Class _ Book. Copyright^' . / COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL ' ' Take me back to the home Of my youth once again — To the dear Pine Tree State— The Old State of Maine. ' > f<03^ Z .^Vl i Copyrighted 1915 CLARA A. MERRILL Si :'p IERRILL & WEBBER CO. PR3. AUBURN CI.A414471 NOV -81915 CONTENTS The Old State of Maine 5 All Things Speak of God 7 Welcome to Summer 9 Ode to the Northern Lights 11 The Songs My Mother Sung 13 In Memory of Appey M. Merrill 15 God is Love and We shall Know 18 A Winter Outing 20 Home is Where the Heart Dwells 24 The Mystic Eiver 26 Loved Ones Passed Away 28 Adventure of a Lover 30 As it Happened 32 The Captive Butterfly 34 What Would They Do? 36 Courageousness 39 Tales that were Told 42 Bravery 46 The Missing Link 48 He Got Left 50 The Jay and the Frog 53 The Cottage by the Kiver 56 The Poet to the Artist 59 The Tramp 's Story 61 'Tis Easy to get Mistaken 65 Song of a Suffragette 68 Kural Delight 70 Look Up 72 The Burning of the Turner Mill 74 Carpe Diem 84 A Bachelor's Comments on Women's Rights 85 Wealth vs Virtue 88 Be Merciful 91 Sunshine on the Hill 93 Your Eeal Wealth 95 Changeable 97 Pleasure 99 Time Brings Changes 101 Mamma 's Story 103 Every Cloud Hath Silver Lining 106 Dennis O 'Neil 's Dream 108 A Lesson W r ell Taught 110 Reminiscence 114 Humorous 116 Onward for Freedom and Right 118 A Mystery Explained 120 A Birthday Greeting 122 All 's Well That Endeth Well 123 A Tale from Mountain Grange 124 Song of the Grangers ' 131 Uncle Joe 's Soliloquy 133 When Daddy Rocks the Kid 136 Stop Talkin ' 138 A Yule-Tide Missive 140 The Hunter 143 The Poetry Machine 145 October 147 To Mary 148 The Winds do Blow 1 49 Farewell to the San 151 W r e Know Not Why 153 (HJ|ta ItttU baak ta lomttghj fofctratrfc The memory of her beautiful life, and of her deep and unchanging love for me, — together with the knowl- edge of the interest she felt in my writings, fills me with a longing to do that which I know would be pleasing to her. For though the dear voice of her whom I so loved can no longer cheer and guide me on, yet in spirit I hear her gently whisper bidding me resume the work I had laid aside, Thus from my writings I have selected a few poems which, though submitted with diffidence, I hope may be kindly received by my many friends; and accepted by them with such degree of generosity as will enable them to throw the mantle of charity over the many short- comings, and to see any good that may chance to exist. And if from any of these poems there may perchance be found one little ray of sunshine — though it beams ever so faintly — that may radiate and give pleasure to even one appreciating heart, then surely I may feel that my labor will not have been wholly in vain. Clara A. Merrill The Author (Lbe ©to State of ZTTaine Sail on gallant bark, bearing onward your freight, Ye breezes blow briskly ! her sails to inflate, — See how her staunch prow the green billows will break, . And the path of white foam that she leaves in her wake ! Speed onward, ye courses of iron ! — Swiftly steals Away the bright rails as they fly 'neath your wheels. Bear me onward, fleet charger, nor yet me detain, Oh take me back home to my Old State of Maine ! When twilight's dark shade o'er the valley impends, And the pale crescent moon its refulgence blends ; Then fancy reverts to the long agone days, The sweet scenes of Childhood revisit our gaze ; And hill, vale and woodland our minds will employ, Expanding the bosom with infinite joy. Peal on, memory sweet ! Let me hear thy glad strain, Oh take me back home to my old Old State of Maine ! Tho' I traverse at will Old Neptune's domain, Or by fair country-side bounding river and plain ; In dreams I can see, — in their places once more Kind familiar faces, long since gone before, — € POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBBILL And I dwell once again in the days that are past, Nor think, for the time, that naught earthly can last. Dream on, faithful muse, I have long sighed in vain, — Oh, take me back home to my Old State of Maine! From Katahdin's proud crest, to Atlantic's blue verge, New lights and new scenes in succession emerge; Silver lakes and green meads, in confusion arise In grand panorama to gladden our eyes. I love the old ingle, each nook, rock and knoll, And the country's dear flag that waves over the whole: Take me back to the home of my youth once again, To the dear Pine Tree State,— the Old State of Maine, ALL THINGS SPEAK OF GOD ALL THINGS SPEAK OF GOD The stars in their infinite beauty, And the moon in yon azure deep ; All speak of some great Duty — Of some tireless Watch to keep. This beautiful, beautiful world so grand — The trees, the birds and the flowers; All point with a beckoning hand, To a wisdom more potent than ours. Hear ye the Ocean speaking — Hear ye the surges roar ! As the wild-winged winds come shrieking From some far distant shore. Is there not something greater Than the power of Man alone? Aye, the power of the Creator Is far greater than our own. See ye the lightning flashing — Now, as in anger comes Booming, rolling, crashing Like a hundred beating drums POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBFILL Peals of terrific thunder — We stand in silence, awed; We can but pause and wonder At the infinite power of God ! And thou, oh mighty torrent Flowing on, and on, through time — Tell us, who sends thy current O'er the cataract sublime? And thou, gigantic mountain — Canst tell us whence thy birth — Sprang thou from some living fountain- How into existence came this earth? Could we doubt for a single hour That these marvelous works were lent By the high and wondrous power Of One Omnipotent? Nay ! tho ' we seek where man ne 'er trod And traverse sea or land; It seems that all things speak of God — And a Loving Father's hand. WELCOME TO SUMMER WELCOME TO SUMMER The south wind returns with a gentle caress And it kisses the lakelets 7 bright weaves; And softly it moans in low musical tones As it sighs through the mystical caves. Sweet Summer is waiting to welcome the rose, Who is queen of the flowery band — In regal robes new and jewels of dew She with majestic grace will command. Drowsy and low is the hum of the bees As the nectar they sip from the bloom ; The rivulet courses, all nature rejoices, For Winter is laid in the tomb. Gaily among the green arches the birds Pour forth their thanksgiving in song; Their clear, mellow notes in pure cadence floats As the echoing gale sweeps along. The hillside with blushes lifts up its fair head In its verdurous beauty so proud; And the flower-faces gleam as a loving sunbeam Wafts down from the light fleecy cloud. 10 POEMS BY CLABA A. MEKBILL The grand, lofty mountain where hangs the white mist Tells the brooklets of Summer's warm glow; And they in turn hail each glen, woodland and vale Where the soft willow catkins bend low. The flowerets join the harmonious strain With the cii( ket, the bird and the bee; And the rippling rill the sweet chorus will trill On its clear winding way to the sea. 'Neath the gnarled oak tree by the silvery lake Are the fairies all robed in white; Awaiting their queen, for they dance at e'en By the fireflies magical light. Then come to the country so grand — come to the old oaken tree Where mystical notes on the gentle breeze floats And the fays dance so gay on the lea. come to the old oak tree Where the ivy so lovingly twines, And Zephyr's warm kiss so freighted with bliss Is perfumed by the evergreen pines. ODE TO THE NORTHERN LIGHTS 11 ODE TO THE NORTHERN LIGHTS Aurora-borealis : — Thy secret vast Hast ne'er by Man been found — As, through the Ages of the Past From Times remotest bound When Night her sable curtains fold O'er all the earth, then high 'Mid star-gemmed canopy — behold Thy rays illume the sky ! Canst tell — ye ice-bergs of the North — Whence comes these waves of light Whose golden splendor shimmers forth To greet the Queen of Night — Dost power that welds thy icy chain And casts thy fetters strong Ere thus make radiant thy domain As the ages creep along? Ye wavering light! — Afar on high Shines forth, like chastening rod That Power, reflecting on the sky The mighty Hand of God ! 12 POEMS BY CLARA A. ME EH ILL Then bow, ye mortal monarchs brave Before thy crumbling throne ! Aurora's beams shall deck thy grave When a hundred years are flown. THE SONGS MY MOTHER SUNG 13 THE SOXGS MY MOTHER SUXG (Dear Mother) Round the homestead old I wandered, Slowly, and with silent tread; And at last I turned my footsteps To the chamber overhead. There, among the broken rubbish, Where the cobw T ebs thickly hung; Something sent my thoughts far backward To the songs my mother sung. That old fashioned, wooden cradle Which I slept in when a child ; As my mother sat beside me Singing ever low and mild. With her foot upon the rocker, To and fro the cradle swung; Peacefully I lay and listened To the songs my mother sung. Long ago was that old cradle Banished to the dust and gloom 'Neath the dark and musty rafters Of that unused lumber room. 14 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBBILL Long had it remained forgotten, — Yet fond memory quickly sprung As I view'd the dear old relic — To the songs my mother sung. Oft I've roamed in distant places, I have traveled far and wide ; And I know the hours most care-free Were those spent by mother's side. While the bell of Time is tolling With its harsh unfeeling tongue ; In my memory I shall cherish All the songs my mother sung. /A' MEMOEY OF APPEY M. MEEEILL 15 IN MEMORY OF APPEY M. MERRILL Who Died Nov. 20th, 1903 Softly, sweetly she is sleeping Where the slender grasses wave; Daisies bright, their vigil keeping O'er her calm and peaceful grave. Naught can e'er disturb her slumber — Passed all pain — from sorrow free; Gone from earth, to join the number O'er the silent, mystic sea. Sweetly sleep, dear, gentle sister, Tranquil ever be thy rest, — Yet, ah yet, how we have missed her — Gone from those she loved the best. Gone from the home. — and o'er her pillow Strewn with flowers, so fair and white Fell tears, and grief like surging billow Touched the heart with withering blight. Time can ne'er efface our sadness — Still the heart's filled with despair For the loved one, who in gladness Made the earth-home bright and fair. 16 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBEILL Sad the way seems now, and lonely, As we journey day by day Paths through which she wandered, only Scattering brightness o'er the way. Memory points with beckoning finger Through the mists of long ago To her songs, which sweetly linger In the hush of twilight's glow — Points to words of comfort, spoken By those lips so good and true — Tells of her love, so true, unbroken, And we weep in grief anew. For the gentle hands lie folded, And the pure heart now is still; And the brow, in beauty molded By the Hand of Death, so chill Is now at rest. — Yet visions brightly Through the misty haze will bring A joy, like whispered promise, lightly Wafted as on Zephyr's wing. IN MEMOEY OF APPEY M. MEBBILL 17 Visions of that promised splendor Of a mansion fair, on high; Where, with welcome warm and tender She will greet us by and by. — By and by — sweet hope, elating — When the Voice that bid dear Appey sleep Shall call us forth, where she is waiting, Ne'er to part, no more to weep. 18 POEMS BY CLASA A. MEKEILL GOD IS LOVE AND WE SHALL KNOW When the darkness seems to gather O'er the dawn of hope and peace; Like the storm-cloud towering upward Which the wild w^inds e'er increase, — And, like angry ocean billows Fainting soul is fraught with woe ; And we're longing for our loved ones — Does the Heavenly Father know? Though He notes the fallen sparrow — Does He heed the child who weeps — Does He see my tears fast falling O'er the grave where Sister sleeps? When the bitter sob of anguish Mingles with the earnest prayer; Pleading for His love and comfort Does the Heavenly Father care? Will He in His loving wisdom Send that sweet peace bye and bye — When the eye can gaze far upward To the brighter realms on high? GOB IS LOVE AND WE SHALL KNOW 19 As the way-worn, weary pilgrim Turns his footsteps toward the grave ; And 'neath load of sin he falleth — Will the Heavenly Father save? In that home where friends await us Shall we know them when we meet — Will they seem the same dear loved ones That on earth we used to greet? — Mystic thoughts — Ah ! who can tell us All that Fancy fain would know? "God is Love" and "We shall know then" Faith responds in answer low. POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBRILL A WINTER OUTIXG Get up Sam, 'n 5 harness Nancy, Shake the hayseed from yer head ; We are goin' on a 's'cursion, Goin' on the old bob-sled; Won't the folks think we are handsome, As we pass the village street; With the old horse-blanket round us, And a bed-quilt at our feet ! Won't they stare with mouths wide open, When they see our fine turn-out? Stare away, ye duck-leg 'd dandy — ■ Guess we know what we're about! Won't they think that Sam's a daisy, Settin' there so grand 'n' straight — Wonder what they'll think of Phoebe With her sleepy-lookin' pate? Have yer got the harness mended? Well, go tie it with a string ! Fix it so's 'twill hold together; Take a rope, or anything! a\ in XT?J I? OUTING Drive a nail into the fender ! It won't wobble then, I hope, — The thill is broken in two places? Here — come get this other rope ! Then go brush old Nancy's foretop, From her mane pick off the hay; In a knot then tie her tail up So it won't be in the way. Tie a greased rag round her spavin ! To let 'er hurt it won't be right, — Say! d'ye spose we'll want the larntern, When we're comin' home tonight? Wish we had a nigger driver, Then I guess we'd go in style; We'd make the people gaze before We 'd been a half a mile ! Come now, hurry, Jake and Lydia, — Have ye washed yer? where 's the comb? Come now, hurry, — let's start early, So we'll find the folks at home. Hope Aunt Hulda 11 bile some 'taters ; Won't we ply the knife and fork? Hope she'll have a Injun pudd'n! Hope she '11 have a hunk of pork ! POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBBILL Marm, bring out that bag o ' apples ! See them youngsters fight 'n' scratch! Shut the door 'n' crawl out o' the winder! Stick the scissors in the latch ! Now we're off, as sure as preachin' Sun is in the eastern sky, — Nancy ! Nancy ! don 't git frisky ! My ! but aint the critter high ! Phoebe, tuck that blanket round yer, Have ye got yer gaiters on? Gosh — I've left my pipe 'n' barker, Clean forgot 'em sure's yer born! Sam, set over side of Lydia — Marm 'n' me will set in front, — Thought I'd get a jug o' 'lasses, But I swan, I guess I won't. Got to stop 'n' buy some 'barker — Can't git through the day without. Double up yer long legs, Sammy — ■ Stop yer sprawlin' like a lout! Hold on Bill ! ye '11 git a tumble — Ye '11 be slidin' on yer head! Jake, SET DOWN ! or I shall send ye To the other end o' the sled! A WINTER OUTING There, now see if yell keep quiet — Billy, Sh ! shut up yer beak ! Mustn't holler by the houses, — Bad enough to look 'n peek. Without a squallin' like a 'n Injun! Guess yer mammy was a squaw, — What! he keeps his chin a goin' Just the image of his Pa? Get up Nancy ! Show yer sperit ! Whoop-along thar, Nancy — climb ! Durn ye, git a wiggle on ye — We sha'n't be back 'fore milkin' time. 21 POEMS BY CLABA A. M EBB ILL HOME IS WHEBE THE HEAET DWELLS Would I leave my home — my native hills For the city by the sea — Or leave the lane where the woodbine swings And all is dear to me? Would I leave my birds for the stately ships That sail in the harbor blue — Leave the flowers, fresh from the hand of God And kissed by the morning dew? Would I leave my cot for a mansion grand In the city by the sea, — Or leave the friends whom I long have loved Who are so dear to me? Would I leave my bower mid the roses sweet Where the sun shines bright and fair — Leave my pleasant strolls in the forest glade In the country's fragrant air? Nay, I'd not leave my peaceful hill For the city by the sea — Here earliest recollection clings And all is dear to me. — ROME IS WHERE TEE HEART DWELLS 25 I 'd not leave my cot where the willows wave For the city 's proudest dome ! Where e'er the heart in fondness dwells To me is "Home Sweet Home." 26 POEMS BY CLABA A. MEEBILL THE MYSTIC RIVER We are sailing down Life's river — Sailing onward day by day, Onward, through the misty shadows That, so dark, obscure the way. Soon we shall be beckoned homeward, There to meet with those we know In that grand and glorious city Where no sorrows ever go. We are drifting with the ripples, — As they bear our barque along We can catch in fitful accents Echoes from the angels song. — And we see the dim reflection Of that bright celestial strand; Where the bowers are ever blooming In that peaceful, happy land. We know not how soon we'll anchor Where bright gems adorn the shore — Where the living waters murmur, And the breakers moan no more. — TEE MYSTIC BIYEB But well reach the pearly portal And we'll lay our armor down; Casting all our burdens from us 'Neath the shelter of a crown. Near the Throne of Love e'er dwelling, Sheltered safe from every woe; No more sorrow, no more weeping, Naught but glory shall we know. There we shall be ever happy In the mansion of the blest ; Blessed be the peace eternal — Blessed is the sweet word — Rest. POEMS BY CLARA A. MEEBILL LOVED OXES PASSED AWAY Within our home so cheerful Where all is warm and bright ; Sometimes our hearts grow tearful, And to darkness turns the light. We see not the joys that surround us — We heed not our friends bright and gay; For memories come crowding around us Of loved ones passed away. Without, the old home is the same, Yet within, there is a change ; And feelings which we cannot name Steal o'er us, sad and strange. We see the dear forms of long ago, Illume the twilight gray, — Yet the darksome silence whispers low Of loved ones passed away. We see them as we did of yore In the dear old days long past ; Ere they were called to the other shore, — But those fancies cannot last. LOVED ONES PASSED AWAY 29 And though the heart in fondness seeks To bid them longer stay — Yonder grim churchyard mutely speaks Of loved ones passed away. SO POEMS BY CLAJRA A. MEEEILL ADVEXTVRE OF A LOVER 'Twas Saturday eve. — The love-lorn swain Was hastening toward Jennie 's house ; His mien indicative of fear For neither man nor mouse. But ere he reached the farmhouse gate An object he chanced to spy. — Twas only a table-cloth Jennie had washed And hung on the line to dry. But he knew it not. so there he stood Deciding what to do, — He dare not venture too near the spook, — Yet the gate he must go through ! — The white cloth flapped in the gentle breeze- 'Twas too much for Jennie's beau; He turned and ran off down the hill As fast as he could go ! ADVENTURE OF A LOVER 31 He imagined that footsteps were following fast, — So away like a gale ran he; Nor did he stop, till he reached the top Of Squire Pettigrew's crab-apple tree! Just then the moon, with a bright smiling face, Came out from behind a black cloud, — Little Nell, at the window, stood watching the moon, And she uttered a cry long and loud. — " Oh ! Mamma ! — come look at this queer looking bird — An owl is perched up in our tree \ — Or is it a night-hawk just taking a rest — What kind of a bird can it be?" Miss Jennie came tripping along down the street, In the hope of meeting her lover; — Then he quietly let himself down from the tree Before she had time to discover. Then arm in arm they returned to the gate, — • And he blushed, as in silence stood he And saw the white spectre, which drove him in fright To the top of the crab-apple tree! POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBBILL AS IT HAPPENED As the circus train passed through the street An Elephant caught the eye Of a "rural duffer," who remarked As the creature lumbered by, — While a wondering look stole o 'er his phiz — (Xo artist's hand could paint it;) "Wa-al neow, Maria, — I swan to man That's quite an insect, aint itf" A city swell heard the remark, And quickly turned his nose Up, with an air that plainly said: "Such horrid folks as those May go their way — for they'll pollute The very atmosphere With their uncouth ways and ignorance — We can't endure them here!" The time rolled on, — and the city swell AYas brought to account one day For the many bills and debts he owed- He had not a cent to pay. AS IT HAPPENED 33 His creditors gobbled all his goods And set them up for sale; But the cash they brought did not suffice So they marched him off to jail. — The " duffer " shook his jolly sides With a hearty, merry laugh ; And recalled the time when he ' ' so shocked The insipid city calf." "I pay my bills as I go along — I owe no man/ 7 said he; "There's no insect born that can compete With a biped such as he!" 34 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBEILL THE CAPTIVE BUTTERFLY (A true tale) One morn as I walked in the meadow Where flooded the sun's golden light Athwart tree and shrub — mid the grasses A butterfly gorgeous and bright Was caught in a web which a spider Had deftly and craftily wrought ; Aloft as a snare she had placed it And the unwary butterfly caught. Vainly the poor insect fluttered To be freed from the web 's fleecy fold ; But its wings were caught fast in its meshes And its fate could be plainly foretold. It appealed to my heart so pathetic Ne'er thought I to ignore its strife It was one of G-od's own little creatures And it had a good right to its life. THE CAPTIVE BUTTEEFLY 35 So I knelt there beside the small captive And gently the fine web I tore ; Then away on glad wings it bounded, Kejoicing in freedom once more. It w T as only a poor lowly insect, Yet perchance, does the Good Father see Small deeds that are wrought in the spirit of love He would say "Ye did this unto Me." In the Book where all works are recorded — In that Haven up yonder so fair; Who knows but one mark bright and shining Now illumines my name "over there." 36 POEMS BY CLABA A. MEJRFILL WHAT WOULD THEY DO? 'Tis true that the city is pleasant. With its scenes ever varied and new ; But if it were not for the country m Oh, what would the city folks do? Soon plenty would be superseded By dearth with its train of distress; The gaunt wolf would roam by the once happy home Though riches untold you possess. True, this may seem strangely in error, But doubtless, if you will take heed You'll find that the sources are rural Of that which supplies every need. You say there are great mills and factories By whose process rich fabrics are made ; But pause for a moment and ponder How the material first came into trade. Of Fashion's apparel so dainty. Of which our great stores are so full; "Whence comes that from which they were made — The cotton, the silk and the wool? WHAT WOULD THEY DO 37 'Tis not from the city — no, never! But from the free sunshine and air On the broad, verdant acres extending O'er the glorious country so fair. Tis true that the city has pleasures, And aspirants to fashion and fame, — But yet, should you search -the world over You'll find it is ever the same. 'Tis the toil-harden 'd hand of the farmer By which are the multitude fed, — Yea, the farmer — the "hard-handed" duff cr. Who supplies the vast cities with bread. 'Tis the farmer who toils on, unheeding The mid-summer sun and the rain. Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheat And garners the golden grain. From the forests afar down the valley Or up over mountainous height Is sent timber for use in the city, And fuel to make the hearths bright. The orchards, the fields and the mead lands Fraught with richness from West to the East Send forth to the homes in the city Rich viands and fruits for the feast. 88 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL True, the brilliant paved streets are abounding With wonders and charms ever new — But, if from the country excluded Oh ! what would the city folks do ? Then have praise and respect for the farmer — Be cordial to him when you meet — Ne'er pass him with countenance scornful Or gaze at the "old codger's'' feet, Though he has not the costly apparel Which you wear with such elegant grace — Remember, you can't live without him Nor can aught in the world fill his place. COUBAGEOUSNESS 39 CO URA GEO USNESS The house-wife came with smiling face, Bearing in her hand a broom ; With thoughts intent, and puropse bent On clearing up the room. She spied an object on the floor, Ne'er dreaming what it was; But close inspection soon revealed Its tail and head and claws ! What was the sound that pierced the air — Was it an Indian's yell? Or a wandering note from some demon throat From amidst the depths of — somewhere? Oh, no ! of a different origin Were the tones that smote the air, — 'Twas only a frightened woman's scream As she mounted on a chair. Oh dear ! Oh dear ! she had seen a mouse ! And it entered not her head It would never, never do more harm For the poor little thing was dead. 40 POEMS BY CLARA A. ME I? BILL It seems the cat, in hunting, had Caught more than she could master; Of course old pussy never guessed That it would cause disaster. The mouse was in mischief, so old Puss Had caught him in the night; But the lady never paused to think Whether it was w T rong or right. She knew 'twas a mouse — a horrid mouse. And there she stood, dismayed; What could she do, with no one near To whom to appeal for aid? She stood for what seemed hours to her, — (Her weapon was the broom;) Waiting in vain for some one to come And take her from the room. At last she thought of a beautiful plan, And making good her aim ; Jumped, and landed two yards the other side Of the animal's prostrate frame! A short time thence her hubby came. He saw the signs of storm ; And to his brawny bosom close He drew her fainting form. COUBAGEOUSNESS 41 When he had searched, and found the cause — So motionless and stark; Then to himself in undertone He ventured this remark: — u Women may talk about their rights And wish for a chance to vote ; Put on the airs of a gentleman And don the vest and coat, — They'd better be content to wait Until it can be said That they are brave enough to fight A mouse when it is dead ! ' ' POEMS BY CLAJRA A. MEBBILL TALES THAT WERE TOLD A decanter and a crystal cup Met in a banquet hall; The rosy light of the sparkling wine Shed radiance over all. Ah, ha ! old friend — and how is this — What is your mission here? "A pure, sweet spirit bid me come," Replied the water clear. "So we have met," said the ruby wine, "Now let us social be, — Let's see who holds the greater power O'er the nation, you or me." "Z can boast" said he, "of mighty deeds — I can tell you many a tale Of woe, and folly, sin and crime, — i Can you, my friend so frail? I have caused Old Age to droop and die — I have caused fair Youth to fade; I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,- When I strike there is no aid. TALES THAT WERE TOLD 43 I have hurled men down from their high estate — Remorseful I'm not in the least, — I have dragged them down, and down, until They were level with the beast. I have happy homes made desolate Ha, ha ! I laugh with glee As I see the babes every comfort denied. While the money is wasted on me ! Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray, Of a power that is greater than mine — Not yours — Xo! you are but water weak, While I am the fiery wine! And though I am classed in the bar-room Under many a different name, — Xo matter what liquor they call me. My spirit is always the same. I have sunk big ships — Yes, sank them down In the depths of the briny deep ; And for the loved who perished there Their kindred e'er may w r eep. I have wrecked the train — I have mansions burned — 'Neath my power man's senses flee — I have cast proud monarchs from their throne, — Behold! this wrought by Me! 44 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL And this I say is not the half Of the great success I win — But I'll no longer take the time So you, pale friend, begin." "I do not boast " the water said. Though my power is as potent as yours; For to all who freely drink of mel It health and strength insures. I gently sooth the sick and the faint, I new life in the weary imbue ; And even the roses smile sweetly and bright As I touch them with kisses of dew. I turn the mill which grinds the grain — I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal; All things rejoice with grateful breath When my cool hand they feel. I send the brooklet on its way — I lift the drooping vine, — I make all vegetation grow — Can you do that, Sir Wine? TALES THAT WE BE TOLD 45 Of our might and power we '11 not dispute- (The result of our deeds will show;) For the worth of me and the curse of you All noble minded know. No, no ! Sir Wine, Your path is death, While mine is safely trod; You are cursed by a demon's hand — /, blessed by the hand of God. 46 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MERKILL BRAVERY A youth once went to a party Whose sweetheart was there with the rest ; The moments that flew on swift pinions Were enjoyed with great fervor and zest. 'Til at length came the time for dispersing. When each went their various ways — This fond youth escorting his sweetheart — His heart with emotion ablaze. On his sleeve her hand trustingly rested As they wended their way through the wood, — When lo ! a white spectre before them Appeared. — In their pathw r ay it stood Like a Goblin, with long arms extended It swayed, while a wild, w T eird note Like the wail of a disparing spirit Came issuing from the Ghost's throat. 'Twas too much for our hero — and turning He ran in the wildest alarm ; And left his companion in terror — But a word from Sir Ghost made her calm. BE AVE BY 47 The echoing footsteps grew fainter 'Til at last in the distance they fade — ■ The rival then threw off the mystic And boldly walked home with the maid! 48 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL THE MISSING LINK The theory of Darwin With evidence was bound; But when the chain was broken One link could not be found Connecting Man and Monkey, — Yet Modern Science shows Advancement which may nearly That missing link disclose. The "Telephonic System'' Has spread near and afar; Until the Way-Back County And Town connected are. Thus, sturdy "country Jamie," With hands and cheeks so brown And heart so true and loyal, Can call up Reg. in town — "Dude Reggie" with the eyeglass, And hair in "done up" curls; With brain so weak he scarcely Can think of aught but ' ' Girls, ' - THE MISSING LINK 40 As at the 'phone they linger, The line does then, I think; Connect the Man and Monkey And forms The Missing Link ! 50 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEERILL HE GOT LEFT 1 ' I swan ! ' ' said farmer Joe one morn, — 1 t Them pesky crows shan 't have my corn ! ' ' So he w r ent to work, and soon he found Two stakes, which he drove into the ground. Then he brought to light some ragged pants And a tattered coat soon found a chance ; While an old felt hat was perched for show Upon the head of the old scare-crow. One arm reached out while the other one Held to his breast a rusty gun. "There it is done, and now, " quoth he — "See which will beat — them crows or me!" So in the house the whole day he spent, Feeling at ease and w T ell content, — While a broad grin o 'er his features strayed As he tho't of the trick on the crows he'd played. Meanwhile, tw T o crows sat on a tr£e — The young said to the old one : — ' ' See That horrid thing that 's standing yonder — ■ What is he doing here I wonder ? HE GOT LEFT 51 If he stays here what's to be done? For Mother, look, he 's got a gun ! Here in this tree all day I've stayed — Oh, Mother ! are yon not afraid f What shall we do ? it takes my breath — Must we stay here and starve to death — Do you s 'pose that old thing will hurt me ? I 'm just as hungry as I can be ! But to get my grub I don 't know how — ■ For see, he's looking at us now! And what on earth are we to do — Oh, Mother! I'm afraid, aren't you?" "You foolish child," the old crow said, "Fret not your silly little head — That is our Corn King good and true. He came and stayed here last year, too. — He has come to us, armed with a gun ; To tell us when the planting's done. He tells us that we need not fear, He'll protect us as long as he is here. He tells us — as he did before : — ' Fear not the farmer any more ! ' Our honest Corn-King tells us right, — Come, let us go and have a bite! 52 POEMS BY CLAIR A A. MERRILL Let's pay our respects to the Corn-King true"- Then to the field of corn they flew. And the rest of the crows they did invite — ■ Not a hill of corn was left in sight! THE JAY AND THE FBOG 53 TEE JAY AND TEE FROG A blue-jay sat on a hickory limb. And a bullfrog sat below On a tuft of grass, where rushes green Were waving to and fro. While near him lay the glassy pool Where the tad-poles leap'd in play; But the old frog's face wore a. troubled frown As he thus addressed the jay : — 4 'Did I wear your dress of brilliant hue Instead of this coat of green ; I could have the best the world affords, And always live serene. You fly away to the fields of grain Or feast on the cherries high ; While I sit here 'neath the rushes cool. And snap at a wary fly." "Then why," said the jay, "If you wish to rise Do you not ascend this limb?' "I will! I will!" cried the silly frog, I 'm tired of folks that swim ! ' ' 54 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL So he hopped from the tuft of grass to the tree, Then up where the branches divide ; Then with a grin he crawled along And perched by the blue-jay's side. u Fm big as you, I 'm big as you, ' ' Cried the frog in greatest glee; * ' I wish my friends could see me now — In this high society!" — But his joy waned. — As a flock of jays With one accord did rise And, swooping down, they pecked at him With harsh and jeering cries. 'Till he was forced to quick retreat. — As the rushes green he seeks He said, as he leaped in the quiet pool And escaped their cruel beaks: — If this is the way the ' high class ' treats The lowly ones, 'tis clear 'Tis best that we should be content To stay in our native sphere ! TEE JAY AXD THE FROG 55 Moral When proud Ambition seeks to rise From its accustomed ways ; Oft jealousies will jeer and peck. As did the haughty jays. To all who chance to read this tale. Its simple warning speaks, — "Ye who aspire to sphere's aloft— Beware of vicious beaks!" 56 POEMS BY CLARA A. ME SKILL THE COTTAGE BY THE RIVER (Lines on a very old house situated on the west shore of the Xezinscot river, and some distance from any other dwelling.) On the bank of Old Nezinscot, "Where the sparkling waters flow Down this sea-ward course, as freelv As the roving winds that blow. Stands a cottage by the river — (Built upon the side-hill plan; — Think it was a blacksmith built it Else it was a crazy man ! Must have been an awful ship wreck Once, upon Nezinscot 's waves; When a score or more of sailors Went down to their watery graves — All except old Robinson Crusoe, Guess he landed on a scow ; And this fact seems most emphatic For man ' ' Friday ' ' lives there now ! Probably, from out the wreckage They contrived to save their goods, — Then, with jack-knife and a hatchet Built this cottage in the woods — THE COTTAGE BY THE FIVER 57 Must have been some ship-wreck 'd sailor By the angry tempest tossed — Or an aeronaut that landed Who with his balloon was lost, Doubtless, then, this lonely exile Fought the wild-cat and the bear — Else he'd not have pitched his cabin Forty miles from any where — Far away from habitation — Neither do we often find Houses that are built like this one With the front door on behind!) Though in this salubrious climate Often lurks the river fogs ; — Yet the sweet, halcyon chorus Of the whip-poor-wills and frogs When the twilight shadows gather And the sun sinks in the west — Calms and sooths the fever 'd pillow, Lulls the w T eary into rest. Then all hail — all hail to Crusoe (Or what ever was his name) Who discovered this fair haven, And in reverence well proclaim 58 POEMS BY CLABA A. MERBILL That to him who built this cottage We should ever give our thanks For the hours we've spent in pleasure On Nezinscot 's mossy banks ! THE POET TO THE ABTIST 5b THE POET TO THE ARTIST (To E. A. M.) You painted a beautiful picture And sent it a gift to me ; So I will write you a poem, — But what shall the poem be? Your picture, like beautiful sunset So brilliant, will ever be praised, — But my poem will be like a cipher That some rude, reckless hand has erased! Your picture seemed "Tidings of Gladness," — As the beautiful rainbow will cast Its bright, glowing tints on the billows Of clouds when the tempest is past. Like the unbounded depth of the Ocean Is the gratitude felt. — for your gift Was like rending dark storm-clouds asunder "When a sunbeam shines bright thro' the rift. Your picture was eagerly welcomed, — As the first rosy tints of the dawn Are welcomed by vigilant watchers When the curtains of Night are withdrawn. r 60 POEMS BY CLABA A. H EBB ILL — As the rose hails the dew of the evening When parched by the heat of the sun ; — As the hand, that with toil has grown weary Welcomes rest when the day's work is done — — So thus, for your picture a welcome Most fervent will e'er be secure But my poem — Ah ! what of my poem ? — There can scarcely be aught to endure. Tho' your picture's like beauteous landscape That by Artists will ever be praised ; — Yet my poem will be like a cipher That some rude, reckless hand has erased ! THE TBAMP'S SONG 61 THE TRAMP'S STOEY Any work for me ! No ! I am sorry — For I'm weary, and hungry and cold ; You're wishing to hear my life's story? 'Tis the first time it ever was told. Yes, friend, I w T ill tell you. A sorrow Extinguished the flame from life 's lamp ; Which made me a wanderer — an outcast — And why I am now called — a tramp. Well friend, I once was as happy As that little boy over there, — My cheeks were as rosy and chubby, And my soft, golden curls just as fair. But I then knew the care of a mother — A mother as noble and good As God ever gave to a fellow, And she did just the best that she could, To show me the path straight and narrow, And I never once wanted to stray Away from her side, where she taught me Each morning, and evening, to pray. POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBEILL At length, when I attained manhood, The crowning joy came to my life ; And never was husband more happy Than I, with my sweet little wife. And she loved me so fondly and truly, It made all my toil seem like play ; I w r as working for her, and for baby — Baby Charlie I call him alway. Well, I got a snug home for my loved ones. And a good sum of money to spare ; 'Twould have been like the Garden of Eden Had the Serpent not gained entrance there. But I had a dear friend — Jim Daley, The chum of my boyhood and youth ; And true, like a brother I loved him — For I thought him the ideal of Truth. At school we were always together. E'er shared with each other our joy; And only God knows how I loved him — This handsome, and proud, winsome boy. And I trusted him, friend, I trusted him With all that was sacred and dear To my heart, Yes, I trusted him fully — Nor dreamed I could have aught to fear. THE TE AMP'S SONG 63 But one day he complained of reverses — Said his money just then was not free- There were bills he must pay on the morrow — And he wanted to borrow of me. So I loaned him all of the money I had saved for some chance rainy day, — And in less than a month I was homeless — My family were kidnapped away ! What inducement he tendered, I know not. Or whether 'twas mesmeric power Which lured my poor, true-hearted girlie From me and our beautiful bower. Were he here now, ah, could I forgive him — Would duty, and right, say I must ? Could I extend the hand-grasp of friendship To him who has broken that trust? I can only pray God to forgive him — And me. For with memory's stamp Comes the knowledge of why I am needy — And why people call me — a tramp. I sold our dear cot mid the roses, And stealthily set out to trace The whereabouts of my dear loved ones. And I wandered from place to place 64 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBBILL At last came the sorrowful tidings Of a ship going down in a gale, — • Their names, on the list of the lost ones ! And this is the end of the tale. From my great sorrow then I sought refuge, And I drifted from east to the west ; In my young days I worked hard and steady. In every place doing my best. But now there 's no work, — I 'm heart broken — Alone, in the cold and the damp, — To my poor heart it seems — save in Heaven There's no room for the poor, aged tramp. IT IS EA\SY TO GET MISTAKEN 65 TIS EASY TO GET MISTAKEN In a cozy cot, mid bloom and leaf, There dwelt a woman very deaf, — If anything special she wished to hear She'd put a trumpet to her ear. Without the instrument, she could at best But hear some — and guess the rest. One day she laid it on a chair — Got up, and left it lying there — And went to work sweeping the floor Just as a peddler reached the door. And to the man it did occur That he might sell some goods to her. * ' Good morning Marm, fine day, ' ' quoth In "I thought I'd just call, and see" — ' * Just come from sea ! is that what ye say f Well, and who are ye any way ? ' ' "Oh, pray excuse me marm! I said — I simply called to sell some thread" — 66 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 1 ' Swell on the head ? well there I vow — What you been up to any how ? ' ' ' ' Beg pardon marm ! ' ' — at her he stared, ' * But is your hearing not impared ? ' ' "My herrings pared? Yes, scraped off the scales And then cut off the heads and tails ! ' ' The peddler's voice grew loud and louder: — ' ' Say marm ! don 't you want to buy some powder ? Here is one dozen shell hair pins' ' — ' ' What ! want to sell a pair of twins ? Why man, you make a body laugh, I'd rather buy a Jersey calf — Me ! buy them twins ! ' ' — ' ' Madam, your wrong ! Have been mistaken all along!"— "Didn't take 'em along? it's just as well, For twins ain't very good to sell." "Excuse me marm — but my belief Is that you must be a little deaf ! ' ' "A little beef? — for dinner — hey? Beef and herrings did you say?" ' ' I didn 't say so ! " he loudly roar 'd^ — But his voice took wing and upward soar'd. "Don't worry — you won't have to wait, I'll get your dinner before 'tis late." IT IS EAiSY TO GET MISTAKEN 67 ' ' Don 't want no dinner ! ' ' he yelled in her ear, — ' ' Gal darn ye ! can 't I make ye hear ? ' ' "Hain't got no beer for you, " said she, "You needn't get mad and swear at me!" "Beg pardon!'' he yelled with voice immense, "But I certainly mean't you no offence" — "Fence? you'll find out if there's a fence or not If you don 't get out — now ! on the spot ! All you know is to make comments — Great pile you know about our fence!" ' ' To sell you something was my plan — Here Madam ! don 't you want a fan ? ' ' ' k Me want a man ! how could you guess ! Of course my answer must be yes. Me! want a man! what's that I hear?" And she put the trumpet to her ear. "Don't shoot! don't shoot!" the peddler said. And instantly turned on his heel and fled. 68 POEMS BY CLABA A. ME BE ILL SONG OF A SUFFRAGETTE With apologies to A. P. S. This world would be happy, and lovely indeed, If the men were banished, of them there 's no need ; Now the ambitious women must fight for their due — With the pesky men-folks we '11 have no more to do ! Chorus They don 't like to work. Oh no ! (Men and work don't agree you know.) With mouth full of Tobacco, at ease near the grate They '11 sit and vehemently expectorate ; And the women are lucky if they can keep out Of the streaks of tobacco-juice flying about ! Chorus And tobacco-smoke fragrant will flow In beautiful wreaths, you know! The women, poor things, must wash, mend and bake, And should there occur the slightest mistake The men-folks will growl, and help things along And emphasize things with language strong! SONG OF A SUFFRAGETTE 69 Chorus Their masculine nature they show — (Rather groivl than ivork, you know!) "lis predicted the time is not far away When the men-folks, cast down, let the women hold sway ; The men w r ill be piled in one gigantic heap, Then Perfection's sweet presence the women will keep! Chorus For the women will work, and so They'll manage things nicely, you know! 70 POEMS BY CLARA A. ME BE ILL RURAL DELIGHT The farmer in the early spring Plants fields of yellow corn — How cheerily we hear him sing While out in the dews of morn ! All thro' the long, bright Summer He works among the grain; And sees the tender corn blades grow Strengthen 'd by sun and rain. He sees with pride the yellow silk Around the corn-cob curled, — Oh, the jolly, jolly farmer Is the happiest chap in the world. How the cows do love, at supper time To eat the sweet corn meal ! How eager are they for their share As the farmers dip and deal. The dairy maid with honest pride Beams, as with joy she sees The shelves that she with skill has piled With butter and with cheese. BUBAL DELIGHT 71 When Autumn comes and big tall stalks With golden ears are laden; In order comes the "husking bee/' For merry Youth and Maiden. And when the ripe "red ear" is found By some pretty winsome miss The swain, ' ' Old Customs ' ' will observe And steal the wonted kiss. The music and the laughter soars To the rafters overhead; As they trip the "light fantastic toe" With an airy, fairy tread. Then the Pumpkin Pie and Doughnuts come. — At the close of the mazy dance Each swain escorts his sweetheart home (If he can get the chance!) Thus joy and love will enter in The lot with honest toil; As the farmer reaps his rich reward From tilling of the soil. 72 POEMS BY CLAEA A. HEBBILL LOOK UP (Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.) Tis dreary now, a snowy shroud Lies white upon the ground ; While fierce and wild the piercing blast With chilling notes resound. Xo songs of birds — No crickets chirp, Xo busy hum of bees Ere floats aloft. — The Wood-nymphs sleep Within the leafless trees. All Xature's works now dormant lie 'Xeath pure, white cover lid; The violets nestle snug and warm Prom harm securely hid. List ! Spring has sent her harbinger — And laden with garlands, she brings Perfumes that are sweet as the breath of the dawn On the sheen of her beautiful wings. LOOK UP Soft winds will follow in her wake And put to flight the snow — The bird-songs sweet will soon be heard In cadence soft and low. Then do not e'er grieve for adverse Conditions that exist, — The sun will show its sovereign power And drive away the mist ! Why reck we then tho' storms assail And winds hold wild career? Look up ! and feel within your heart That Summer now is here. Dispel the morbid sense of gloom! The bleak earth soon anew Shall bloom again, like flowerets fair Kissed by the summer dew. 74 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBEILL THE BURNING OF THE TURNER MILL Calmly dawned the Sabbath morning O'er Turner's hills and moors; And peaceful lay the village — By fair Nezinscot's shores. Rich and abundant blessings Seemed showering o'er the land Like dew T s of Heaven, diffusing As by some unseen Hand. A verdant, fertile valley That spread afar was seen; With anon interspersing The river's azure sheen. And on the green banks, winding In gentle, graceful curve; Where rank, tenebrous foliage The feather 'd nestlings serve. Stood giant oaks primeval, Which thrust their branches wide Where dancing ripples sparkled Upon the eddying tide. THE BUBNING OF THE TUEXEE MILL Bright spires, ever gleaming From tall majestic domes Like sentinels seemed guarding The scores of happy homes. A picture fair and lovely The landscape lay that morn, — As tho' by seraph painted Upon the wings of dawn. The first chimes from the steeples Rang out in accents clear; And like accordant music Fell on the listening ear. — As yet no note of sorrow Was mingled in their tone; They seemed like benedictions Descending from the Throne. No thought had the good people Of shadows hovering near — No thought that ere the noon-tide Full many a bitter tear 76 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL Would fall.— (Oh! all-wise Father- By thy supernal power Revert the pending danger Ere falls the fatal hour ! Ah ! why ? — our hearts may question,- Ye mortals! — none can tell! 'Tis meet, on Him relying Who doeth all things well.) — Once more the bells' sweet music From all the belfrys rang; Bidding the folk to gather For worship. — Praise they sang. And as they turned their footsteps — ■ Each toward his wonted church ; All was serene and peaceful As far as eye could search. But hark ! What meant the tumult Arising in yon street — And why disperse those people With swiftly hurrying feet? — THE EVENING OF THE TUBNEB MILL 77 And why that shrill voice shouting As if in dire alarm — Did'st know 'twas misdemeanor To break the Sabbath calm? — As onward sped the herald. With face the hue of death And wild-bright eyes, an instant He paused to regain breath, — Then quick, in tones reverberant That pealed from spire to spire Rang out the cry of terror: — "The mill! The mill's on fire!" (Thro' the surrounding valley, And o'er adjacent hill; The echoes oft repeated: — "There's fire in the mill!") Amazed were all the people — No word their lips could frame As on the breeze's soft pinions Again the wild cries came : — 78 POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBBILL ' ' The mill ! The mill is burning ! ' ' At last, as if from sleep They wakened to the danger, — Beheld a bright flame leap ! — Ascending and expanding. Columns of smoke arose As from volcanic crater Where molten lava flows. — Again the cry resounded: — "The mill is all on fire!"— And catching up the tidings The bells 'neath every spire Tolled franticly the warning. — With clanging, vibrant tongue They sent abroad the message The village folk among! Lo! Turner's happy village — That peaceful, pleasant scene Transformed in one brief moment To one of sorrow keen. — THE BURNING OF THE TUBNEB MILL The smoke grew darker, denser, Fierce flames leaped high and higher, — "Oh for Xiagarian torrent To quench the cruel fire!" Red tongues from every window Shot forth. — As fortress gray Shoots flame from belching cannon In battle's grim array. — As pillar after pillar Of smoke arose, which claimed The attention of the people As high the rafters flamed — As stood they mute, and helpless. While cinders rose and fell 'Mid the crackling and roaring Xo mortal power could quell A cry to Heaven ascended — (Thro' bravest hearts a thrill Of horror crept:) — The proprietor Is in the burning mill!" 80 POEMS BY CLABA A. ME BE ILL Then stood aghast the people, Astounded, stricken, dazed. — While in that glowing furnace The timbers cracked and blazed. And, as the smoke ascended In black, dense, billowy waves ; Each heart cried out in anguish : — "Oh Father, God who saves Look down in thy compassion ! ' ' — The mad flames dart and sway Like ruddy, fork-tongued dragons That swift devour their prey. — The winds sang a requiem, And many a silent prayer Arose. As smoke and flame illumined The sky with lurid glare. — Oh ! friends and loving kindred — Your hearts in grief must bow ; The proprietor of the factory Needs not your pity now ! THE EVENING OF THE TUBXEB MILL 81 An Angel came and bore him. To that celestial shore Where all from earthly trials Shall triumph evermore. Once more the scene is pleasant O'er Turner's hills and moors; And peaceful lies the village By fair Nezinscot's shores. Green meadows ever rolling The pine-clad hills between With anon interspersing The river's azure sheen. And on its pebbly beaches, Where winds the glistening curve, Still soft, pendulous verdure The feathered nestlings serve. The lofty oaks primeval Still thrust their branches wide ; Where silvery wavelets sparkle Upon the bounding tide. 82 POEMS BY CLARA A. M EH BILL Yet by the rushing waters That sweep adown the strand ; A silent, rugged spectre The grim old ruins stand. The bleak walls, rent and jagged, — As mountain walls might frown That thro' convulsive earthquake Its crest had swallowed down. The winds, thro' crevice wailing In sweetly plaintive air, A perpetual dirge descanteth For him, who perished there. Thro' all the years now vanished, Neglected and forlorn; It stands alone, and mutely Bespeaks of days agone. No loom or wheel is busy — Revolving band ne 'er whirrs — No " Factory bell" each morning The village folk bestirs. THE BURNING OF THE TURNER MILL 88 No structure supersedeth Where flow these waters free ; — Tho' none can e'er determine What may in future be. Yet now, as rubious sunset In splendor gilds the waves ; And sweet, naiadic music Is wafting from the caves — Oft in disconsolation The zephyrs whisper still This tragic tale : — relating. The burning of the mill. 84 POEMS BY CLARA A. MESEILL CARPE DIEM Pray, never search for hidden woes, Or grievous troubles borrow ; Nor cloud the sun today — in fear Lest it may rain tomorrow. God makes the sunshine and the rain Then, if today is pleasant Why worry o'er tomorrow's storm — Why not enjoy the present? It will not make the verdant hills Put on a brighter hue ; Nor will the canopy above Ere be a lesser blue If all our hours are spent in tears, — Then let us strive alway To see our many blessings, and Enjoy the present day. A BACHELOirS COMMENTS OX WOMEN'S EIGHTS 85 A BACHELOR'S COMMENTS OX WOMEX'S RIGHTS Tis said the time is close at hand Which earnest thought invites — We 'If take up this expansive theme And speak on "Women's Rights." Methinks there's many a questions, now. Which worthy seems of note; What say we, then: Will all things change When the women have power to vote? Will they exchange places with the men — Tread where have trod their feet — And dig and delve all day, to get Things for the men to eat? Will the men folks stay in the house all day Dressed in their silks and laces — Their soft white hands bedecked with rings. And powder on their faces? AVill they play the piano, with no thought To the morrow ever giving — While the woman goes, and tries to find Some way to get a living ? 86 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL Will she be a carpenter, And build houses tall and grand ; And scale with might the dizzy height With hammer and saw in hand ? Will she be a soldier true And fight in uniform — Or will she be a sailor bold And brave the tempestuous storm? Will she like to make the mines Down underneath the ground And bring to light the precious gems In those dark and deep caves found ? Will she like to dig for ore Where the hidden metals are? Will she take her place on a railway train Or drive an electric car? How many will learn the dentist 's trade ? For they must learn it when The good new time comes — and the ladies Change places with the men. Can she build the massive bridges That the rushing waters span — Can she smoke and chew tobacco And do it like a man? A BACHELOR'S COMMENTS ON WOMEN'S BIGHTS 8\ Can she even be a farmer — Hold plow and drive the horse ? Should she change places with the men Why, then she can of course ! Then the liege lords will realize As darksome fears encroach ; Why the once fair sex in timidity Shrank from a mouse's approach Yes, the time is drawing nearer, — Yet one question still remains Will the world be any better When the women hold the reins? 88 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL WEALTH vs VIRTUE By devious ways and endeavors, afar I sought, ascertaining if Gold And Virtue — that fairest of gems — were at par And in the same rank were enrolled. And, viewed with zest keen and undaunting, Often Gold has been found to out-weigh ; And the measure of Virtue ? Found wanting ! For gold hath power mighty to sway. For instance : Go mingle with people of style In church — you can easily note The smile and the shrug, as you pass down the aisle With frayed hat and a patch on your coat. Tho' your heart may be kindest of any. Time has flown since your clothing was new ; You are lacking in Wealth — ah ! how many Will bid you to enter their pew ? AYhile precedes you a lady, — so haughty and grand, Gaily trips she along down the aisle; Her rosy lips wreathed in smiles sweet and bland — She is clad in the most approved style. WEALTH vs VIBTUE 89 You gaze on her features. Deceiver — Is stamped plainly there on her face, — Yet how eager are all to receive her — How quick to share with her their place ! Go e'en on the street in your sorrow — The wealthy and grand pass you by In comfort, No trouble they borrow. They see not the tear in your eye. Were you dressed in fine raiment so neatly, Your friendship would surely be theirs ; But now you are ignored completely, They heed not your pleadings or prayers. Often Riches will seek only Wealth's favored lot While Virtue seeks Virtue, abroad — Or in humble seclusion — In palace or cot. Knowing all are the children of God. Down the turbulent River of Life, ever move Misfortunes sad waifs, far from shore ; Whose struggles avail not. — Then doth it behoove Us to cast the Life Line to the poor. 90 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBBILL If, as it may, circumstances reverse, And we find ourselves level with men Who have seen, thro' affliction, their riches disperse,- Would we wish them to turn from us then? Jesus the Saviour has taught us the way, We will err not by following thus : "Do unto others' ' as near as w T e may "As we wish them to do unto us." BE MERCIFUL 91 BE MERCIFUL Have mercy for the poor aged horse That has served you so faithful and true ; Be to him gentle, and treat him with care, He can feel just as keenly as you. Don't try to get speed when your horse is half starved. But let the poor creature alone; He is patient, submissive, a slave to your will, And obeys you with never a moan. So eager, and willing, yet feeble and lame. Mayhap is worn out with disease ; He is toiling along, his breath nearly gone. He is dreadfully weak in the knees. The harness, replete with prominent knots E 'er galls him on shoulder and breast ; His bright mournful eyes ask in vain for relief, His anguish is mutely expressed. You ignore his pleadings, you heed not his pain, Nor endeavor to lighten the load By using your own locomotion to take Yourself up the steep rocky road. 92 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBHILL Oh ! would that the spirit of pitying love Into these thoughtless hearts might instill. — There's many a man can dance all night — But 'twould harm him to walk up a hill! SUXSHIXE ON THE HILL 93 SUXSHIXE OX THE HILL In the low-land where the shadows Gather at the close of day ; "When the sky in all its beauty Turns from blue to sombre grey, — Voices of the day are ceasing, Plaintively the night-birds trill, — In the distance, like a halo — Lo ! the sun shines on the hill ! When, like Wings of Night unfolded Sorrow casts its chilling shade; Causing all our joy to vanish And our cherished hopes to fade — When Oppressions hand shall smite us With a wrath that bodeth ill — Look beyond the vale's dark shadows To the sunshine on the hill ! Like a whispered benediction From the Realm of Light, so blest ; Steals those sacred words, in accents Sweet : * ' And I will give thee rest. ' ' — 94 . POEMS BY CLARA A. MEEEILL Would we feel that peace and comfort In our drooping hearts instill, — Look beyond Life's fitful shadows To the Sunshine on the Hill. YOUB EEAL WEALTH 95 YOUR REAL WEALTH Brethren, as you down life's pathway Pass with firm and stately tread When success shall crown your efforts And its glories round you shed — There's a truth that e'er existeth, — Though of high or lowly birth — When death's Angel for you calleth You'll own just "six feet of earth." Though you're rich in lands and mansions. Though you've gold and jewels rare — Though your life is bright and sunny Never knows a want or care. — Though a brother's life of sorrow Different is from yours of mirth ; Yet some day he'll be your equal — Both will own "six feet of earth." Turn your gaze to scenes Immortal — Is your chance of Heaven more sure Than the lowly one, possessing Naught of fame, but heart most pure ? 96 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEJRBILL Nay, your riches ne'er can save yon, Virtue is the Gem of Worth; You your wealth can not take with you To the last "six feet of earth.' ' Jesus once was poor and lowly, And His crown held many a thorn ; Yet His heavenly Father loved Him As He suffered grief and scorn. — If your soul is pure and stainless You have Wealth, — there'll ne'er be dearth; When at last the clay is sleeping In your own "six feet of earth." CHANGEABLE 97 CHANGEABLE Beneath an apple tree she sat Amid bright leaf and flower, Telling of what she would do, Were it within her power: She'd civilize the heathen poor, — She'd meet the wary foe, And drive them till their trackless paths Were through eternal snow. With strong nerve she would care for those Who are stricken down in war And cheer the sick and suffering ones Without a bit of awe. She'd soothe the fevered ones to rest And bathe each aching head, — And never would she shrink from pain, But bravely work, instead. But ah ! what caused her cheek to pale Ere she had ceased to speak — What made her start, w T ith fingers clenched, And give that awful shriek? 98 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBBILL Where is the maiden, once so brave ? Ah ! nothing now can still her, — For lo ! upon her sleeve there lay A little caterpillar! PLEASURE 99 PLEASURE 'Twas a calm, still night and the big full moon Looked down with smile serene; And his watchful eye observed all things. And he called it a curious scene. All agreed 'tw T as a fine night for the dance, — We all were so light-hearted; Light-headed? No! but we wished to go And dance, so off we started. The night w T as fair and the w T atchful moon Shone almost bright as day ; So Jack, he harnessed the old white mare And hitched her to the sleigh. The old horse clipped a lively time Over the snow so cold, Like a frisky colt, — though the old horse Was twenty-five years old. Oh, the pure delight of that moon-lit drive As we dashed the plains across, — And chung, chung, chung, went the merry bells, The w r hile the old white horse 100 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEJRBILL Kept merry time to the tuneful bells As over the snow we sped; And the soft and gentle zephyrs blew, And the moon its radiance shed. The time flew by on rapid wings. As it does when on pleasure bent ; And it was in the "wee small hours' ' Before w T e homeward went. Twas a beautiful, beautiful, evening, And the moon looked down so kind ; The world seemed full of music And poetry combined. TIME BEINGS CHANGES 101 TIME BEINGS CHANGES She sat down by the kitchen fire, While munching bread and cheese ; With now and then a pancake hot, Her hunger to appease. "Ah me! how good this is, " she sighed As a cookie she stowed away; 6 i I would that I a lunch could have Like this one every day I" — Next day her beau on her did call To take her for a ride; 'Twas getting late — 'twas nearly noon When the mother her espied. And, anxious as all mammas are. As to how her daughter fared; Cried, " Just you wait a moment dear- IVe dinner all prepared.' ' 102 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL "Oh! mercy! no," — it was no use. She could not eat a mite She hardly ever cared for much — She had no appetite ! — Strange, wasn't it? that one day she Could eat a slice of steak, Potatoes, and a ham sandwich, With coffee, pie and cake, — Yet the next day, when her beau w r as nigh What changes it did bring! She was so dainty and so frail She could not eat a thing! MAMMA'S STORY 103 MAMMA'S STORY Come hither my children. Sue, Archie, and Nell And listen to me as a story I tell How "once on a time/' in the mist and the fog Was a poor ragged boy, and a little brown dog. The dog, while at play, fell from a high bank Into a dark pool — and down, down it sank. To escape it endeavor 'd, but slow was its speed. For the treacherous mud did its progress impede. But the folks passing by took no heed of him Excepting to say — "Just see the pup swim!" Or, regardless of all save their own worldly pelf — "It is only a dog — Let it care for itself." Till a poor ragged urchin with pitying eye In passing that way the poor dog chanced to spy. — Quickly thrusting a stick within reach of its jaws It clung to it, and, with the aid of its paws Reached the top of the bank, with a loud joyous yelp — Ah ! none but this boy had offered it help ! Then he took it up kindly, 'neath his jacket to hold To protect the poor creature, now shivering with cold. 104 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL As snugly it nestled 'neath the boy 's ragged frock It said (as plainly as a poor dog can talk) I love you, dear friend — I'll help you if I can ; For in all this vast throng there's but you that's a man! Then came the dog's master, who found it so wet. And he sought now to fondle his dearly loved pet In a loving embrace. — but it clung to the boy With many plain manifestations of joy. While its glance towards its master said plain as it could : — ' ' I '11 stay with this laddie because he is good. ' ' ' ' Oh ! my little pet knows you are honest and true ; The dog's name is Gipsy, and well he loves you. But say, little man, how came you to save ' A poor little cur ' from a watery grave f ' ' ' k I know what it is to be friendless, ' ' he said, — "I've no friends, or home, now since Mother is dead — I know what it is to be hungry — forlorn — I Ve not tasted food, sir, since yesterday morn. And at night I must sleep where I happen to be — ■ And I thought this poor doggie was friendless like me. The gentleman's head was bowed low. — And he thought Of his sister, who married a poor drunken sot, — Ten years it had been since he last saw her face' — And five it had been since of her he lost trace. MAMMA'S STOBY 105 For a moment he prayed — with heart beating wild : ' ' Have mercy on her, as I pity this child ! ' ' Then aloud he said — as they moved through the throng— "