SEC JNn ooPV, LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Chap. __. Copyright No. Shelf.:^.i$^vr#c**l^ PREFACE. In this age, when so many new books are annually given to the public, and so many literary men have won deserved distinction, it would seem almost useless to in- vite the attention of the reader, unless your works are of extraordinary merit No such claim is intended for this publication. On the contrary, we know that many of the poems herein contained were hurriedly thrown off in an idle hour, and published by the author in his own or his brother's paper, and that he intended revising them, but was prevented from doing so by rapidly failing health, which finally culminated in his death— May 26th, 1898 — in the 27th year of his age The many requests for copies of certain poems and letters of the deceased, and the many suggestions that have come to us urging a compilation of the same, fur- nishes the only apology that is given for this undertak- ing, though it be a labor of love on the part of the pub- lishers. To those sufficiently interested to peruse this volume, a word as to the history of the author will not be out of place. Marshall vS. Cornwell was born October i8th. 1871, in Hampshire County, West Virginia. He was raised on a farm, where he labored hard until grown. He never attended college a day in his life, though few men of his age were better informed. He was a great reader and had a remarkable memory. His education came from this, and his clo-se observance of human nature. After leaving the farm he engaged in publishing a County newspaper at Petersburg, and later at Elkins, West Virginia. The city had no attraction for him. His thoughts were wrapped up in the country, and in the closing hours of his life his memory revested to the old home and farm. Many of the poems and letters which are here pub- lished, were written when he was wandering, face to face with death, on the eastern coast of Florida or on the banks of the Rio Grand. Hence the .serious and pathetic strain which pervades most of them, though occasion- ally come flashes of wit and humor, characteristic of his cheerful life. Finally the message came from far off El Paso, that he "had givsed away ; "I am only a tramp, no friends, no home Don't writ'' or telegraph to anyVjody. but bury me in the potter's field.'') o NLY a tramp, no friends, no home. Drifting oui in the dark alone. Only a wreck on the unknown tide, Borne away to the unknown side. Who shall say of the dead man there, What was the weary load of care That shut him out from the joys of life. From a happy home and a loving wife. A lonely grave on the mountain side, In the heart of the wilderness, waste and wide, Is all that's claimed by the lifeless clod, Fashioned fair in the image of God. Perchance if these dumb lips could tell. The story of sorrow known full well. By the sorrowing poor on life's highway. We'd pity this wanderer, dead to-day. A story, perchance, of a maply man, In whose veins the blood of a freeman ran, Of half-paid labor, of want and strife. And this, the end of a ruined life. Condemn him not, lest you, some da}-. Should reach the end in the self-same way — Lest you should live to be old and poor, And ask for a crust at the stranger's door. '2i WHEAT AND CHAFF FROM THE VALLEY. 'HE day still gleams on the brow of the height, When 'tis dark in the valley below; And the first pale beams of the dawning light Kiss the billows of frozen snow. The climber ever turneth his face, Toward the glittering goal above. And left behind in the upward race. Lie 3'outh, and joy, and love. It is cold on the brow of the height ; It is warm in the valley below, But ambition lures, like a mirage bright With a steady pitiless glow. The climber, at eve, lies cold and stark, On the brea.st of the frozen snow ; But joy still dwells in the love-warm dark, Of the vale of content, below. WHEAT AND CHAFK. 25 THE SEA SHORE. ING a song of Jersey shores, White sand dunes and breakers, Mot board-walks and white hotels, Crowds of merry makers. s Prices higher than the moon. Steak as tough as leather, Summer girls in summer garb, Sweltering August weather. Love talks in the gloaming, By the lapping tide, Big old bull mosquito Boring through your hide. Battling with the ocean. Dipping in the foam. Wondering what your creditors Will sa}' when you get home. Sing a song of Summer By the sounding sea ; Go there if you want to, But — please excuse me. 26 WHEAT AND CHAFF. H A CHRISTMAS TOAST. ERK'vS to the good old Christmas times, \Ve knew so long ago, When merry sleigh-bells jingled. O'er the hills of frozen snow. To our childish joys and sorrows, That are buried in the past, And to the hopes of later years — Bright dreams that would not last. To our early loves and losses, Our struggles, hopes, and fears, And to the path our feet shall tread, Through all the coming years. To the sacred memory of old friends, Whose warm hand clasp we knew, In the morning of our life time, When we deemed all friendship true. But better still, to those we've loved, Through all the changing years, — Who have shared our joys and sorrows, Our laughter and our tears. A pleasant voyage may theirs^be, Adown time's troubled stream, 'Till through the darkening evening mists, The harbor lights shalCgleam. WHEAT AND CHAFF o WHERE THE RAIN DROPS FELL. VER all the pastures, I'urnt and brown, O'er the dusty streets of the busy town, Swiftl}', but gently and silently came, The pattering drops of the welcome rain, And their joy at the shower, the songsters tell. To the listening world, where the rain drops fell. 'Mid the leafy isles of the forests dark, In the flower-lined ways of the city park. The trees were greener, the flowers more fair. When the shower came and freshened the air. And nature rejoiced that all was well, And the earth smiled anew where the rain drops fell. So our hearts may be seared, and burnt, and brown. Like the plants that grow in the heat of the town. But our lives shall be brightened, our sorrows made light, As the roseate morning shall fo Mow the nighl. When we hear the sweet voice of God\s mercies that call, As over our pathway his blessings shall fall. 28 WHEAT AND CHAFF. IN MEMORY OF DR. SAMUEL F. SMITH. Author of our National Hymn. ND thou art gone, whose sweetest song. A Was sung at freedom's holy shrine. Thou heardst the angel's loving call, Across the distant hills of time. Thy weary form is lowly laid, To moulder in the silent tomb. And o'er th}^ resting place is spread. Death's sullen, sombre, starless gloom. Yet all the sons of free-born sires. Who love the land where freedom reigns. From wild New England's rock-bound coast, To California's sunny plains, Will write thy epitaph upon The hearts of children yet to be, And teach their prattling tongues to lisp, " My country, 'tis of thee ". WHEAT AND CHAFF. M A SUMMER SYMPHONY. Y boauie brown lass, with laughing eye, And footsteps like the fawn, Your fleeting smile, as ye pass by. Is sweet as summer's dawn. The wild bee clings. With folded wings. To the bloom of the swaying clover. And carmine tips Of coral lips, Sair tempt a June-time lover. My bonnie brown lass, of graceful mien, Like naiad or wood nymph seeming, If ye will or nay, I name ye queen. Of all my day-time dreaming. The skylark's trill. By woodland rill. Or call of the mating plover, Is not more sweet, To ears they greet. Than your laughter bubbling over. My bonnie wild lass, with cheeks as brown, As the maples of September, Tho" I dread the cloud of your haughty frown, I bid vou ave remember,— 30 WHEAT AND CHAFF The wild bee clings, With folded wit:gs, To the bloom of the swaying clover, And carmine tips, Of coral lips, Sair tempt a June-time lover. # ^ # A FRAGMENi: rHKRK'S a pall of gloom o'er the winter sky. The lamps have gone out in the darkness on high, The old year is dying, The wild winds are sighing, And the past with its pleasures, its smiles, and its tears, Gives way to the future, its hopes and its fears. A friend to some, has the old year been. And a pitiless foe to others, I ween, But some will reap, While others must weep. For the tide of time, with its ceaseless flow. Waits not for mortals here below. Here's a sigh for the old 3'ear, soon to be o'er. And a smile for the new one that is now before ; For 'tis ever with hope. That we blindly grope. In the darkest depths of the gloomy night. That forever obscures the future's light. WHEAT AND CHAFF. IN MEMORY OF EUGENE FIELD. A LL rusted the harp that the minstrel played, E'er he wandered from earth afar, Down the shining path, by the angel's made. To the beautiful gates ajar. Yet the touching stories of childish lore, And the minstrel's tender song, Will echo back from that far offshore, With a cadence full and strong. And thousands of children who loved his name. For the sake of the Little Boy Blue, Will raise a shaft to the poet's fame. From the depth of their love so true. "Twere better far than a nation's praise, This tribute of childish love, To the poet gone from our earthly gaze. To the land of light above. # ^^ '# THE BL UE AND THE GRA Y. At a join^. celebration of Washitrtjton's Birthday, at Elkiiis, by the G A. R Post and a Camp of Confederate Veterans Mr. M. S. Cornweil, of the "Inter Mountain ", read the following beautiful original poem : —Wheeling Register. "^HE death dealing passions that burned fierce and bright, In the heart of the nation, when grim visaged war. Like the sable-hued folds of the mantle of night, Enveloped the land, its beauty to mar, 32 WHEAT AND CHAFF. Have gone like the dreams of the years that have vanished, Like the dewdrops that melt at the kiss of the sun, When love took the place of the demon you banished, And the Hlue and the Gray stand united as one. From the storm-beaten shores of the far Northern Ocean ; To where the palms wave by the Mexican Sea. The spirit of discord, of civil commotion. Like a spectre, arose, and bid liberty flee. Then the sons of the Southland — no braver eer Vmttled — They offered their lives for a cause they deemed right, When the war dogs were loosed and the musketry rattled, Virginia was found in the van of the fight. Aye, brave, too, were those, from each Northern valley. Who fought for Old Glory, its stripes and its stars. When the bugle blast echoed the sound of the rally. They sprang to the fray like true sons of Mars. In the heart of a Nalion, two words are enshrined, Whose meaning shall last till the end of the day. And around them the tendrils of memory are twined, They are blazoned in glory the Blue and the Grav. Their deeds shall yet live through the iar future ages ; These soldiers who met on the wide battle plain, And the pen of the poet, or wisdom of sages. Can add not one jot to the sheen of their fame. We love the traditions the Southland hath cherished. Of brave meti who fell in the thick of the fray. We remember with pride, now that passion has perished, Americans all, were the Blue and the Grav. WHEAT AND CHAF'F. WHEN THE LEAVES BEGIN TO FALL. THRRE'vS a tin^e of melancholy, in the sunlig^ht and the breeze, And the spirit of desolation, seems to brood amon^ the trees ; When the mellow mists of autnmn softly hover over all. When the summer has departed, and the leaves begin to fall. Gone, the pleasant days of spring-time, and the burning summer's heat ; Gone, the blue-bird and the swallow, from their leafv, cool retreat. And we feel a note of sadness, in the robin's plaintive call, When the summer days have ended, and the leaves begin to fall. ■ ' When the autumn of our life-time, with its weight of years shall come, And the spring-time hopes and longings, and the summer" s fight, be done. Shall our hearts be filled with sorrow, at the winter's icy pall? Or with glad hope of the morrow, when the leaves begin to fall? 34 . WHKAT AND CHAPF. SONG OF 7 HE SEA. IT^OVE the song of the sea, — The pitiless wintry sea, As it breaks with a roar, On the Ice-bound shore, For its son<^ is wild and free. It sings of power, In the midnight hour. Or the dusk of the winter days ; And in angry breath, It sings of death. In the depth of its stormy ways. But better I love the sea, The magical, tropical sea. Where the sun gleams warm. In the track of the storm. For it softly sings to me. It sings of love, And the blue above, Bends down to the blue of the w Its soothing tone, Is a song of home. By shores its waters lave. WHEAT AND CHAFF. N DECEMBER. T O more the mellow sunlight falls, O'er valley, hill, and town, And the phantom shapes of the autumn mists. Give way to the winter's frown. December's winds are chill and drear. As a blast from the icy North, When the storm ,s Like the knell of a spirit lost. A mournful dirge the night-wind sings, A dirge for the dying year ; And the hearts of men, as they hear its sound, Are filled with a nameless fear. For as the spring and the simimer time. Give way to the winter's bla.st, vSo the jov of youth, and our manhood's prime. Give way to old age at last. And like the wnld December .storms, That envelop the earth in their gloom ; The shadow of death our souls shall wrap, In the starless night of the tomb. WHKAT AND CHAFK F RHYME OF THE SEASONS. I" HE spring-time hath hope for all living ; Of gladness a plenteous store ; And the summer hath sweets for the giving ; A measure of joy running oer. E'en the winter's rude breath shall but find us, Enthralled by the home's blissful bands ; And the gleam of the white frost around us ; There is wealth in the wide autumn lands. There's no change in our lives but for reason ; ■Whether winter, or spring-time, or fall ; The bountiful Lord of the season, Prepareth his blessings for all. # # ^ TWO TOILERS. AR down 'neath the depths of the Cornish soil, Are men, whose sinews are hardened by toil, — Patient, enduring yet brave and strong, These men who toil through the dark hours long, While far above them the wild waves roar, As they break in foam on the rocky shore. Yet their story is told in prose and, rhyme, And the world has heard of their patience sublime, P'or the ore that is mined by their muscle and brawn, Finds its way to each land that the sun shines on. WHEAT AND CHAFP. There are men who toil through the day and the night, Bravely battling for home rind right,- Their weapon, the pen. more strong than the sword, For the fate of a nation may hang on a word. Yet the world recks not of their deeds sublime. And their names are not carved on the tablets of time. For oft times they're humble, and lowly, and poor. And their struggle is fierce, to keep want from the door, And men scarce believe that a hero's form. Can be wrapped in a coat that is ragged and torn. So, here's just a line, of praise to these men — Brave, patient, and noble, these knights of the pen, While others are resting, both body and brain, From the labor of plotting and scheming for gain, The journalist to^ls, with a tireless hand, To gather the news from every land. But there's one consolation, and to all its more dear, Than gold, or words of praise and cheer. 'Tis only this : to have faced each part, With steady purpose, and fearless heart. Is better far, when life's sun goes down, Thau to reign a king, with scepter and crown. WHEAT AND CHAF'F'. H IMMORTALITY. AvST ihou, oh, brother, hope of life, Beyond these ways of storm and strife? Dost dream of rest beyond the sun. In beauteous lands, when life is done? And does that hope thy sad heart cheer, When sorrows dark pursue thee here? Answer the Norseman, stronj;- and brave, In days of old who dared the wave. Whose ocean steed, the four winds bore. To man\- a far-off, fruitful shore ; Owning no law but sword aiul fire. His faithful ship his funeral pyre. "Master of Life, the mighty Thor, Ruler of heaven and Crod of war ; He, who through the wintry night. Kindles the gleam of the northern light ; (ruards His children with jealous care. And giveth heed to the Norseman's ])rayer. '* When over the sea shall come, at last. The weird death-call on the midnight blast, Who would strengthen the slender thread. Between the living and the dead ? For shall not he who bravely died, On the wings of the wind to Valhal ride? " WHE^AT AND CHAFF 39 Answer, ye of the sun-kissed lands, Where the riv-ers flow over golden sands ; Where love and peace first found a home ; Answer, ye spirits of Greece and Rome : Had ye hope of immortal life. Beyond these ways of storm and strife ? ' Behold, where father Ti1)er"s stream, Reflects the sun's departing- y,ieam, A hundred priests and myriad choirs. Surround the holy altar fires ; A hundred temples, proudh' raised, Proclaim the gods the Romans praised. Or, when this grey, old world was young. In days of which the bards have sung. When art and music ruled the whil^. O'er Greece, and Delo's lovely isle. The Grecians praised the god of love. Or bent the knee to mighty Jove.'" Ever hath heart of man been bowed, The humble poor, the great and proud, To unseen hands that guard his way, From childhood's hour to close of day. All bear their cross of doubt and pain. By hope of an innnortal gain. The Buddhist claims Nirvana, rest ; The forest warrior scans the west, And sings his death-song e'er his flight, 40 WHEAT AND CHAPK. Beyond the farther ocean bright. 1 he Aztec owns the bright sun-god, And treads where Montezuma trod. Thus hath the Christian hope been strong. In hntnati hearts through ages long. Let scoffers claim their souls.are free. Or prate of grim philosoph}- ; Yet still we dream of hope and life, Beyond these ways of storm and strife. DIALECT AND OTHER POEMS. THE SOCKS THE GOLFERS WEAR. ' 'VE hunted alligators where the •' Southland rivers flow," - And chased the bounding catamount across the frozen snow, I've followed all the out-door sports on land and on the sea. But I never wore the kind of socks that come above the knee. When a fellow stuffs his pantaloons within his checkered hose, And sets a little monkey cap above his bloomin' nose, I always look him over, and, somehow, I never fail, To think, there goes a sand hill crane, with nary sign of tail. I may ride a streak of lightning, or fight a grizzly bear, Or sail, with some fool aeronaut, the circumambient air ; I may get drunk, and paint the town, to drive away dull care. But heaven smite me, if I don the socks those golfers wear. WHEAT AND CHAFF. H FM JUSl A LAZY FELLER. T 'M just a lazy feller, 1 With no special 'sense fer livin', Nor half deservin' any gifts The Lord is always givin". But I can't help feelin' happy, 'Bout this time in the Spring, When the cherry trees are bloomin' An' I hear the robin's sing. There ain't no city big enough. To hold nie now, at all. Since the cherry trees are bloomin', An' I hear the robin's call. For the Master, in His goodness. Made the country fair an' free, The V)irds an' flowers an' buddin' trees, Fer lazy chaps like me. # # # SFMMER LN FHE SOUFH. I, niistah 'coon, in de sycomo' tree, Yo' think yo' done hid, but ye cay n't fool me, De ol' dog a trailin', wid his nose to de grouu'. An' yo" cay n't lose yo' track frum dat ol' speckled houn'. De blackberry ripenin', an' de mellon grovvin' biggah, But de Lawd made the possum an' de 'coon fer de niggali, Summer in de South, an' de moon shinin' bright, Gwine to see my true love dis hyar blessed night. WHEAT AND CHAFF. Hi. niistah 'coon, in de syconio' tree, Yo' bettah come down, fer 3^0' cayn't fool me. De ol' dog a barkin', an' de moon shinin' bright, Gwine to see my true lov^e dis hyar blessed night. -^ # THE GOOD LORD LOJ'ES 7 HE FARMER. SOME folks they think creation is all a goin' wrong ; Say we'll have a revolution, an' that it wont be long. They say as how the workin' man is poor as poor can be ; But the good Lord loves the farmer, an' that's enough fur me. I don't know much 'bout politics, the tariff nor free trade, But if we've rain and sunshine, here's one 'ats not afraid Of them there grindin' plutocrats in this country of the free. For the good Lord loves the farmer an' that's enough for me. There's pumpkins in the furrow an' apples on the bough. Rich stores for comin' Winter that has no terrors now. Though skies be dark for many, an' the future hid frum view, The good Lord loves the farmer an" I guess he'll see us thro'. WHEAT AND CHAFF. w THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN. E don't half like the city, With all its sounds and sights, Its rushin', rattlin' street cars, And its bright electric lights. Where mammon's mighty temples Stand beside the stony ways, And the roar of business echoes Through all the gloomy days. Where people never stop to talk. Or loiter as they go, And can never spare a minute. They always hurry so. When the smoke of myriad chimneys Dim.s the glor}' of the sun. And you never feel the cooling breeze When your day of toil is done. Where through the livelong da}' and night The mob keeps rushin' on, Like all were bound for kingdom come, And anxious to be gone. For man is only mortal, And some day he'll have to rest, And we hope to hear the Master say, " He did his very best/' And how can any good be done, Is what we'd like to know, If people never stop to think, They always hurry so ? WHEAT AND CHAFF. 45 No, we like the country better, Where the 1)irds sing through the day, Where the pleasant fountains sparkle, Beside each dusty way. Where God has written on the earth. In language plain and clear, The story of creation. The hearts of men to cheer. You can read it in the dewdrops. As the\' sparkle on the leaves; In the murmur of the zephyrs, And the waving forest trees. In the sunshine and the rain-fall ; The message of His love. And at midnight, in the stars that gleam. In silence up above. Why, the very joy of livin', Will make both heart and brain. Throb with new life and vigor, — Just make you young again. When God made man, he put him In a garden rich and fair. With birds, and flowers, and fountains. And perfume laden air. He didn't build a great big hou.se. With towers, broad and high. And set il on a hill-top. Where it almost touched the .sky. 4C WHEAT AND CHAFF. W And, somehow, it always seemed to us. Fate was more apt to frown. Upon the man who dwells within. The busy, bustling town. We suppose we lack ambition, That meteor of the mind. That leads men from the paths of peace, The bubble, fame, to find. So, we take things sort o' calm-like, As we loiter by the way; And we reckon we'll noi regret it. When we reach the judgment day. For we know we'll all stand equal, Before the great white throne, When the Master Shepherd counts His sheep. And comes to claim His own. # ?^^ # LESSONS TO LEARN. HENEVRR the .sky looks cold and gray. And even the robins have gone away; When the cold north wind begins to blow. And .scatter the flakes of falling snow. As into the blazing fire I gaze, I dream once more of boyhood days. When supper was over, then father would say, "You've housed the stock, and given "em hay. An' plenty of wood piled up to burn ? Well, don't forget, you've lessons to learn.'' WHEAT AND CHAFF. How hard and long those lessons seemed ; As I conned them o'er, I oftimes dreamed Of the time to come, when, school days past, I should see the great, wide world at last, — When no more I'd hear, in that quiet home. The well-known words and kindly tone, When supper was over, and father would say, "You've housed the stock and given 'em hay. An' plenty of wood piled up to burn ? Now, don't forget, youve lessons to learn." Oh, the dreams we dream in our youthful years And our hopes, that end in bitter tears, As we weave the web and the mystical plan, The aim, and the life, and the doom of man. I'd give the wisdom the world has taught. And all the joys that the years have brought. To live again in the self-same way — The days when father used to say, "You've housed the stock, and given "era hay. An' plenty of wood piled up to burn ? Well, don't forget, you've lessons to learn." 48 WHEAT AND CHAFF. H THE POET. E toiled from morn 'til close of day, With energy gigantic. He dressed each merry roundelay, In vestures rich, romantic. He turned off poems, grave or gay, To catch the public eye. He lived on one square meal a day, But still fame passed by. But now in social maze lies seen, The critics call him great. He writes stuff for a magazine, The devil couldn't translate. m ^ ^ THE EDITOR-MAN. Dedicated to the ■ embers ol the West Virginia Kditorial Association. — Wheeling Register. The following beautiful poem was written by M S Corn well, of Romney. in response to a request from the Pre.sident of the Edi- torial Association, that he write sotnettiing for tht recent session. Mr. Cornwell is in poor health and was unable to attend himself, but sent in this tribute to his fellow cratt. and it was read at the banquet by the Prtsid-nt, J. Slidell Brown : T HERE are poets who sing of the spice-laden breeze. That waves the green boughs of the orange and pine ; Or the wild, lonely beauty of the tropical seas, [shine When the night wind is hushed, and the Southern stars And some sing of war, and the clashing of arms. Resounds through the rythmical roll of their measure ; Or, others of love, and its magical ciiarms. And the lode-star that gleams in the palace of pleasure. WHEAT AND CHAFF. 49 Had the goddess of poesy smiled on Ttiy birth, Or the music of nature been born in my soul, I would fashion my song for the lowly of earth, O'er whose sad hearts the seas of adversity roll. There are millions who bow to the rich and the great, Whom fortune has rocked in her cradle of gold, But few to lend comlort, or pity the fate Of the desolate ones whom the universe holds. When fortune shall frown on their uneven road, Or death come to visit their hearth-stone again, There is always a .kind word to lighten each load, From the friend to the humble, the editor man. So. here's to the brave, patient knigths of the pen ; I give vou this tribute- -gain-say it, who can , In sorrow or joy, the truest of men, Is the friend to the humble, the editor-man. * # * J HE WA y OF THE WORLD. ITEIvL, no tale of a warrior brave. Who fell 'mid the battle's roar. Nor of sailor bold, who breasted the wave, Three hundied leagues from shore. But only a lay of a country lad, Who dwelt by the eastern sea, Whose simple heart the winds made glad, When they blew o'er the grassy sea. 50 WHEAT AND CHAFF. They whispered to him of a sun-bright land, At the gates of the golden west, Where he, by the might of his brain and hand. Should shine as the strongest and best. A dark-eyed maiden, his boyhood love. Would wait 'til he came again, With heart as tender as a mourning dove. Through sunshine, storm and rain. And they said the things that lovers will say, While men and maidens are young ; As long as the human heart hath sway. As long as the soul hath tongue. John Henry Watkins, my hero bold. Left his home by the eastern sea, And black-eyed Susan, whose story is told, Stayed on by the wind-blown lea. Alas, for the hope of the human heart, And the sorrows that come between, She is married now, since they drifted apart. And dwells 'mid the pine woods green. Six dark haired urchins, of varying size, Play 'round their mother's knee, At even -tide when the night-winds rise. And blow toward the restless sea. And John Henry Watkins, who promised so much, Alas, he could do no more ; In the straggling Village of Deadwood Gulch, He clerks in a grocery store. A PLEASANT WORD. SOMR peo^)le never have a pleasant word handy, or at least they deny themselves the luxury of their use. Di 1 vou ever take time to think that it is just as easy to smile as to frown ? Well, there is as much differ- ence between the two acts as between a gloomy day in winter and the sunshine in summer, and the influence on tnose around you, just as marked. I have two women in my mind thai illustrate my meaning. The one was, and stil.l i>, postmistress in a little village where I spent some montlis, and so I saw her every day. The second time I called for mv mail we got acquainted, and the third day we were good friends. Were we ever introduced? Oh no. But that cheery little woman had learned that I wat an invalid, and she had known suff'ering herself, and could sympathize with others. She greeted every one with a pleasant word and a kindly smile and I never left her presence without a more cheerful and contented feel- ing. May her days be long in the land. The other one of whom I speak kept a hotel, and I was one of the unfortunates who dined at her table. If she ever smiled, it was long ago, for her forbidden visage bore no marks of such relaxation. I used to bolt my WHKAT AND CHAFF. meals to get away from the house, for in her presence I always felt like the air was charged with lightning. Perhaps it was brimstone. 1 he Lord deliver me from such again. Which one of these would you rather imi- tate ? If you have troubles, keep them to yourself, others may have greater. Just try how it goes to be cheerful and )'ou will feel ten years younger. # # # BROWN. THE BEACH-COMBER. HE wasn't good to look at, and would scarcely pass nmster, even in an ordinary crowd, in these latter days when I knew him. I made his acquaintance as he sat in the door-way of his humble home, smoking his pipe in peace, and gazing out upon the broad lagoon that stretched away toward the west beneath the rays of the setting sun. Beyond, the fore.st trees of the main- land were outlined against a sky of molten gold. A mournfully monotonous roar of the surf was in our ears, and the vesper song of the mocking bird floated out on dreamy air. Ilie palm trees cast long shadows about this humble abode, and, as the day died out of the sky, the queer old hermit opened his lips and his heart, and spake to me of the past, and his lonely life upon this lonely .shore. The story is too long to tell here, but to me his life conveyed a lesson never to be forgotten; a story of lost opportunities and a woman's love bartered for the red wine's glow; of misery and remorse, and, at last, the lonely waiting here, in sight and sound of the restless WHEAT AND CHAFF. sea, for the end so soon to come. Softly I wrung his hand in the gathering gloom, and silently glided across the whispering waters. The stars came ont in the tropic sky to point my path, and, ever and anon, the marsh fowls flew across the milky way, uttering their plaintive, mournful cry, like the wail of a spirit in despair. As the night-breeze hummed through the cordage of my little barque, I thought of the human wreck I had just left behind — stranded here by the tides of time in their cease- less flow. Once again I saw him, or rather the form that had held his world-worn soul. Kind friends had gathered to pay the last sad rite to the unclaimed dead— unclaimed? No, for clasped in his nerveless hand was the portrait of a lovely woman, and above him, shown through tears, the same face, grown older, and with deeper lines upon the cheek and brow. The woman he had loved and lost, and made drain the cup of sorrow to its dregs, had for- given, as only a woman's heart can forgive, and come to him again. But, too late. The shattered derelict had drifted out upon that shoreless sea, that men call death. # # # BE A MAN. I READ a short paragraph in a newspaper a few days ago, which set me thinking deeply. It was only a brief mention of one of those numerous casualities, that go to make up the history of a single day in this great big country of ours. Only a word, concerning an engineman — poor and unknown— who had stood to 54 WHEAT AND CHAFF. his post, with white, set face, and met death, to save his train. Had that man fought beside the great Napoleon, he would have worn the cross of the Legion, and com- manded a regiment. But he was a hero, although his name can never be known to fame. Ever}' man, in his own silent, loneh' struggle of life, may be a hero or a coward. And his life work will show which he has been. This much — be a man, and bow neither to mouldy preju- dice nor narrow opinion. # 4^ # DREAMS. "^T^HE poet has uttered a prayer of thanksgiving for i. the blessing of sleep. But who has thanked the fates for the gift of dreams? How easy to lay aside the cares of our weary lives and slip awav into the beauteous valley of dreams. The best and truest inspira- tions come to us then, filling our souls with peace and joy. In that enchanted world all is pure, and fair, and free from sin and strife I recall dreams which .some- times make me wonder if the spirit wanders abroad, led by unseen hands, to worlds of light. Visions as fair as those which cheered St. John upon the lonely isle, and their memory lingers to cheer the weary .soul through other days. It is good to feel the thrill of life and min- gle with our kind; and it is very good to wander in the pleasant land of dreams and listen to the listless lapping of the tides of time upon the radiant shores of the world of the infinite. WHEAT AND CHAFF. 55 WHAT IVE LEARN BY EXPERIENCE. IT does seem like every boy has to learn a lot of things by sad experience. At a certain age, he generally be- gins to part his hair in the middle, and the increasing- height of his collar denotes the bent of his intellect. He has been smitten by some fair damsel and time alone can cure him, He begins to chafe at parental restraint, and yearns for a wide sphere of action. A good antidote is to hitch him to a garden plow, and stimulate his actions with a good-sized sprout ; as the years go by, the dreams fade and the old-time glamour is no more. Many a man, with a tinge of silver in his hair, would like to exchange his end of the matrimonial yoke lor a grip on that gar- den plow, even with the old man and the hickory sprout at the other end of the beam. But, as gray hairs begin to come, we are apt to grow pessimistic. When the mountains don their gorgeous autumn mantle, I often am carried back to boyhood days. And the man who missed spending his boyhood on a farm, missed the best of life. The 'coon hunts by moon- light had their charm, but the apple-butter boilings were the acme of enjoyment. Did you ever stir apple butter by the flickering firelight? Of course, it takes two, and the others amuse themselves indoors, as they should. And, oh, well, you know the things that youth will feel and say, better than I can tell you, And later comes the plays and the games, and, mayhap, a pleasant walk in the moonlight, with a clinging form beside you. How bright the world looked then, and how different now. And yet it has not changed, only you and me. WHEAT AND CHAFF. I like tt) talk to old men. The men who saw the rail- road cotne into the country, and who remember the first telegraph, and the infancy of steam navigation. I like to hear them tell of the times when they lived in log cabins, and hunted deer among the mountains, with the old long rifles, so deadly in the hands of a woodsman. They wore home spun, and rode horse-back to church ; their simple wants were supplied by their native soil. They had health and contentment, which are better than riches. And I sometimes wonder if it were not better to have lived then, than in this lightning age. # * # j:>a y dreams. THE strange old ])oet. Robert Burns, once expressed, in his (|naint phrase, the thought, that no matter how intimate we may become with another fellow creature, there are stib some chapters of our lives which are kept sacred, as it were, to the memory of the past, and which we never open to the gaze of any mortal. There is a world of truth conveyed in this. Every man or woman has thoughts and feelings which go to make up the inner and higher life, and which are never re" vealed, even to those who are nearest and dearest by the ties of earth. The more of a dreamer a man is, the more interest- ing to him are his own thoughts; the more he lives within himself, and the more real pleasure there is for him in life. When the mellow autumn sunlight falls upon the hills, lending its weird glamor to every object WHEAT AND CHAFF. in the landscape, a thousand fancies are conjured up, by magic, as it were, until the heart of the man is carried hack to scenes long past, and almost forgotten, away from the fierce turmoil and unrest of life. He is better, because dreams are never evil. He sees marvellous beau- lies in the works of nature, with a poet's eye, he worships at nature's shrine, and, deep down in his heart of hearts, he hears the voice of nature" s God, soothing his troubled soul to rest. # # # .^ STCDV IN BLACK AXD WHITE. A vS a rule, the southern negro is a lazy varmint, and i. \ some of his kind are vicious. As a rule, the south- ern white man is honest and courageous, and, occasionally, he is keen and sagacious in business, as well. Ihit there are exceptions, they do say, to all rules, and this exception is not a fancy sketch, but a chronicle of facts. Down where the v^anta Lucia mingles its sluggish waters with the salt tide of the Indian River, which is no river at all, only a land-locked lagoon that skirts the southeasern shore of Florida— not so many years ago, were wide acres of public land. Of course that was be- fore the locomotive was heard in the land, and long be- fore a United States Senator had made the region famous by establishing there his winter abode. Of course, in those days, it was a week's journey to reach a telegraph office, but the broad lauds were there, the fish disported 58 WHEAT AND CHAFF. in the sun kissed waters, and the wild orange ripened b}^ the woodland ways. And in those halcyon days, when all the country was pa.ssed by the peaceful cattle-ranger, a sturdy African came to make his home not far from the Santa Lucia's waters, who came to be known far and near, as Nassau Tom. He came from the Bahamas, and he brought with him a wife of ebony hue and a drove of pickaninnies as black and as noi.sy as the rice bird of the wild swamp lands. Of course, he held no title deed to the land upon which his palmetto .shock was built, but later on the State made good his claim to eighty acres. His nearest neighbor was one vSimeon Baxter, alias Cracker Sim, a type of a disappearing class. Of course, Simeon Baxter, cattle-raiser and southern gentleman, looked down in lofty scorn upon a '' Nassau nigger". But side by side they have lived for twenty years, and their stories are a study for the thoughtfully inclined. But why prolong the tale ? Recently I passed through a most beautiful orange grove, clean and carefully tended, with a mass of fragrant, snowy blossoms. On a ridge of high hammock, facing the sea, was a neat cottage, and before it were irrigated gardens to delight the eye. Whose was it, say you? Nassau Tom's, of course, who had wrought all this comfort from the thirsty soil by the magic of hard labor. Down the road a little way, I passed a log cabin, where was a hungry-looking mob of dogs dozing in the sun. Upon the piazza sat a grizzled specimen of humanity, smoking a corn-cob pipe, and dreaming ihe hours awa3^ Who is he, say you ? Simeon Baxter, to be sure, cattle-raiser, aforesaid, who was him- self raised on hog and hominy, and craves neither the WHEAT AND CHAFF. products nor the customs of other lands. For the way of the cow-cracker is pa.ssing stran.s^e and changeth not. An exception to the rule, say you? Well, nia\- be; but. having seen and heard, I am constrained to believe and record. ^ ^ ^ MAJOR ANDERSON, OF SA VANNAH. ONCE upon a time I had the honor of meeting ]V(ajor Anderson, of Savannah. I do not refer to the gentleman who commanded F"ort Sumpter, but Major Anderson, of Georgia, sah ; a brother of General Anderson, and himself a brave Confederate officer. The Major is an old-time southern gentleman, who believes in the vSouth, and the destiny of her people, and loves to talk of the limes before the war. I .spent a very plea.sant afternoon with him, on the breeze-swept veranda of a southern hotel, looking out upon the southern sea, and listening to his stories of the old and the new South. " Afler the war,'' s lid he, "we moved to vSavannah, and the old plantation, on the river, was rented to our former slaves. Along in June, I concluded to go out to the old place and see how the boys were coming on with their crops. When I reached the boundary of the plan- tation, I never saw a more lorlorn-looking sight. Rank weeds towered above the cotton rows, and blackberries were ripening in the corntields. Coming along the dusty highway was a slouching figure, armed with a fishing- pole, bare-footed and bear-headed. As he drew near 1 WHEAT AND CHAFF. recognized my chief tenant and confidential man of affairs. * Hello John,' said I. ' In the name of heavens, where are all the niggers, and why ain't yon all at work ? You black rascal, do you expect to raise anything this year?' ' Hi. (lar ! Clar, to goodness, if dat aint Mars Bill. Glad to see yo', sho. Laws, sah, yo' lookin' monstrous well. 'Clar to goodness yo' is. Axin" "bout de boys, sah ? Da's a mostous no count set, sah ; but dis am de mos' boun- tifullest season dat I eber see. De jack fish a runnin', sah, so pow'ful thick dat tree or fo' try to git yo' hook at once. An' de 'possums, deed. Mars Bill, I neber seed de beat ub dem 'possums. Da jis' eber 3' whar. Drive on, Mars Bill ; drive on, an' make yo'self to home, sah. I jis' gwine down heah to see 'bout dem triflin' niggahs, sah." '" The Major flecked the ashes from hi^s cigar and added: "The black man is a child of nature. He is content with nature's bounty, and care comes not nigh him.'' ^ ^ # J DREAM OF BO YHOOD DA YS. WHY is it, that the early summer always sets us to dreaming of boyhood days? I can't tell, unless it is because the advent of the summer brought new joys to the country lad. It meant a thousand de- lightful rambles by wood and stream, and, best of all, it was fishing time. Did you ever spend two hours digging for bait under every convenient burdock, and then trudge off two or theee miles in the morning svinshine, to the WHEAT AND CHAFF. nearest stream? If you didn't, you don't know what real happiness means. Why, a President of the United States, on his way to be inaugurated isn't half as happy as the boy who's going fishing. A convenient eddy is found and how eagerly you'd unwind that old fishing line and make it fast to the pole. And then, the peace, and quietude, and happy expectancy, waiting for the fish to bite. Some boys can't be contented to sit still and wait but they try first one place and then another, and grow cross, and complain, and they lose all the good of the sunshine, and the bird's songs overhead, and go home disappointed. That's just the way with some men. They're never contented with their lot, but go from place to place, or from one occupation to another, instead of taking root in the soil, and gathering about them home, love and tried friends, and so they miss the best their is in life, and die complaining and disappointed. And, by the way, speaking of boys, their pastimes and employments, or men, and their foibles, we are re- minded to say, that a boy's future can be guaged by his early habits, and the boy's habits are largely the re- sult of home training. I am seldom on the street at night, but when I am, I never fail to see crowds of boys, loafing on corners, and frequently, in passing, hear lan- guage which these same boys never use at home. I wouldn't give much for what all those boys will be worth twenty years from now. I hate to see a man distrust his neighbors, and every- one with whom he comes in contact. I hate to hear a man decry human nature, for no matter how much of 62 WHKAT AND CHAFF. bad there is in us, there is mighty apt to be a latent streak of kindness somewhere. We never know what friend- ship and sympathy mean, in our day of prosperity. But when adversity, or sickness, or sorrow comes upon us, it is then that we know and feel the strength of human kindness. It is then our hearts are lifted up above the sordid things of earth, and we are made to feel that much in life is better than gold or the applause of men. # # # THE GIFT OF ORIGINALITY. DID you ever see a man who possessed, in a perfect degree, the gift of originality ? Who never copied expression or mannerism from other men ? Well, I think I did once, and I'll tell you something of this vara avis, while I think about it. He was a native of the sea-girdled Bahamas, and had all the easy going bonhommie of the tropics in his make-up. His skin was the color of polished ebony, and his frame was gigantic. His speech was the jargon of the West Indian blacks, but his ideas and expressions were original. One sample of his arguments will suffice. I had helped to put a mast and centei -board and rig a leg-o' -mutton sail in a crazy rowboat, which was there- by converted into a tolerable sort of dinky, which would make fair speed if you didn't try to come up too close to the wind. Well, we hired a young gentleman of color to catch bait for us, and, of course, furnished him a boat. With all the assurance of a blue-water seaman, he hoisted WHEAT AND CHAFF. sail and away, making a bee line for a yawl-rigged yacht anchored far out in the lagoon. Surely, thought I, the fool sees where he is going. But, no ; there' was a crash, as the mast of the dinky caught the bowsprit of the yacht, and the rigging of our gallant craft went by the board in a jiffy. It was in speaking of this incident that my original genius re- marked : "Hi! dat fool niggah know no mo' 'bout a boat dan a white man do 'bout a mule." ^ m m CHRISTMAS IN THE FAR SOUTH. ALMOST by the time this reaches the readers of the "Review", Christmas will be here. Millions of homes will be filled with rejoicing, as around the fireside are gathered loved ones from far and near, re- united at this happy season. There lingers in my mem- ory no brighter picture than a Christmas Eve of my boy- hood days. The flames leaping up the wide chimney, and shedding their warmth and light upon a circle of happy faces. No costly gifts were there — no anticipation of brilliant festivities on the morrow — only contentment, and love, and peace. What matter, how storms rage without? If the world be robed in a mantle of white, the comfort within only seems the greater. How many such pictures may be seen among the hills of West Virginia on this Christmas Eve ? Perhaps the lad who sits in the glow of the firelight, dreams of future years. Of himself, as an actor in the drama of life, or of strange lands, that he shall see when home is 64 WHEAT AND CHAFF. left behind. Alas! such thoughts will come to the mind of youth, and, in after years, perchance, that same lad, a stranger in a strange lands will dream more fondly of his childhood home, and, as the bells ring in the joyous Christmas tide, his breast will be filled with that name- less melancholy, which only the lonely ones of earth may know. We cannot all give costly gifts to those we love, and make them happ}'. But we can, at least, cheer some poorer mortal by deed or word of kindness, which will make us all the happier for the doing or the saying. Last year, I came on Christmas Eve, to a little vil- lage in South Florida, where it was my intention to pass the remainder of the winter. After dark the population of the village assembled to witness the distribution of presents, which burdened a bountiful Christmas tree. In all that merry crowd I was the only on who felt himself a stranger and alone. But they had not even forgotten me. The venerable Santa Claus, who presided over the exercises of the evening, presented me with a share of the good things provided, and welcomed me, in the name of the people, to their village. That little present was, in itself, of no value, but the words which accompanied it were priceless. They made me realize the bond of human brotherhood, that reaches from the peasant in his hovel, to the king upon his throne— made me feel that, though a stranger, I was among friends. It is such little acts as these which sustain our faith in himian kind. Last Christmas I sat out in the sunshine, and listened to the birds singing among the palmettos and live oak and ate oranges fresh from the tree. How unlike all that WHEAT AND CHAFF. 65 this country is. Only the bright sunshine, and no sing- ing birds nor luxuriant vegetation, and yet, somehow, this land has a charm all its own. When I look upon these towering mountains, and out, across the wide, desert plains, I feel the same emotion as when I stood for the first time upon the shore of the Atlantic, and saw the breakers rolling in across the world, voicing their tale of storms and shipwreck all around the earth. A feeling that I am alone with God and nature, and I realize the vastness of His created universe, and the littleness of human endeavor. Perhaps, there are some, who will read these words, who feel that they have no cause for happiness or re- joicing — who, perhaps, are borne down by a load of grief. But is there any sorrow great enough to make us forget our faith in eternal justice? Let us, who bear grievious burdens of poverty, or pain, or bitter disappointments, remember that even the shelter of Bethlehem's Inn was not vouchsafed to the Virgin Mother and the New-born King. Think of the starving children of Erin, and the misery of India, Think what others are suffering, and your heart will be lifted up in gratitude for the many blessings you enjoy. El Paso, Texas, Dec. i6, 1897. 66 WHEAT AND CHAFF. DO WN BY SA VAN N AH. IN the course of my summer rambles, I often love to take a book and steal awa}' to some quiet spot, where I can lie upon the green turf and look up to the wav- ing trees, and the blue sky above, and revel in the soli- tude of nature. And resting thus, I love to moralize upon the drama of human existence as I have seen it. Down by the olden city of Savannah, is beautiful Bonadventure, the city of the dead. No sound of the busy world enters this sacred enclosure. Above the moss-grown gravestones the green, live oaks wave their festooned boughs, and in the early spring-time the yel low jessamine and the wild woodbine fling their flaming- blossoms down. Amid these quiet shades, on a balmy evening, not so long ago, I sat me down to dream away a quiet hour, and incidentally glean from the pages of Poe, rich food for future thought. As the moments glided by, I heard a murmur of voices, and a youth and maiden came hand in hand along the sylvan path, and seated themselves upon a fallen gravestone, near my pleasant retreat. A clump of oleanders but partially hid me from view, and I sincerely wished that they wei e mindful of my presence ; but who was ever mindful of the world when wandering in the path this youth and maid were treading ? His face glowed with the light of hope and strength, for was not all the world before him, to be con quered and laid at the feet of her he loved. And in the face of this gentle daughter of the South, I saw the mar- vel of the soul's awakening. The volume I held slipped noiselessly to the ground, for was not here the sweetest WHEAT AND CHAFF. 67 form of life before me? Who would dare to disturb their golden dream ? The monuments around bore no message for them. And hath it not been ever so, since time was young ? " The living above, and the dead below ". All the tragedy, and sorrow, and pathos of life are forgotten when love is strong. And who would rob our lives of this one fleeting glimpse of joy? Softly I stole away, and these two will never know that a wandering stranger's silent prayer for their happi- ness was ever made. Sadly I wended my way back to the streets of the stately old town, to be borne upon the ocean wave away from this sunny land of romance. But in my heart there was a voice which said, the best of life is youth and love. # ^ # LOVE OF GOLD. ''T^ HERE is no human passion so potent as the love of i. gold. For it men have bartered their honor, their country, and all else that humanity holds dear. To-day adventurers are madly rushing to the frozen North^ — many of them to certain death — in search of gold. B}' the time they reach Klondyke, winter will be on, and all communication cut off. For eight long months the fortune hunters must endure the hardships of their icy prison, and the question is, where is the food to be obtained to feed the thousands who are rushing into the country. There is no truer proposition than that this glittering yellow sabstance is the fruitful cause of the world's misery. WHEAT AND CHAFF. TWO LETTERS. IN this day of telegraphs and telephones, the business of every-day life is carried on with the speed of thought. But the advent of these lightning messen- gers has not rendered the good, old fashion of letter writing obsolete. Our messages of love and friendship are put upon paper in the pain's-taking way of old, and are seen only by those for whom intended. And how such messages of joy or sorrow may brighten or darken our lives. I call to mind a day that will never be forgotten — a day of perfect sunshine in the far south — a day passed in solitude and meditation. Yet it is for neither of these things that it is a day to be re- membered, but because of two letters which came to me, to make the sunshine fairer, and to banish solitude. Without emotion, or even curiosity, I opened the first one, and began to read. It was written by a lawyer of my native State. A man whose name is a synonym for honor and integrity ; a high souled christian gentleman whom I am proud to call a friend. It was a letter such as only a manly man can write — a man whose soul is great enough to grasp the things of life and death, to love his fellow men. And as I read, again, and yet again, I thought, and has my feeble, erring life been such as to draw about me such friends as these, and "grapple them to my soul with hooks of steel " ? If so, I have not lived in vain. That subtle, mysterious bond of human sympathy had changed my day of solitude into a day of rejoicing. The other letter would have delighted the heart of an autograph hunter, ior it was written in the quaintly WHEAT AND CHAFF. 69 artistic hand, and graced with the signature of James Whitcomb Riley, the master singer of our day and gen- eration. What claim, say you, had I upon the time of him whom men delight to honor? None but my love for him and admiration for his greatness, and yet he spoke as brother unto brother, this poet, who daily hears a world's applause. That letter is at once a poem and sermon. I have it framed and treasured, and shall keep it as a priceless possession. But treasured in my heart are his kindly words of hope and encouragement. "Remain firmly superior to all trials," he wrote, "keep sound of soul, and always hale of faith in all good things. Work, and enduringly rejoice in your-work, and utter it ever like a jubilant prayer." God bless honest, noble "Jim" Riley, whose work has power to brighten the merry life of childhood, or lend peace to the sorrowing soul of age. He little dreamed how much his kindly optimistic letter would cheer a lonely heart and brighten a clouded life. May the blessing he bestowed return ten-fold to rest upon his head in after years. # # m A SOUTHERN GENTLEWOMAN. BIRTH and breeding niay be an accident, but the in- fluences thrown around us in our early years, cling through life, and their effect is never wholly lost. Not long since, I met and conversed with a venerable lady, of a type which is only to be found in the South. 70 WHEAT AND CHAFF. The sort which impress you at once with the thought that no mean or sordid action has ever soiled their lives. In the soft and melodious accents of her land, she told me something of her history, of the old days before the war, when the families of the slave-holders lived in luxury and refinement — the time when the better classes did not engage in the eternal struggle for gain. Of the dark days that followed — of broken family ties, of want and poverty, and, lastly, of brighter days, with children and grandchildren around her, and a happy home in the new South And, through it all, she has remained the same sweet and loving woman that she was, when, forty years ago, a southern gentleman won her pure heart and gentle hand. Verily, nowhere beneath the skies, are women to be foimd like unto the daughters of the South. And may the daughters of to-day shape their lives by their mothers of yesterday. # # * SOME REFLECTIONS. I HAVE often wondered what made the southern people so easy-going and good-natured — so smiling and polite, and I have come to the conclusion that it is just the sunshine. Modern progress has devised a thousand different kinds of furnaces and steam heaters, and devised electric, and gas, and calcium lights, but they can't rob us of the sunshine, nor can they equal it. Scientists tell us that in crowded cities, where the sun- shine does not penetrate, that microbes breed and thrive. WHEAT AND CHAFF. They say a man must not kiss his wife, or a young fel- low his sweetheart, for fear of microbes. And I say, just get out in the sunshine, and the microbes will all take their departure. I pity the boy that had to grow up in a city, and never rode a horse bare-backed, nor had stone-bruises, nor stole watermelons. A boy's surplus energies are bound to De expended in ijome direction, and in the country he'll bark his shins, or, mayhap, get licked oc- casionally, but he don't run to cigarettes nor spindle- shanks like his cousins in the cit}-. If I had four hun- dred boys, I'd want 'em all raised on a farm, and if they didn't tie the cats' tails together, or attempt to ride the bull calf occasionally', I wouldn't expect much of them when they grew up. And this brings us to the question of, why do boys leave the farm ? Here philosophers step in and tell us that " it is a longing for companionship ", or, " because home is not made attractive " . I sa}-, it is no such stuff. It's because our modern money-getting mania is inher- ited by every boy, and he leaves the dear old home be- cause he wants to get rich, and if he has been raised to habits of industr}-, he'll outstrip the cigarette-puffing college chap every time. But talk about a farmer boy getting lonesome, that's all bosh. Why, I go out in the forest 'most every day, and every time I see new beauties. Sometimes I sit down on a log, and, if the mosquitos would leave me alone, I could sit there half a day. The wind sighs dreamily through the tall palmettos and moss-hung live oaks, and an old brown thrush will come down close 72 WHEAT AND CHAFF. beside me, and half-timidly hunt for sweet-berries among the leaves. The gray doves are cooing here and there, and all nature seems made for my especial benefit. Or, other days, I go out on the river, and, alongside some mangrove island, wait for the fish to bite. Perhaps they do, and perhaps the}' don't, but what's the difference? The old ocean sings its lullaby, the soft southern breezes steal across the wide waters, and the sunlight bathes the world in glory. The white and gray gulls come in with the tide, and float by me, upon the dancing waves, with- out apparent fear. Or, occasionally, a long-legged stork will wade up close among the mangroves, as though to inquire why I tresspassed upon his domain. Learn to live close to the heart of nature, and you will find a cure for all the ills of body or mind. Almost every country has some advantages and some disadvantages, and I reckon it's all right. Florida has trojDical fruits and fresh vegetables about all the year, and plenty of fish, and oysters, and game, and the finest climate this side of the New Jerusalem, but she has no firesides. When the old man comes in at night, one boy may be down in the swamp hunting 'possums, another on the river fishing, and the girls gone for a frolic some- where, and so the old folks drape their mosquito net around them, and lie down to pleasant dreams. One of the happiest recollections of any man's life who was raised on a northern farm, is of the long winter evenings around the fireside. I don't mean a little, old dingy stove, but one of those good, old-fashioned, broad fire-places that were found in every country home. Sup- per over, the family all gathered 'round, and happiness WHEAT AND CHAFF. and peace reigned supreme. Perhaps, there is a dreamy look in the dear old mother's eyes, as she gazes into the glowing embers, and thinks of other days. And at the happy, careless laugh of one of the children, she looks up suddenly, and the far-away look gives place to a gentle smile, as she resumes her knitting and her contempla- tion. How we all remember those halcyon days that will come no more forever. And when we turn from the night-mare of this work-aday world, to gaze for a mo- ment upon the long-gone past, is it any wonder that a tear-drop trickles down the cheek ? But it is not sorrow that fills the heart. Every one has his troubles, too, just like every country has its disadvantages. To-day 1 fell in with an old gentleman who lives all alone, in a little garden spot among the pine woods, and he brings the choicest vege" tables to the village, and has a thriving young orchard of fig trees, and, I thought, here is a man who knows and cares nothing for the vanities of life and who is con- tented and happy. But he, too, had a grievance. The irrepressible razor-backs were the bane of his existance* They would eat up his young vegetables, and no fence will turn them when the}- scent forage. He had rich Savannah land that might be made profitable, if it wasn't for the expense of fencing. And so I turned grimly away, murmuring, "Good Lord, is there no contented man still living?" Well, Solomon said that it was all vanity and vexation of spirit. And as he built the temple, and was a success in the mining and lumber business, and was a ship owner, like WHEAT AND CHAFF. Mark Hanna besides being King of Israel, and having nearly a thousand wives, and more sense than all the rest of us, we'll have to take his word for it. Hawk's Park, Fla., Dec. 29, 1896. m m A PLEA. WE frequently hear it said of an individual, in tones of disparagement, that "he is young". Well, what if he is? Is this good and sufficient rea- son why he should be ignored in his profession, and turned down politically at every opportunity? The world's history furnishes abundant proof of the superior activity, and, in many cases, superior intelligence of young men. Rienzi was but a young man when the rhythmic melody of his words first awoke responsive echoes in the hearts of the Roman populace. Edward, the Black Prince, had a young man's blood of fire in his veins, and a young man's heart to dare, when the French hosts were scattered, as by the breath of a whirlwind, before his path, on the bloody field of Azincourt. And so all time shall prove. Although age brings experience and riper wisdom, yet the enthusiasm and restless energy of youth is lacking, and the old man bows down before the weight of obstacles which the young man would conquer. Is discretion lacking ? Not so. The young man of intelligence views every action as a step leading toward that future of which he has dreamed, while the older WHEAT AND CHAFF. 75 man does not feel a like responsibility. Is his mind less active? William Cullen Bryant wrote his greatest poem ere twenty summers had cast their " flecking shadows on his head". Because the passion fire of his young heart leaped up in dazzling flames ere its brightness had been quenched by the waters of disappointment and despair. ?4& # # JONES' MOTOR. THE first time I ever heard of Jones was several years ago, when I read in the papers about his ostrich farm on Merritt's Island, down at Cape Canaveral. Well, I have since learned that the ostriches died, one at a time, and when the last one was dead, Jones was some ten thousand dollars poorer than when he left the domin- ions of King Menelek, of Abyssinia, with his drove of ostriches. That was the first fool freak I know of that Jones performed, as I know nothing of him prior to that time, save that he hailed from England. How^ever, all this has nothing to do with ni}- present story, which con- cerns Jones' wonderful motor. Old Pierre Lorillard, as every one knows, is a mil- lionaire tobacco man, but, ])erhaps, some don't know that he used to spend the winters down on the east coast of Florida. He had all sorts of boats, and among others, a big hulk of a house-boat, in which he kept his horses and carriages. Two years ago they had a big October gale down there, that blew one corner of the Atlantic Ocean into the lagoons, and the people called it a tidal wave. It blew Lorillard's old house-boat away from its 76 WHEAT AND CHAFF. moorings, and drove it hard and fast aground in the head of a blind creek, among the Mangrove Islands, two miles from Sm3^rna. Now, a big house boat is a good thing to have in the water, but it's a mighty unwieldly thing on dry land, and, as a gale was not likely to come from the south and drive Mr. P. Lorillard's house-boat back to its moorings, no one considered it of much value. However, Jones wanted to perfect his new motor. It was specially de- signed, so he said, to propel water craft, and here was his chance. So he purchased theafore said Horse-house boat for the extravagant sum of twenty-five dollars, and took up his residence thereon. Onl}' a few hundred yards of mud separated his huge boat from deep water, and so, at low tide, Jones shoveled mud, week after week, until he had cut a canal to the nearest channel. Then, at high tide, when there was a full moon, he floated her out, and behold Admiral Jones and his flagship. His next care was to keep the thing from getting aground again at the first high tide, and so he always anchored in sheltered coves, and never at- tempted to move except when there was a dead calm and a slack tide. Soon is became noised about that Jones was perfect- ing his wonderful motor, and would soon be able to man- age his unwieldly craft like a to3^ I used to talk with him when he came ashore for water or provisions, but I never found out anything about the motor except that it was an application of some new sort of power, and that it was going to revolutionize mechanics. One afternoon I dropped slowly down the channel WHEAT AND CHAFF. wherein Jones and his boat happened at that time to be anchored. I was trying to tempt those wary little red and gold pig fish which abound in tropic waters. The pool where the big house-boat lay looked inviting, and I cast anchor and began to make ready my tackle. Mean- while I observed that Jones was constructing a propeller for his craft, which closely resembled, on a larger scale, the sort of " flutter wheels " I used to build when I was a boy. The sound of a hammer in the cabin suddenly ceased, and the big, burly Englishman stepped out on the after- deck and enquired what we expected to catch. "Pig fish," said I. " Pig fish ? Well, there is only one place hereabouts you'll find "em. You see that oyster bar standing out yonder from that Island ? " I saw the oyster bar. " Well, drop anchor about fifty feet to the south- ward, and there you'll find em." On we went, lazily drifting with the tide, until the locality he named was reached. I swung tlie anchor overboard. There was a splash, about four feet of wet rope slipped through my hands, and the anchor fetched up on the bottom. Then I knew Jones had lied to get us out of his neighborhood, and my companion, an Alla- chua cracker, by the name of Rawlings, knew it, too, for he stood up in the stern sheets and made some very un- complimentary remarks concerning Mr. Jones. '• Shall we beat back through the cut, and look the ground over again?" said I to Rawlings. Casting his eye toward the sun, which floated in a purplish haze just above the tops of the palmettos on the mainland, "I've got my cows to milk," said Rawlings, "and the old 78 WHEAT AND CHAFF. woman will have supper ready." And shoreward we shaped our course. As we pulled our boat up on the beach, Rawlings looked disgustedly at the three or four lonesome little red and gold fish in the bottom of the boat, and tossed them into the water. "Well,'' said he, " of all the curious cusses I ever seen, that there Jones knocks the 'simmon. I'd like to see his durned old motor when he makes her mole." And so would I. # # ^ PASTIMES ON THE RIO GRANDE. SOME wise philosopher has said that you can judge of a people by their amusements. This is true, tak- ing them individually but it would be very unfair to judge the good people of El Paso by the character of some of the places of amusement in the town. For years I had heard wild and woolly tales of the wicked- ness of this border city, as a place almost without law or gospel, where criminals flocked from Mexico to commit all manner of depredations and escape across the Rio Grande. I have heard people state that it was not safe to go out alone after nightfall. Well, how the place got such a reputation I cannot imagine. For a more orderly town I never saw. There are ten or a dozen gambling dens running wide open, of course, but I never heard of any brawls, and beside, a decent man's business is to stay away. Tiiere are dance halls, where the rougher element of the male population WHeAT AND CHAFF. 79 trip the light fantastic with gayly decked Mexican seno- ritas, through the stilly night. But there are worse dens within the very shadow of the National Capitol than any place in El Paso. Over in Juarez, there are a great many gambling places, which are frequented to some extent by Ameri- cans. Then, there are the bull fights, which take place annually in our neigboring town. They are brutal and degrading, and I must say, that I think most Americans are led to attend them by curiosity alone, and few go more than once. If you say bull fight to a Mexican, he retorts prize fight, and so it's quits. The Governor of Chihuahua would not allow Fitzimmons and Maher to fight in Juarez, but the Mexican law permits bull fight- ing with certain restrictions. But what I started out to say wa<, that El Paso is neither better nor worse than most other places I have seen, North, South, East, or West. Since I do not participate in any of the pastimes I have named, I am left to my own resources to while away the hours Good books are the most charming compan- ions, and thus I am brought into intimate relationship) with the greatest minds of the past and present. Some- times, as I sit in the sunshine, the book drops from my hand and, all unconsciously, I slip away into the pleas- ant land of dreams. Memory plays us many a truant caper, but kindl}' nature has so arranged that as our journey lengthens, the rough and uneven places are forgotten, and we remember only the fountains that sparkled by the wayside, and the perfume of the roses that bloomed in the valleys we trod. 80 WHEAT AND CHAFF. Who does not treasure in his memory some lingering hand-clasp, some spoken word, or, perchance, only the light in a pair of smiling eyes? But there was a new birth of the soul, a new awakening to the beauty of the universe and the fuUnes-J and richness of life. The sun smiled upon a happy world, to you, and your heart answered to the merry song of the birds among tlie wav- ing trees ; you have tasted the stream that flows from the fountain of all earthly joy, and the memory thereof will linger even unto the end. I have heard the sweet music of feathered choirs in green palmetto groves, or the love song of the mocking- bird in the stillness of the tropic night. I have heard the soft murmur of summer seas, when all the world was hushed, and the moonlight lay, a path of silver across the quiet waves, and have hearkened to the weird aeolian melody of the wind among the mountain pines. I have heard great orchestras render the music of the masters, now grand and terrible as the voice of a storm-swept sea, now soft and sweet as the sigh of the south wind above a bed of violets. But in all the earth I have heard nothing half so sweet as the silvery laugh of youth when the heart is light with love and joy. But what am I dreaming ? Am I growing old, or are these reveries nature's recompense for a ship-wrecked life? A lonely, wandering bachelor may not dream of youth and love, for see, a tear-drop splashed upon the book before me, and the fire has almost died out. Stir the glowing coals until the flames leap high and banish gloom. The desert wind is sighing a mournful requiem to-night — A requiem for my buried hopes El Paso, Texas, Dec. i8, 1897. WHEAT AND CHAFF. SPRING IN FLORIDA. WHAT a big country this is, and what a diversity of soil and climate. While the north is in the midst of winter, the coasts of the far south are just touched by the first breath of spring. The past week has been warm, with gentle rains, and early planting has begun. When the winds come from across the gulf stream, the climate here is delightful. Everything is blooming into new life, and the mocking birds are filling the air with the music of their songs. It is worth a long journey to spend a few hours in one of the den'^e hammocks of Florida. The tropical verdure is magnificent beyond compare, and every variety of the songsters abound. Flaming yellow jessamine vines festoon the tall palmettos, and the gray and ghost-like Spanish moss waves in the gentle breezes. Along the shores of the Hillsborough Lagoon, at this place, is one of the most beautiful hammocks to be found in Florida. On the shore is a huge shell-mound, from the top of which is the finest view I ever beheld. One morning I climbed to the top of a tall cedar, soon after the sun had come up from its bed beyond the mighty Atlantic, and the broad lagoon lay like a sheet of molten silver. North, south, and west stretched the wide forest, unVjroken by sound of human habitation. There is something impressive about the solitude of the wide forest that cannot be expressed. I always feel the gran- deur and vastness of nature, and the might of the Creator. Did you ever wander by the shore of the mighty ocean, and listen to its ceaseless roar ? It always speaks to me with a voice of majesty and might. Sometimes I 82 WHEAT AND CHAFF. imagine that it tells of bright lands beyond the sunrise, where man first saw the light, when time was young. If all the secrets of this mighty world of waters could be known, how much richer would the human race become? Perchance, it might tell of islands and continents, of peo- ple and cities, of which modern humanity has no record. The story of the lost Atlantis would be known. The mys- teries of all the ships that ever sailed and never returned to port, of treasures sunk beneath the waves, of pirate crews and tropic isles, the haunts of the brave old buccaneers. All this, and more, the realm of Neptune might dis- close, could we read its ceaseless murmurings, as it rolls forever on the sandy shore. But its lessons we may not learn; and so its secrets of life and love, of crime and death will not be known until such time as the sea shall give up its dead, and time shall be no moie. Oak Hill,, Fla., Feb. 15, 1897. # * # 7 HE SEASON BEAUTIFUL. EVERY man is, according to the degree of his intel- lectual development, a lover of the beautiful. No matter how absorbed he may become in the race for worldly gain, there will, at times, steal in upon his senses a just appreciation of the world of beauty around him. All unconsciously, perhaps, but surely, none the less, he will be lifted up, out of his more sordid, baser self, by a contact with the handiwork of Divinity, exem- plified in the beauty and joys of nature. While the warmth and brightness of the springtime awakens new energies, it also awakens loftier aims and WHEAT AND CHAFF. ambitions. The bursting buds and growing plants, springing from the soil at every step, are emblems of im- mortality. And who is not thankful for life and strength when he beholds so much beauty in all the world around. Petty cares and anxiedes fall from him as a mantle. Each season brings its joys, as well as its sorrows, but in the early days of summer, the old world puts off the somber garb of winter, and is clothed in a witching garb of brightness and beauty. Beside each sparkling stream, and in every sheltered vale, the music of nature rings softer and more alluring than Calypso's siren song, or Orpheus' golden lute. Over all, the mellow sunbeams fall, aiid their effect is none the less upon the heart of man than upon the plants and flowers that grow and blossom by the wayside. # # # FLORIDA— ITS ALLIGATORS AND INDUCE- MENTS, WITH REFLECTIONS. WHEN a man has traveled in Florida, he is always asked: Did you see any alligators? Some peo- ple up north have an idea that alligators go about down here like a roaring lion, seeking whom they may devour. But, the fact is, they generally keep to the lakes and ponds, so if you keep to dry land they won't hurt you. I saw one this morning about seven feet long. He is kept in a pen like a hog, and does not strike me as an attractive pet. An old gentleman, who has a garden here, tells the tallest alligator yarn that I have ever heard, or expect to 84 WHKAT AND CHAFF. hear. He says that one morning he discovered where' one had fallen in his garden and sank down several inches in the soft earth. His theory is that the "'gator" was caught up by a waterspout from Lake Okechobe, and carried to this point in a gale. He invited people to come and see the place where his visitor alighted, but I .have not seen any one who w^ent. Florida abounds in game of all kinds. In this sec- tion you can find all s. rts of small game, as well as deer, bear, and an occasional panther. But give me a rod and line, a good boat, and some bait, a^d you can do the hunting. As I am known to be an invalid, I won't tell the weight of the biggest fish I have caught, but it was bigger than any I ever saw come out of the South Branch, with the exception of the worthless carp. Any day you can catch a nice string of fish of several varieties, any of which are excellent. And you can load a boat with oys- ters and clams, as well as soft crabs, any time you want them. People say, what inducement is there for a young man to come to Florida? I answer, the inducement of having a comfortable home and all the necessaries of life without wearing out body and brain in a ceaseless found of toil. You can homestead land, or buy it at a low fig- ure, and in four year's time have a place worth several thousand dollars, besides having made a living off it, and being in the enjoyment of all of nature's bounties. But you say, " I cannot endure a life like that. It is too quiet." That is the fault of the age. The lesult of our teachings, and of this era of concentrated wealth and plutocratic rule. WHEAT AND CHAFF. 85 As a result of our system, there comes to the average American boy, a dazzling dream of the future. He sees in the dim distance a crown of immortal fame, woven by the hand of fate to fit his cranium. Even the White House looms in the perspective, and he hears the great cry of a mighty people, who are hankering after the beneficent reflection of his genius. Some day a great awakening will come. In the language of the poet, " he will hear somethin' drap." There are a great many cures for this sort of big head, but the best is the one that comes from a near con- tact with the rough side of an unfeeling world. Alter a few years the laurel crown will have materialized in the shape of a battered straw hat, with a hole in the top, while a patch of potatoes and a cross e^'ed mule will occupy the place in his mental vision where he formerly beheld the arena of wealth and politics. Sometimes a young man becomes so thoroughly em bued with the idea of his own importance, that he is a menace to his family, the world at large, and the welfare ot his race. He sizes up his own intellect by the growth of his feet, taking no account of worldly experience. At this period he runs to high collars, stays out late, and yearns to throw off all parental restraint. The unhappy father of such a son should exercise his authority long and hard, and let the aforesaid authority assume the shape of a medium-sized two-handed club, or a pair of cow-hide boots. Oftentimes young men are above the farm. Above the old home that sheltered them in infancy . Perchance, ashamed of the father who first guided the tottering AND WHEAT CHAFF. footseps of childhood, and whose heart swelled with love and pride at the thought of that baby boy. But all these things must be swept away at the bidding of ambition. A curse upon the madness of the age and the rottenness of our social and political system that has changed men into machines, bent upon money getting. In the few .short years of my life, I have wandered here and there, about this great country, and been, in my humble way, an observer of men and things. I have dined in the hovels of the poor, and the palaces of the rich and mighty ; I have looked upon life in country villages, and in the haunts of wealth and fashion. But when I count those men and women whom I have seen, whose hearts are free from guile, whose friendships are priceless jewels, and whose hand clasps are remembered through all the years, I think not of stately mansions nor crowded cities, but always of the green country and the humbler wa ks of life. So why will we allow a dream of wealth to lead us from the paths of peace and happiness? I had rather be followed to the grave by a few sincere friends whose lives I had helped to cheer and brighten, than live and die with all the pomp and circumstance of wealth, and go down to the dust, followed by the curses of ten thou- sand half-starved laborers from whom I had stolen a horde of gold. You can see such men rollmg in wealth, every- where, and followed by cringing sycophants, who are moral lepers upon the social body. Hawk's Park, Fla, Jan. 14, 1897. WHEAT AND CHAFF. 87 TEXAS LIFE IN THE EARL Y DA YS THK history of Texas is a stranoe, eventful one, and is fraught with deeds of daring, around which cling the glamor of romance. i he heroism of the men who died within the walls of the Alamo, or over- threw the army upon the field of Santa Anna upon the field of San Jacinto finds scarcely a parallel. The wild free life of the plains in the early days, and the story of the range and the trail have been told a thousand times But, unfortunately, much that passes lor the literature of that time, portrays the evil rather than the good. The hardy frontiersman, with his scorn of danger and hardships, possessed only of such faults as sprang from his environments, in the hands of the imaginative writer becomes the semi-civilized hero of border romance. His tenderness and humanity are lost in the lurid chaos that surrounds the painted figure. Even the hero^ who stood like a tiger at bay, the last to die when the Alamo fell, is remembered rather for the stories that he told than because he was the leading spirit in the founding of a mighty commonwealth. Crockett was a typical Texan of those times. "A brave and manly man was he, With a kind and tender heart, A cyclone couldn't phase him, But a child could rend apart, Just like the mountain pine that dares The storms that sweep along, But rocks the winds of summer time. And sings a soothing song '' But the old times, the old ways, and the picturesque frontiersman have disappeared wherever the shriek of the WHEAT AND CHAFF. locomotive is heard. Where Pat McCarty and his com- patriots have appeared with pick and shovel, the vast ranges have been transformed, and towns and villages have arisen like magic ; civil law has taken the place of border justice, and trials are no longer held under the stars, on the open plain, as in the days when they — " knew no law but honesty. No evidence but facts ; When between the verdict and the rope There were no other acts." Out here, among the arid wastes of the vast region that is known as West Texas, civilization was slower to make itself felt, and some characters are still to be found who remind us of the old time. In the village of Langtry, east of here, resides a county judge, whose fame is wide, and whose decisions aie, in some cases, original, to say the least. His name is Ray Bean, and they do say, that he has plenty of friends who will see to it, that he remains Judge Bean until the end of the chapter. By profession he is a ven- dor of spirituous liquors, and his court room is reached by passing through the saloon. Upon one occasion, a dapper little dude, from some- where back east, entered the saloon while the judge was trying a case in the back room, and legal proceed- ings were temporarily suspended until the judge could attend to the wants of his customer. The guileless east- erner asked for a five-cent cigar, and tendered a twenty dollar bill in payment. Judge Bean dropped the bill in his money drawer, and cooly returned to his court room. The stranger waited for him to reappear in vain, and, finally, entering the presence of the august court, de- WHEAT AND CHAFF. manded his change. Refusing to keep quiet, the judge held forth as follows : "I fine you nineteen dollars and ninety five rents for contempt of court, young man, and further advise you to take your carcass out of town at the earliest date possible or you may get into more trouble." The guileless stranger from the east, it is written, took his departure. Judge Bean frequently takes the wind out of know- ing lawyers who come into his court armed with the Code of Texas. He will listen patiently to a learned dis- course, and then reply : "This court is govened entirely and bases all its de- cisions upon the law west of the Pecos, and has nothing whatever to do with the statutes of Texas." What "the law west of the Pecos " may be, or who enacted it, this deponent sayeth not. Once upon a time, as the story goes, some fool, who had grown tired of living, jumped off the Pecos bridge, the highest structure of the kind in the world, and, of course, met death on the rocks below. The immortal judge, whom I have named, acted as coroner and sum- moned a jury to inquire into the case. On the body was found forty dollars in currency and a six-shooter. The judge, acting in his dual capacity, rendered the following verdict : "We find nothing in the law west of the Pecos, whereby a man becomes punishable for suicide, but the evidence shows that this man did unlawfully carry a six- shooter, for which offense I fine him forty dollars, and order him buried at the expense of the county." El Paso, Texas, Dec. 2, 1897. 90 WHEAT AND CHAFF AUTUMN. THOUSANDS of poets and writers, of every descrip- tion, annually pay their tribute to the season of spring. But how many poems do we ever see dedicated to the golden, gorgeous autumn? There is surely more in this season to call forth thought, to appeal to the heart and mind, than in any other season of the year. The gentle springtime, with its bursting buds, and songs of birds, lets loose the fountains of our nature which the icy hand of winter has sealed up, and stirs us with a new life, with new hope, and new aspirations. It is a signal to labor, and all the beauty and poetry of the bright sunlight and waving grass is forgotten amid the toils and turmoils of our busy lives. But to us, who dwell among these glorious, wood-crowned hills, who never hear the .strife and din of the busy world without, and whose eyes rest, through all the changing seasons, upon the mountains which have stood through endless ages, the same in their solitary beauty and grandeur, the com- ing of autumn tide is a reminder of rest. There is a sor- rowful beauty in the fading woods, and even in the pecu- liar autumn sunlight, which fascinates the child of nature. The "dying of the year" is a symbol of the end of our lives, when we shall stand upon the brink of the dark river, and look with longing eyes toward that season of rest on the farther shore. WHEAT AND CHAFF. A PERSONAL STATEMENT. Published in his c lumn in the " Hampshire Review '' the week of his departure for El Paso. I HOPE the readers of this column will pardon what may seem an entirely personal allusion. It is prompted by the matiy kindnesses I have received at the hands of the people of ni}' native county. My grateful remembrance is l^eyond the power of mere words to express. We never understand nor appreciate true friendship until we are tried by sickness or adversity. I expect to leave in a few days for the southwest, in the hope that an arid climate may prove beneficial. If I can fare as well there as in Florida, I shall not complain, and the climate is more heathtul. I shall en- deavor to write a series of letters during the coming winter, which I hope will prove of some interest to the readers of the " Review ", not because I fancy I am able to write interesting letters, but because they will come from an hiNtoric land. It seems to me tliat none might wish for a belter fate than to live and die, here among these green-clad hills, with purest of fountains bubbling at their feet, and the blue sky Dending above them. Here, where live, and love, and labor, the manliest race of men in all God's universe. Dear reader, pray that you may never be a home" ess and healthless wanderer. I know what it is to live for weeks and months, where the voices of the wil- derness were the only sounds to greet my ear, but that is paradise, compared to the loneliness of a crowd. To see all around you, eager, earnest faces, pressing onward in 92 WHEAT AND CHAFF. the race of life, and you an idle looker on. That is a bitter loneliness which the hermit does not feel. Lastly, I would say, stay by the homeland and the home people. ^(ake for yourself some interest in this busy world, and you will do well. INDEX. A Christmas Toast, 26 A Dream of Rest, 13 A Fragment, 30 An Invocation, 19 A Summer Symphony, 29 December, 35 From the Valley, 24 Immortality, 38 In ]VCemory of Dr. Samuel F. Smith, 28 In Memory of Eugene Field, 31 Only a Tramp, 23 Rhyme of the Seasons, 36 Sabbath Bells, 20 Some Day, 14 Song of the Sea, 34 Success, 17 The Blue and the Gray, 31 The Old Spanish Mission, 16 The Passing of Thorwald, 21 The River of Dreams, 15 The Sea Shore, 25 Two Toilers, 36 When the Leaves Begin to Fall, 33 Where the Rain Drops Fell, 27 I'm Just a Lazy Feller, . . 42 Lessons to Learn, 46 Summer in the South, 43 The Country aud the Town, 44 The Editor-Man, 48 The Good Lord Loves the Farmer, 43 The Poet, 48 The Socks the Golfers Wear, 41 The Way of the World, 49 A Dream of Boyhood Days, 60 A Personal Statement, 91 A Plea, ' . 74 A Pleasant Word, 51 A Southern Gentlewoman, 69 A Study in Black and White, 57 Autumn, 90 Be a Man, 58 Brown, the Beach-Comber, 52 Christmas in the Far South, 63 Day Dreams, 56 Down by Savannah, 66 Dreams, 54 Florida — Its i^lligators and Inducements, with Re- flections, 83 Jones' Motor, 75 Love of Gold, 67 Major Anderson, of Savannah, 59 Pastimes on the Rio Grande, -78 Some Reflections, 70 Spring in Florida, 81 Texas Life in the Early Days, 87 The Gift of Originality, 62 The Season Beautiful, 82 Two Letters, 68 What We Learn by Experience, 55 jUH 31 ''''^''