more sweetly still, 
 Will keep him in our hearts until 
 The excellence that in him shone 
 Becomes in us our very own, 
 A living souvenir. 
 
 134 
 
MORNING SOMEWHERE 
 
 Tho the night of a life 
 May be darker than death, 
 And that darkness be draped 
 
 In despair, 
 And the pangs of remorse 
 Paralize every breath, 
 And the dirge of the dead 
 
 Rend the air — 
 Tho the horrors of hell 
 Haunt the dreams of the night, 
 And despoil silent sleep 
 
 In her lair. 
 It is happy to know 
 That there somewhere is light- 
 In the world 
 
 There is Morning 
 Somewhere. 
 
 Tho the horrors of war 
 Fill all Europe with rage. 
 Till revenge takes the heart 
 
 Out of prayer. 
 And the carnage of blood 
 Spills a blot on the Age 
 That the tears of a world 
 
 Can't repair; 
 In the United States 
 There is unbroken peace — 
 She is neutral to this 
 
 Dark affair — 
 Tho the blackness of night 
 In the East shall increase. 
 
 Yet the world 
 
 Must have Morning 
 Somewhere. 
 
Should the United States, 
 The despiser of wars, 
 The believer in peace 
 
 And in prayer, 
 The defender sublime 
 Of the Stripes and the Stars, 
 That triumphantly float 
 
 In the air. 
 Be submerged in the strife 
 Now destroying the East, 
 Dealing darkness and death 
 
 And despair. 
 It is Heaven to know. 
 When the wars shall have ceased, 
 
 There must come 
 
 Peace and morning 
 Somewhere. 
 
 THE HERO OF THE HOUR 
 
 The world of today is in need of one man, 
 
 One man with the power of pen 
 To bring for one moment the world to a pause 
 And, in the calm stillness of silent applause, 
 
 Appeal to the reason of men. 
 The pitying pagans and heathens abhor 
 Our Anglicized, Germanized waging of war, 
 For never before, since the days of the Flood, 
 Has the civilized world been so soaked in its blood. 
 
 Religion in peace and religion in war! 
 
 Great God! are they both not the same? 
 Can pillage and plunder and carnage and blood. 
 As wide as the world and as fleet as the flood, 
 
 By war be relieved of its shame? 
 Tho thousands and thousands go wrong at a time. 
 Can multiplied numbers diminish the crime, 
 When all of our Biblical teachings abhor 
 The spirit of strife and the carnage of war? 
 
 136 
 
When crown-heads of nations and rulers of men 
 
 Begin to wage war against strife, 
 And follow the footprints of Him whom we call 
 The Master of men and the Savior of all — 
 
 The Way and the Truth and the Life — 
 Will armies and navies disband, and depart 
 To seek peace and pardon with penitent heart; 
 Then wars and their horrors will everywhere cease, 
 And over the world will reign permanent peace. 
 
 The wild, wailing world is in need of one man, 
 
 One man with the power of pen 
 To turn the whole tide of the deluge of wars. 
 With all of its scandals and all of its scars, 
 
 By turning the rulers of men — 
 By turning the hearts of the rulers, above. 
 From hate and confusion to order and love; 
 For God has declared in His volume divine, 
 In words unmistakable, "Vengeance is Mine." 
 
 The Christianized world gives its Bible the lie, 
 
 And tramples its truths in the dust, 
 And, prodigal-like, spurns the mercy and love, 
 So free from the heart of the Father above. 
 
 When war is the strength of its trust. 
 What church-man can pray for the world's wars to cease 
 When he's not in line with the Captain of Peace — 
 Whose law is so simple — Love God, and then do 
 Unto others as you would have others do you? 
 
 The world, the old word, the old war-widening world. 
 
 Needs one great apostle of power — 
 A Joshua — one who can stop at his will 
 A slaughtering world, and bid it be still, 
 
 And reign, the hero of the hour — 
 Great rulers are ruined — wide stretches laid waste — 
 Whole kingdoms and nations, debauched and disgraced — 
 Except there arise some great power to check. 
 The wars of the world will bring all things to wreck. 
 137 
 
GATHER THE FRAGMENTS 
 
 If one-half of the billions of pennies, 
 
 Tho they seem so infinitely small, 
 That are willfully wasted by millions 
 
 To no definite purpose at all, 
 Could be gathered and wisely expended, 
 
 They would feed the world's hungering host — 
 Let us carefully gather the fragments 
 
 Of our pennies, that nothing be lost. 
 
 If one-half of the moments expended 
 
 In pursuit of the follies of mirth 
 Should be shared with the souls that by sorrow 
 
 Are debarred from the pleasures of earth. 
 How 'twould rid the old world of its sadness — 
 
 Like the sunshine that scatters the frost — 
 Let us carefully gather the fragments 
 
 Of our moments, that nothing be lost. 
 
 If one-half of the idle words uttered, 
 
 With no intent — no purpose at all. 
 Could be gathered, and wisely re-ordered. 
 
 They could preach like the sermons of Paul. 
 They could give the whole world the Glad Tidings, 
 
 Without money, without price, without cost — 
 Let us carefully gather the fragments 
 
 Of our words, so that nothing be lost. 
 
 The Almighty has gathered together 
 
 Tiny drops, and, collectively, these, 
 Like the grains that, unitedly, fashion 
 
 All the lands, make the whole of the seas. 
 His- economy, perfect, eternal. 
 
 Suffers nothing to waste or exhaust- 
 But He carefully gathers His fragments, 
 
 Big and little, that nothing be lost. 
 
 138 
 
THE CHARM OF THE CHURCH 
 
 A commodious, beautiful building, 
 
 With its costly and carpeted aisles, 
 With its velvety pews, and its pulpit 
 
 Cast and carved in the richest of styles, 
 With its multiplied rooms for convenience, 
 
 All so splendidly lighted and warm, 
 May be proof of the charm, so alluring. 
 
 But is not in itself the real charm. 
 
 A majestic, magnificent organ. 
 
 Or a cultured and classical choir 
 With their voices in harmony blending. 
 
 Like the soft tender tones of the lyre. 
 Or an audience, learned and lofty. 
 
 Living on in continuous calm, 
 May have sprung from the charm, as its offspring, 
 
 But is not in itself the real charm. 
 
 Gallant givers that stand by the Gospel 
 
 In a generous way with their means. 
 Keeping debt from the door of God's temple. 
 
 On which none but the Lord holds his liens, 
 And societies given to giving 
 
 To the needy and poor of their alms. 
 May resemble the charm in their beauty. 
 
 But are not in themselves the real charm. 
 
 An intelligent, eloquent pastor. 
 
 Entertaining, instructive, and sound 
 In the doctrines, as taught b}^ the Scriptures, 
 
 Altho simple, yet grandly profound, 
 With his sermons as touching and tender 
 
 As the words of the Twenty-third Psalm, 
 May reflect the real charm, in a measure, 
 
 But is not in himself the real charm. 
 
 139 
 
But the meek, lowly life of the Master, 
 
 Lived again by His saints here on earth, 
 Giving evidence true of the beauty 
 
 And the spirit that bless the new birth, 
 Preaching love in the lives they are living. 
 
 As they secretly, silently search 
 For the hearts that are heavily laden, 
 
 Is the charm — the real charm of the church. 
 
 CALVARY 
 
 The better part of the human heart — 
 
 That part conceived of love, 
 Whose innate impulse, from the start. 
 Sprang not from culture nor from art — 
 
 Methinks, was born above; 
 And, handed down from Heaven's skies, 
 It lives in loyal sacrifice. 
 
 Such as the angels love to see 
 
 Abiding here at Calvary. 
 
 From every lip of the membership 
 
 Of this united band 
 Come helpful words too good to slip 
 From Memory's immortal grip — 
 
 From Memory's mindful hand; 
 But, like the Bible's words of truth, 
 They'll live on in perpetual youth — £ 
 
 More sweet to you, more sweet to me, 1 
 
 Because they came from Calvary. 
 
 And e'en when God with the chastening rod, H 
 
 Unspairingly applied, 
 Lays those we love beneath the sod — 
 Beneath the cold and clammy clod — 
 
 We vet are satisfied 
 To kiss the rod that fell to smite, 
 Believing all God does is right. 
 
 And that His mercy full and free 
 
 O'errules it all at Calvary. 140 
 
As long as Time with her lengths sublime 
 
 Shall move in mercy on, 
 As checkless as the cheery chime 
 Of poetry's majestic rhyme, 
 
 Must Heaven smile upon 
 The excellencies, richly dear 
 To those that love and labor here— 
 
 Whose higher vision lets them see 
 
 A type of heaven in Calvary. 
 
 Tho rain and rust most assuredly must, 
 
 By their process alone, 
 Dissolve back to primeval dust, 
 Blown here and there at every gust, 
 
 This house of brick and stone, 
 Real Christian character divine 
 Eternally must shine and shine. 
 
 For Heaven must the brighter be 
 
 By light sent up from Calvary. 
 
 CALVARY'S PASTOR 
 
 Far, far away, on the Christmas Day 
 
 Of Eighteen-forty-five, 
 While Fun and Frolic were at play. 
 And Peace and Good-will paved the way 
 
 For "Santa" to arrive. 
 High Heaven stooped to give to Earth 
 A Christmas gift of countless worth — 
 
 The birthday of the Nazarene, 
 
 Marks also that of Dr. Greene. 
 
 He greater grew, as the years withdrew, 
 
 In body, mind, and heart; 
 And, like a drop of Spring's fresh dew, 
 Reflecting Heaven's higher hue, 
 By Nature's higher art. 
 141 
 
The larger life led from above, 
 The milder ministries of love, 
 
 Have been reflected, clear and keen, 
 
 Thruout the life of Dr. Greene. 
 
 At sixty-nine is his voice divine 
 
 Melodious, calm, and clear, 
 As lovely as the stars that shine 
 Down in the mirrors of the Rhine. 
 
 Most exquisite to hear; 
 And all his messages are fraught 
 With jewels of selected thought, 
 
 In sentences of silver sheen. 
 
 Known only to our Dr. Greene. 
 
 From year to year has his service here 
 
 Been like a length 'ning chain. 
 Whose earlier links we yet revere, 
 Whose later links are doubly dear, 
 
 Whose whole is sound and sane — 
 Whose thirty-five long links of length 
 Add untold beauty to its strength. 
 
 And make of it a joy serene 
 
 To Calvary and Dr. Greene. 
 
 It's not a crime that the wastes of Time 
 
 Should wear a life like this. 
 For no life can attain its prime 
 Till death lifts it to its sublime 
 
 Of sweet and blessed bliss; 
 For then the spirit, glorified, 
 Lays its mortality aside — 
 
 Methinks, Death only stands between 
 
 The perfect life and Dr. Greene. 
 
 142 
 
143 
 
 CALVARY'S PASTOR'S ANNIVERSARY 
 
 With the goers and the comers, 
 Thirty-five hot, sultry summers 
 And as many windy winters 
 
 Have appeared upon the scene. 
 Since our loving Lord and Master, 
 In the dark days of disaster, 
 Sent to Calvary Church a pastor 
 
 With a vision clear and keen — 
 With a vision of a service 
 
 Of no ordinary mien; 
 And this ever anxious pastor 
 
 Was, and is, our Dr. Greene. 
 
 Knowing that life's sweetest beauty 
 Springs from non-neglected duty — 
 That its benefits and blessings, 
 
 Filling in the years between. 
 Are the first fruits, clean and clever, 
 Of some wisely worked endeavor, 
 On and on and on forever, 
 
 In a secrecy serene. 
 Has this sweet and lovely spirit — 
 
 To retain itself unseen — 
 Been so beautifully taught us 
 
 In the life of Dr. Greene. 
 
 Strengthened by an unseen Power, 
 We should all, from this glad hour, 
 Re-resolve to make our future 
 
 Better than our past has been. 
 With our noble past behind us. 
 With our pledges still to bind us. 
 We should let the future find us 
 
 Shining with a surer sheen. 
 We, as we ourselves grow stronger, 
 
 Should more lightly learn to lean. 
 Should more lovingly, yet lightly, 
 
 Lean upon dear Dr. Greene. 
 
May the years and days and hours, 
 As they bring sunshines and showers 
 To this people whose devotion 
 
 Ripens with each changing scene, 
 Vivify the rare innateness, 
 Multiply the sweet sedateness, 
 And increase the matchless greatness 
 
 To a richness yet unseen — 
 Far beyond three-score-and-twenty, 
 
 To a ripe old age serene, 
 May High Heaven lengthen out the 
 
 Lovely life of Dr. Greene. 
 
 LOVE'S PIN RETURNED AGAIN 
 
 O, you "Dainty little Pin," 
 
 Farewell! Farewell! 
 I have snugly tucked you in — 
 
 Don't tell, don't tell- 
 In your little narrow box. 
 Which my soul in secret locks. 
 And I send you to the same 
 Lovely one from whom you came. 
 
 I can't keep you, little Pin — 
 
 O, no! O, no! 
 It would be too great a sin. 
 
 Then go, then go — 
 Go, and to the giver tell — 
 Her whom once I loved so well — 
 That my life's a troubled sea 
 Since she's "broke it off in me." 
 
 144 
 
145 
 
 GIVE US A LIFT 
 
 There are people in every great city, 
 Whose actions speak louder than words; 
 
 And they flee from the searchlights of pity, 
 Like bugs from the beaks of the birds; 
 
 But their sins, that are ever before them, 
 As farther and farther they drift. 
 
 Cry aloud to the hearts that ignore them: 
 **Take pity, and give us a lift." 
 
 At the well waits no virtueless woman — 
 Tho five may have had her to wife — 
 
 Whom the Master, as friend, and not foeman. 
 Would not give the Water of Life; 
 
 For her shame with its shuddering shadow, 
 That regret and remorse can not shift, 
 
 Cries aloud, while it stings like an adder: 
 "Take pity, and give us a lift." 
 
 In the slimes of the slum, or the gutter, 
 
 Below the horizon of hope. 
 Lies the drunkard to murmur and mutter 
 
 A damnable dirge to his dope. 
 Good Samaritans now, if there 're any, 
 
 Have lost the Samaritan gift, 
 For they heed not the cries of the many — 
 "Take pity, and give us a lift." 
 
 If the lofty would stoop to the lowly — 
 If virtue would touch hearts with vice — 
 
 Soon the ways of the world would be holy. 
 And love, as the law, would suffice. 
 
 May the Church in beneficent beauty — 
 For Time's tideless current is swift — 
 
 Wake anew to the sense of her duty — 
 "Take pity, and give us a lift." 
 
 
MARTHA WASHINGTON 
 
 So perfect in her purity, 
 
 So gentle and so good, 
 Her whole life was an uplift to 
 
 The Nation's womanhood — 
 The world loves more, as time moves on, 
 The sweet name, Martha Washington. 
 
 She, helpmeet of the First in war. 
 
 Wife of the First in peace, 
 Queen of the First in all hearts, 
 
 Shall never, never cease 
 To live in memory, on and on. 
 The better half of Washington. 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON 
 
 Our Nation honors everywhere. 
 
 In her remotest parts, 
 The First in war, the First in peace, 
 
 The First in all our hearts; 
 And yet would add still greater fame 
 To Washington's immortal name. 
 
 The old Potomac's waters still 
 
 In slow procession sweep, 
 Unconsciously and noiselessly, 
 
 By where his ashes sleep — 
 Where sleeps until the Judgment dawn 
 In peace, the dust of Washington. 
 
 146 
 


147 
 
 THE INNER LIFE OF WASHINGTON 
 
 By the side of the silver Potomac, 
 Where his waters flow silently on, 
 
 Is the spot set apart 
 
 In America's heart 
 As the dearest the sun smiles upon — 
 Here the flowers still bloom in the garden. 
 And the grasses still grow at our feet 
 
 In the fashion that they 
 
 Grew in Washington's day, 
 When he lived in this quiet retreat. 
 
 Here the world's greatest human exemplar 
 Sought repose in the calm tides of life, 
 
 Hid away from the cares 
 
 Of the Nation's affairs. 
 Snuggled in from confusion and strife — 
 In the sweet, rustic stillness of nature. 
 With her ways so inhumanly odd. 
 
 Like the Psalmist of old. 
 
 Did he oftentimes hold 
 Sweet communion with Nature and God. 
 
 Not a call ever came from his country 
 To which he didn't gladly respond, 
 
 And when came the last call 
 
 From the Father of All 
 He was ready for Heaven's beyond; 
 But his beautiful home at Mount Vernon 
 Still is ours to have and to hold — 
 
 May the footfalls of Time 
 
 On this treasure sublime 
 Fall more tenderly, as it grows old. 
 
 When the ages and centuries crumble 
 The Old Mansion to ashes and dust. 
 And the little brick room 
 Guarding Washington's tomb 
 Is dissolved by the rains and the rust, 
 
Will his chatctcter, spotless and perfect — 
 As eternal as Calvary's scars — 
 
 In the sweet by-and-by, 
 
 With the angels on high, 
 Ever shine, on and on, like the stars. 
 
 And our wonderful Capitol Building, 
 In the city of beautiful fame, 
 
 On the Capitol Hill 
 
 Is more national still 
 Than the worshipful Washington name. 
 Even tho it expands with the Nation, 
 More majestic, imposing, and grand. 
 
 It has mightily grown 
 
 From the same corner-stone 
 That George Washington sealed with his hand. 
 
 THE PSALM OF THE SOUTH 
 
 The New South, on her happy horizon, 
 
 Reads the fresh, rosy flushes of morn, 
 As they foretell the brilliance and beauty 
 
 Of a sunrise that yet is unborn — 
 That shall waken a slumbering people. 
 
 And shall put a new song in her mouth. 
 That makes greater and grander the Nation 
 
 Thru a grander and greater New South. 
 
 With her sunshines and shadowy showers 
 
 Upon mountain and valley and plain. 
 Where the vine climbs to day on the timber. 
 
 And the grass seeks the sunlight in vain, 
 What a wealth is awaiting Tomorrow, 
 
 As is heard from Today's joyous mouth, 
 Singing: ^'Greater and grander the Nation 
 
 Thru a grander and greater New South." 
 
 148 
 
With her multiplied months of mild summer, 
 
 When the South shall come into her own, 
 And her farmers awake to their fortune, 
 
 Every crop known to man, can be grown, 
 The fair promise of rural preferment 
 
 Puts a song in the country-man's mouth, 
 Making greater and grander the Nation 
 
 Thru a grander and greater New South. 
 
 With the measureless mines in her mountains. 
 
 With her waterfalls, fixed as the sun. 
 With her rivers and harbors and forests. 
 
 The New South hasn't fairly begun; 
 But when these are all fully developed, 
 
 The old world must needs open her mouth. 
 Shouting: ^'Greater and grander the Nation 
 
 Thru a grander and greater New South!" 
 
 When the people who love the name, "Southern," 
 
 In the South, whether native or not. 
 Realize the true worth of their treasures. 
 
 And their ignorant wastes are forgot. 
 Will frugality, fairness, and fortune 
 
 Speak aloud from the heart thru the mouth, 
 Crying: "Greater and grander the Nation 
 
 Thru a grander and greater New South!" 
 
 When Religion shall wed Education, 
 
 Unto them shall be born seven sons, 
 Truth and Trust, Law and Love, Right and Reason, 
 
 And Sweet Peace, the despiser of guns — 
 When the South shall submit to the Seven, 
 
 The Creator will open His mouth, 
 Saying: "Greater and grander the Nation 
 
 Thru a grander and greater New South." 
 149 
 
ANDREW CARNEGIE 
 
 Of all of the favorites of fortune 
 
 That flourished in days that are gone, 
 Of all of the magnates that live in 
 
 The light of this century's dawn, 
 Whose purses and hearts have responded 
 
 At all to humanity's call — 
 The big-hearted Andrew Carnegie 
 
 Has been the best helper of all. 
 
 All over our beautiful country. 
 
 In cities, the best in the land, 
 Exquisitely finished and furnished. 
 
 The Carnegie Libraries stand, 
 As free as the heart of the founder, 
 
 Who felt for the weak and the small, 
 For big-hearted Andrew Carnegie 
 
 Has been the great helper of all. 
 
 These permanent library buildings, 
 
 Together with all they contain. 
 Are doing the will of their founder, 
 
 Whose labor has not been in vain. 
 The characters thus that are strengthened 
 
 Are building a monument tall 
 To big-hearted Andrew Carnegie, 
 
 The helpfulest helper of all. 
 
 The good from these grand institutions 
 
 No prophet can rightly presage. 
 It grows with the years in its greatness, 
 
 And multiplies more with its age. 
 May many good summers and winters 
 
 Be his, ere the Master shall call 
 The big-hearted Andrew Carnegie, 
 
 The God-given helper to all. 
 
 150 
 
WOODROW WILSON 
 
 (Acrostic) 
 
 Woodrow Wilson, in his childhood, 
 In his balmy boyhood days, 
 Showed few signs of super-greatness- 
 Early won no special praise; 
 
 And, in childhood's changing hours, 
 No especial gifts and powers 
 Dignified his acts and ways. 
 
 When he came to be a student. 
 In the term's sublimest sense, 
 Likely, saw he in himself a 
 Latent, innate excellence. 
 Firing him with high ambitions, 
 Under most select conditions — 
 Lifting him toward eminence. 
 
 Wise in ways and pure in purpose, 
 Often has he been assailed — 
 Often have his strong convictions. 
 Deepened, as his projects failed. 
 Reaching up, he's been a climber, 
 On, from sublime to sublimer, 
 With a hope that has prevailed. 
 
 With her wary Woodrow Wilson 
 In the White House on the hill, 
 Lives along our loyal Nation, 
 Safe from war's destructive ill, 
 Overruled by one most justly 
 Noted for his timely skill. 
 
 151 
 
LINCOLN 
 
 On the frontier of Kentucky, 
 
 When the State was fresh and wild, 
 
 Yet a part of Old Dominion, 
 
 On which Fate and Fortune smiled, 
 
 As it were, in Nature's garden, 
 
 With Experience as his warden, 
 
 And an innate, fixed opinion, 
 There was born a chieftain child. 
 
 With the years, he grew to manhood, 
 
 With a lank and lengthy frame — 
 With his poverty to hound him, 
 
 And with no ancestral fame. 
 With no one to guide and aid him. 
 But the heart and mind God made him. 
 And wild Nature's books around him. 
 He began to build a name. 
 
 With no negro slaves to serve him. 
 
 He himself must learn to serve. 
 Like his father, who before him 
 
 Daily toiled with tempered nerve; 
 Hence, he, like his needy neighbors, 
 Lends his strength to manual labors. 
 While his heart and mind implore him. 
 For the culture they deserve. 
 
 Finally he made a venture. 
 
 Moved across to Illinois, 
 And became, ere long, a leader. 
 
 While, as yet, a beardless boy. 
 With the passing days and hours 
 Greater grew his peerless powers, 
 As the North's applauded pleader 
 
 'Gainst a cause that killed her joy. 
 
 152 
 
Slavery, he thought, belied a 
 
 Freedom bought with sacred blood 
 In the dreadfulest of battles 
 
 Chronicled since Noah's flood — 
 It bestirred an agitation 
 Which made this United Nation, 
 Bartering in human chatties. 
 Vilify its brotherhood. 
 
 Soon the far-felt fame of Lincoln 
 Thruout all the North was heard— 
 
 His name, now his State's memento, 
 Came to be a household word; 
 
 And, as lawless license lathered, 
 
 Fury unto fury gathered. 
 
 Until every slave dissenter 
 To the stony depths was stirred. 
 
 At this time the Union's Yankees' 
 Minds on one concern were bent. 
 
 For the whole North now expected 
 War — it seemed self-evident — 
 
 And their Anti-slavery Pleader 
 
 Seemed to all their safest leader, 
 
 So the Unionists elected 
 Lincoln for their President. 
 
 Then the war broke out in earnest, 
 Shot and shell now shook the air. 
 Dire distress and pain and anguish 
 
 Came in torrents everywhere, 
 And the sobbing and the sighing 
 For the wounded and the dying 
 Lunged the land into a languish 
 That dispelled the peace of prayer. 
 
 153 
 
Brave, determined, loyal Lincoln 
 Found full many a volunteer, 
 Anxious to enlist for orders 
 
 From his brawny brigadier, 
 Eager for the bomb of battle 
 And to hear the grapeshot rattle, 
 Wiping Slavery from the borders 
 Of the Western Hemisphere. 
 
 Four years of as deadly carnage 
 
 As the old world ever knew, 
 Laying low the young and tender 
 Ere they up to manhood grew, 
 Closed upon the scene of action 
 When the Gray Secession faction, 
 Racked and ruined, made surrender 
 To the worn, war- weary Blue. 
 
 Lincoln, when the war was over, 
 From the largeness of his heart. 
 
 Made one more humane endeavor. 
 As he's purposed from the start, 
 
 For a fair remuneration, 
 
 To offset the confiscation 
 
 Of the South's slaves, but forever 
 'Twas by Congress set apart. 
 
 Lincoln, like a faithful father. 
 
 Loved the South that he had fought. 
 
 And stood mercifully ready 
 
 To repair the damage wrought. 
 
 Hence, he with renewed ambitions 
 
 Sought to satisfy conditions 
 
 By his counsels, strong and steady, 
 But his counsels came to naught. 
 
 154 
 
In the days of Reconstruction, 
 
 Ere they fairly had begun, 
 Lincoln went to Ford's Theater 
 
 For a little restful fun — 
 There his vile assassin spied him 
 Sitting with his wife beside him — 
 Shot him down a moment later — 
 And ''Abe" Lincoln's life was done. 
 
 All the North lamented Lincoln, 
 And bewailed his tragic end. 
 
 But their loss was even greater 
 Than their hearts could comprehend; 
 
 And the sad South, on the morrow, 
 
 Felt a secret, silent sorrow, 
 
 For the slaves' emancipator 
 Was a universal friend. 
 
 Now a reunited Nation — 
 
 Hand to hand and heart to heart. 
 With the North still praising Lincoln, 
 
 While the South takes Davis' part- 
 Each, as brother to his brother. 
 Sees the good now in the other; 
 And they wonder when they think on 
 
 War, and how it got its start. 
 
 And the remnant of old soldiers 
 
 Of the once opposing sides. 
 Both as loyal to the Union 
 
 As the waters to the tides, 
 With a sacred recollection, 
 Each side still defends its section. 
 Yet they dwell in sweet communion. 
 And their unity abides. 
 
 155 
 
DAVIS 
 
 On the frontier of Kentucky, 
 
 When the State was fresh and wild, 
 Yet a part of Old Dominion, 
 
 On which Fate and Fortune smiled, 
 As it were, in Nature's garden, 
 With Experience as his warden. 
 And an innate, fixed opinion. 
 There was born a chieftain child. 
 
 With the years, he grew to manhood, 
 Sound in body, strong in mind, 
 
 With an influential father 
 Of the Old Colonial kind. 
 
 With a finished education, 
 
 From the best schools in the Nation, 
 
 He himself felt often rather 
 
 Toward real leadership inclined. 
 
 With his negro slaves to serve him. 
 
 He himself learned how to serve, 
 Like his father, who before him 
 
 Knew not what it was to swerve. 
 Hopeful, hale, and happy-hearted. 
 His career in life was started 
 With a promise bending o'er him. 
 Strengthening his every nerve. 
 
 He removed to Mississippi, 
 
 Where his excellencies shone 
 With a brilliancy and beauty 
 
 Everywhere his name was known. 
 Never wearied with well-doing, 
 Onward, upward, still pursuing. 
 With no other law than duty. 
 He was loyal to his own. 
 
 156 
 
Knowing negro needs and natures, 
 He denounced as ruthless knaves 
 
 All the North's malign intriguers 
 That would rob him of his slaves; 
 
 For, to free them from their masters 
 
 Would beget unborn disasters 
 
 To the Southern Whites and "niggers," 
 That would haunt them to their graves. 
 
 He resigned his seat in Congress, 
 
 Coming to his own's relief. 
 For he foresaw in the distance 
 Desolation, death, and grief; 
 And there met him a commission, 
 Fired with fury and ambition, 
 Pledging him the South 's assistance, 
 And declaring him her chief. 
 
 By this time the Southern People 
 
 Felt what real secession meant, 
 
 For the war they'd long expected 
 
 Echoed o'er the Continent — 
 And the subjects of Secession, 
 Exercising rare discression. 
 Almost to a man, elected 
 Davis for their President. 
 
 Soon the war was wildly raging. 
 
 And the South, tho unprepared. 
 Stepped out in the dark arena, 
 
 With her arm and bosom bared — 
 Marched against superior forces 
 With their multiplied resources. 
 And, each day, with courage keener. 
 Pressed the conflict all she dared. 
 
 157 
 
Calm, undaunted, daring Davis, 
 With few men and fewer guns, 
 Laid upon the bloody altar 
 
 His ovm South's illustrious sons. 
 Tho by poverty encumbered, 
 Tho in men and arms outnumbered, 
 Never did their courage falter 
 Till they'd perished by the tons. 
 
 Four disastrous years of warfare 
 
 Sank the sun of Southern pride, 
 And their hopes so fondly cherished, 
 
 Blasted by destruction, died; 
 So, the South, all wounded, wasted, 
 Felt that she her hell had tasted, 
 When she saw her cause had perished 
 In the bloody fratricide. 
 
 Davis, when the war was over, 
 
 Fell a victim to his foe. 
 And, two years, incarcerated 
 
 In the Fortress of Monroe, 
 He, discomforted, forsaken. 
 Stood still steadfast and unshaken. 
 And, tho thus humiliated. 
 
 Never once breathed out his woe. 
 
 Davis, patient like the Master, 
 Bore abuse without a groan, 
 As he fearlessly contended 
 
 For the rights that were his own. 
 That a Cause with such devotion 
 Should sink in Oblivion's ocean. 
 By the Old World unbefriended, 
 Ought to bring the tears to stone. 
 
 158 
 
When released from Fortress Monroe, 
 That so long had held him fast, 
 
 Davis went home to his villa, 
 There to ponder o'er the past — 
 
 But 'twill seem always a pity 
 
 That 'twas in a surging city. 
 
 Off from home and weeping willow, 
 That "Jeff" Davis breathed his last. 
 
 All the South, when Death called Davis 
 
 From the earth to higher spheres. 
 Felt a deeper grief and sorrow 
 
 Than was spoken by their tears; 
 For their President, dejected. 
 Oft misjudged and more suspected, 
 Was no more — and on the morrow 
 He was buried with the years. 
 
 Now a reunited Nation — 
 
 Hand to hand and heart to heart, 
 With the North still praising Lincoln, 
 
 While the South takes Davis' part — 
 Each, as brother to his brother. 
 Sees the good now in the other; 
 And they wonder when they think on 
 
 War, and how it got its start. 
 
 And the remnant of old soldiers 
 
 Of the once opposing sides. 
 Both as loyal to the Union 
 
 As the waters to the tides. 
 With a vivid recollection. 
 Each side still defends its section, 
 Yet they dwell in sweet communion, 
 And their unity abides. 
 
 159 
 
GRANT 
 
 From the worthy walls of West Point, 
 
 That old school of martial fame, 
 Have proceeded men of merit, 
 
 Men of purpose, men of aim; 
 And the great old institution. 
 
 Strong today as adamant, 
 Loves to linger in her praises 
 
 Of her own immortal Grant. 
 
 From one conquest to another 
 
 Went this wary warrior forth. 
 Till he was the Chief Commander 
 
 Of the armies of the North. 
 With a confidence unshaken 
 
 In their chieftain militant. 
 Soldiers fell, but armies triumphed 
 
 By the leadership of Grant. 
 
 When defeated, Grant retreated. 
 
 But he aways came again, 
 More ambitious, more determined, 
 
 Reinforced with arms and men; 
 For there was, in all the language, 
 
 No such needless word as ''can't" 
 To the Leader of the loyals, 
 
 To the great, immortal Grant. 
 
 After four years. Grant determined, 
 
 For the good of friends and foes, 
 At whatever cost, to bring the 
 
 Bloody conflict to its close; 
 So he reinforced his armies, 
 
 Till there wasn't left a chance 
 For the starved Confederate forces 
 
 To contend with General Grant's. 
 
 160 
 
Worn with war, himself, and anxious 
 
 For the sinking South 's relief, 
 He requested the surrender 
 
 Of the South's despairing Chief, 
 And her crushed, tho calm Commander, 
 
 With his army scarred and scant, 
 Hungry, foodless, and exhausted. 
 
 Yielded up the ghost to Grant. 
 
 Tho the North and South did differ 
 
 Greatly in the olden time. 
 Each side now respects the other 
 
 In a manner most sublime; 
 For sweet eulogies and praises 
 
 Most unitedly supplant 
 All old grudges, when is mentioned 
 
 Either hero, Lee or Grant. 
 
 What a beautiful example. 
 
 For a world to emulate. 
 When Grant, in his hour of triumph. 
 
 Proved himself sublimely great! 
 For the charity he practiced. 
 
 When Lee was his ''suppliant," 
 Is the jewel of all jewels 
 
 In the character of Grant. 
 
 When the North declares as kindly, 
 
 From her heart out thru her mouth. 
 Such a sweet sense of forgiveness 
 
 For her former foe, the South; 
 Then the South will be thrice conquered. 
 
 And her "heart of adamant" 
 Will be melted by the mercies 
 
 Of a North still true to Grant. 
 
 161 
 
LEE 
 
 From the worthy walls of West Point, 
 
 That old school of martial fame, 
 Have proceeded men of merit. 
 
 Men of purpose, men of aim; 
 And the grand old institution. 
 
 Now revered from sea to sea. 
 Loves to linger in her praises 
 
 Of her own immortal Lee. 
 
 Meek as Moses, calm as Daniel 
 
 When he faced the lion's mouth. 
 Was the gallant Chief Commander 
 
 Of the armies of the South. 
 Many a time inferior forces. 
 
 Warlike as the maddened bee, 
 Routed several times their number 
 
 By the leadership of Lee. 
 
 When defeated, Lee retreated. 
 
 But he often came again, 
 Soon as he could graze his horses 
 
 And refresh his hungry men. 
 There was not, in all the language, 
 
 So despised a word as "flee" 
 To the Chief of Southern chieftains, 
 
 To the great, immortal Lee. 
 
 Four years of victorious losses. 
 
 Loss of horses, men, and guns, 
 With no hope for reinforcements — 
 
 For the South had no more sons — 
 Sadly sealed the South 's surrender; 
 
 And when Grant proposed a plea, 
 It was gratefully accepted 
 
 By the war-worn, worsted Lee. 
 
 162 
 
And when Lee is in Grant's power, 
 
 Grant feels for him in his woe; 
 And in this, his hour of triumph. 
 
 Grant befriends his fallen foe; 
 And the Northern soldiers kindly 
 
 Make the Southern soldiers free 
 To a repast from their knapsacks. 
 
 While Grant fairly deals with Lee. 
 
 Tho the South and North did differ 
 
 Greatly in the olden time. 
 Each side now respects the other 
 
 In a manner most sublime; 
 For they lay aside old grudges. 
 
 And unitedly agree 
 In their eulogies and praises 
 
 Of great Grant and loyal Lee. 
 
 What a marvelous example 
 
 Of submission to his fate, 
 When Lee, in his day of darkness, 
 
 Proved himself divinely great! 
 And the dignified surrender. 
 
 Made to Grant, all men agree. 
 Is the gem of all the jewels 
 
 In the lovely life of Lee. 
 
 When the South submits as fully 
 
 As the Chief that led her forth. 
 There'll be multitudes of mercies 
 
 Sifting Southward from the North; 
 And the flag will float more sweetly 
 
 O'er the Homeland of the Free, 
 When the North and South both follow 
 
 In the steps of Grant and Lee. 
 
 163 
 
THE OPTIMIST 
 
 The optimist ever moves forward, 
 
 And, as he advances, he sees 
 The hopes of his heart in the distance. 
 Like day coming into existence, 
 
 Grow brighter by unseen degrees. 
 The labors of life are to him happy play, 
 For all of life's blessings are coming his way. 
 
 He toils with his back toward the shadows, 
 He fights with his face toward the light. 
 With faith in the rythmical lining, 
 That somewhere is the sun still a-shining. 
 
 And whatever is, is all right. 
 The darkness of night only brightens his day 
 For all of life's blessings are coming his way. 
 
 The optimist, joyous and happy. 
 Lights every other life with his own. 
 
 He thanks the good God that he's living. 
 
 And dearly delights in the giving 
 Of cheer in response to a groan — 
 
 December to him is as merry as May, 
 
 For all of life's blessings are coming his way. 
 
 MEMORY'S OFFICE 
 
 Moments, one by one, are fleeing. 
 
 And so swiftly past us fly. 
 If 'twere not for recollection 
 
 They'd be spent in passing by. 
 
 But remembrance's fresh gleaming. 
 
 Settling on our backward track. 
 Puts aside oblivion's curtain. 
 
 And thus brings the moments back. 
 
 164 
 
THE PESSIMIST 
 
 The pessimist ever moves backward, 
 
 And, as he retreats, he declares 
 That all of the hopes ever cherished 
 By him have eternally perished 
 
 Down deep in the dives of despairs. 
 The labors of life bring to him no reward, 
 For ''Even life's blessings are cruel and hard." 
 
 He gropes with his face toward the shadows. 
 He growls with his back toward the light, 
 And sighs in his self-succored sorrow 
 That worse may be born with the morrow. 
 
 And darker may still be the night. 
 He sorrows and sighs, till his spirit is charred, 
 That ''Even life's blessings are cruel and hard." 
 
 The pessimist, soured and sulky. 
 
 Blights every other life with his own. 
 
 And blames his own God for his being. 
 
 And dismally dies, without seeing 
 The murderous sin of his moan. 
 
 He grumbles and growls, till his senses are marred, 
 
 Declaring "Life's blessings are cruel and hard." 
 
 WATCH THE WORDS 
 
 Brightest hopes and expectations 
 Oftentimes are broken, crushed, 
 
 Just because our mouths have spoken 
 When they ought to have been hushed. 
 
 Hold your peace when things work crooked. 
 Fight not back when things go wrong, 
 
 Then all things will work together 
 For good, as you live along. 
 
 165 
 
MY SISTER CALLIE'S BEAUX 
 
 There never comes a Sunday, 
 
 When the weather's bright and fair, 
 But what my sister Callie decks 
 
 The parlor up with care. 
 Whene'er she dusts the mantel-piece, 
 
 And sets the chairs in rows, 
 The home-folks all are looking for 
 
 My sister Callie's beaux. 
 
 The little folks get tickled, 
 
 But George and Clifford — good! 
 They fuss like ''setting hens," because 
 
 They have to cut the wood. 
 Pa lets 'em build big blazing fires 
 
 To warm their precious toes. 
 And mamma makes the "kids" respect 
 
 My sister Callie's beaux. 
 
 When sister Callie powders 
 
 Her sweet and winsome face, 
 And ties about her lovely neck 
 
 Her yard of Sunday lace. 
 No wonder that she captivates 
 
 Each fellow that she knows — 
 No wonder that we often see 
 
 My sister Callie's beaux. 
 
 166 
 
WHERE MOTHER WAITS 
 
 Dear "Alabama, mother mine,'* 
 
 The sweetest and the best, 
 Give me a home — a home in thee — 
 
 The world may have the rest; 
 Or in, so called. West Florida, 
 
 By nature part of thee, 
 Where breezes blow, so soft and low, 
 
 Fresh from the silver sea. 
 
 I've sailed on San Francisco Bay, 
 
 Beheld the Golden Gate, 
 And crossed the chiding Chesapeake — 
 
 I've seen two oceans great. 
 Out in the Gulf of Mexico 
 
 I've tumbled with the spray — 
 But none of these would I compare 
 
 With Old Saint Andrews Bay. 
 
 This three-armed bay, so beautiful. 
 
 Yet has her favored spot — 
 One bayou that sweet Nature claims 
 
 As her forget-me-not. 
 Here father sits and mother waits, 
 
 And here I love to come. 
 And talk with Nature, think with God, 
 
 And be with them at home. 
 
 167 
 
THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM 
 
 The Lord is my shepherd; no want shall I know. 
 
 In pastures of green I may lie. 
 He leadeth beside the still waters — and, lo — 
 
 My soul He restoreth thereby. 
 
 Tho I walk thru the valley and shadow of death, 
 
 No evil nor ill will I fear. 
 In comfort I draw every God-given breath — 
 
 Thy rod and Thy staff are so near. 
 
 Thou preparest a table before me in love 
 
 In the presence of even my foes; 
 Thou annointest my head with Thine oil from above- 
 
 My cup at the brim overflows. 
 
 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow -me still 
 
 All the days of my life, till it's o'er; 
 And I'll dwell, when my body is silent and chill. 
 
 In the house of the Lord evermore. 
 
 THE TWENTY-SEVENTH PSALM 
 
 The Lord is my light and salvation, 
 Of whom shall I stand in dread? 
 
 The Lord is the strength of my life; then 
 Of whom shall I be afraid? 
 
 When even my foes came upon me, pellmell, 
 
 To eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. 
 
 168 
 
Tho hosts should encamp all around me, 
 
 My heart — my heart shall not fear; 
 Tho war should arise now against me, 
 
 In this I'll confide, year by year. 
 I'll seek from the Lord what I greatly desire: 
 To dwell in His house — in his temple inquire. 
 
 In times of distress he shall hide me; 
 
 He'll set me up on a rock; 
 And now shall mine head be uplifted 
 
 Aboves my foes — all the flock. 
 I'll sacrifice, therefore, for my great reward, 
 And sing — I'll sing praises — ^yea, unto the Lord. 
 
 O, Lord, look in mercy upon me, 
 
 And answer me when I pray; 
 Hide not thy face far from thy servant — 
 
 Put not thy s^ervant away. 
 O, God, thou hast been my real help from on high; 
 O, leave me not, neither forsake me, I cry. 
 
 When m' father and mother forsake me. 
 
 The Lord then will take me up; 
 Then teach me thy way. Lord, and lead me — 
 
 My foes overflow my cup. 
 Deliver me not to the will of my foes — 
 False witnesses would overwhelm me with woes. 
 
 Unless I'd believed that the goodness 
 
 Of God I surely should see, 
 Myself, in the land of the living, 
 
 I would have fainted — ah! me. 
 Then be of good courage — great is thy reward — 
 He'll strengthen thine heart; wait, I say, on the Lord. 
 
 169 
 
OUR HIGHER LOVE 
 
 My lady was just sweet sixteen, 
 
 While I was thirty-nine — 
 With twenty-three tough years between 
 
 Her tender age and mine, 
 
 When, June the first of nineteen-ten, 
 We made our marriage vow; 
 
 And, ceaselessly, from happy then, 
 On even up till now. 
 
 The love that lit our lives that day. 
 That knit our hearts in one. 
 
 Has grown the sweeter all the way, 
 With every setting sun. 
 
 For four fond years our "honey-moon'* 
 
 Has neither sunk nor set, 
 But every new sweet First of June 
 
 Finds her the higher yet. 
 
 And, tho our ages are, in truth. 
 
 Full many a year apart. 
 True love can never lose its youth 
 
 When heart is true to heart. 
 
 And when our darling baby came. 
 
 Of each of us a part, 
 Flesh of our flesh, heir of our name, 
 
 Pride of our parent heart, 
 
 Methinks, the Father-heart above, 
 
 The Giver of all good. 
 Himself, engrafted in our love 
 
 The love of parenthood. 
 
 170 
 
„ CONCLUSION 
 
 Little volume, thou art finished, 
 Product of my younger years. 
 
 Thou, the picture of my passions, 
 Thou the token of my tears. 
 
 Go out in the world to bless it — 
 May that life the better be. 
 
 That shall draw thee to its bosom, 
 And acquaint itself with thee. 
 
 When my sunken grave's forgotten- 
 Long bereft of tender tears — 
 
 May thy little verses sweetly 
 Sing on softly down the years. 
 
 171 
 
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