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FRANK PU^NAH 
 
 MEMORIES 
 
 AND 
 
 IMPRESSIONS 
 
 CHICAGO, 1296 
 
 /5* 
 

 74 6 
 
 Copyright, i8g6, by 
 Frank Arthur Putnam. 
 
 
 
ADVERTISEriENT. 
 
 These unpretentious verses have been selected from 
 among those which the writer has contributed to The 
 Chicago Times-Herald during the years 1895 and 1896. 
 
 This book is published privately. Three hundred 
 copies are printed, of which this volume is No. 3^C^C 
 
 -^e^VvC L- t ^,i^^^ ^ 
 
 Chicago, September 25, 1896. 
 
 -I- 
 
CONTENTS OF THE BOOK. 
 
 TITLE. PAGE. 
 
 Advertisement I. 
 
 Dedication VI. 
 
 To Jean Nicot, The Smoker's Saint i 
 
 A Truce to the Battle 4 
 
 Good Company All 6 
 
 The Better Part 8 
 
 The Coronation 9 
 
 Old Journeyman Days 1 1 
 
 The Old World 13 
 
 To A Boyhood Friend 14 
 
 Learn to Labor and Wait 17 
 
 Responsibility 18 
 
 The Three Gifts 20 
 
 Aspiration 21 
 
 Making His Pile 22 
 
 A New Star In The Flag 23 
 
 The Creed of Toil 26 
 
 To Hope and Not to Mourn 27 
 
 With Mary by the Cedar's Side 28 
 
 Ghosts 29 
 
 Reform 29 
 
 A Classic 29 
 
 Three Lives 30 
 
 The Poems That Nobody Writes 31 
 
 The Hope of Immortality 32 
 
 The Friends of Childhood 33 
 
 Desolation 35 
 
 Ballad of Country Tramps 36 
 
 The Rich and the Poor 38 
 
Fishing Song 39 
 
 The Way of the World 41 
 
 In the Other Days 42 
 
 Love Song 44 
 
 My Ancient Friend De Foe 45 
 
 Losses and Gains 47 
 
 In the Army Blue 48 
 
 Morning Along the Cedar 50 
 
 Unrest 52 
 
 A Dream in the Dusk 53 
 
 Just an Hour of Fun 54 
 
 In the Quiet Evening 55 
 
 Armenia 57 
 
 The Corn-Silk Cigarette 58 
 
 In the Open Air 60 
 
 Address to Cedar River 61 
 
 The Singer Sleeps 63 
 
 Poesy, Past and Present 64 
 
 To a Mouse in a Trap 65 
 
 A Summer Day 66 
 
 Sinning and Repenting 68 
 
 Night and Day 69 
 
 The Babies' Tandem Tour 70 
 
 An Hour of Rest 72 
 
 The Argosies of June 73 
 
 The Man Who Will 75 
 
 Poverty's Children 76 
 
 The Gloomy Day 77 
 
 Time, The Physician 78 
 
 Hope 79 
 
 The End of It All 80 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 No smug and slicked-up poet I, 
 
 Equipped with style and phrase euphonious, 
 Toward every soul that passes by 
 
 Salaaming stiff and ceremonious; 
 
 But just a plain and hearty kind, 
 
 Of Irish, Scotch and Yankee breeding; 
 
 Too much, perhaps, to mirth inclined. 
 
 Since worldly goods I'm sadly needing. 
 
 But yet, though through this vale of tears 
 I blindly grope and frequent stumble, 
 
 I see what good in all appears 
 
 And entertain no wish to grumble. 
 
 If aught of mine has reached your heart. 
 Or bears for you a pleasant seeming. 
 
 Across the leagues we sit apart 
 
 Imagine me as mildly beaming; 
 
 At my left hand a flagon clear. 
 
 Above my pipe blue spirals curling, 
 
 Old Homer here to crown my cheer 
 
 With tales that start the red blood whirling. 
 
 Your hand of friendship I receive 
 
 And gladly place my own before you, 
 
 Beseeching Care to take her leave 
 
 And let life's years pass lightly o'er you. 
 
TO JEAN NICOT, THE 5M0KER»S SAINT. 
 
 " It is somewhat odd that none of the long list of smoking poets 
 has sung the praises of Jean Nicot, the French diplomat, for whom 
 was named Nicotiana, the weed of great delight."— (Times-Herald.) 
 
 Illustrious Sir, whom the All-Seer 
 
 Located back in earlier ages, 
 To you I bow in reverence here. 
 
 Thou first among my favorite sages. 
 
 Earth's rule, I know, is to forget 
 
 (If truth hath come from her detractors) 
 The useful sons of men; and yet 
 
 You rank among her benefactors. 
 
 And can it be that vandal Time, 
 
 Whose ruthless hands ne'er know inaction, 
 Shall ever lessen the sublime 
 
 Delights of your dear benefaction? 
 
 Ah! no, sweet Sir! then rest at peace 
 In whatsoever tomb they laid you. 
 
 With splendid fame (since your release) 
 A grateful world hath well repaid you. 
 
 Wherever comrades share their wine; 
 
 Where sits the scholar, meditating; 
 Where sailors rove the rolling brine; 
 
 Where students drink their beer, debating; 
 
 Where lightly treads the wily scout, 
 
 Alert against whatever ill be; 
 Where soldiers pace the grim redoubt— 
 
 Your name is loved and ever will be. 
 
Oft at the time eve's gray enshrouds 
 In somber garb the quiet hours, 
 
 Have I, up through the fleecy clouds, 
 Seen Florist Fancy's fairest flowers. 
 
 Your health, good sir, I gladly pledge 
 In this long, fragrant, moist Havana, 
 
 And my true faith to you allege, 
 Whose name adorns nicotiana. 
 
 What mockery's in that " long, moist " weedl 
 You understand, Jean, I was joking; 
 
 A corncob pipe's about my speed 
 
 Whenever I'm inclined to smoking. 
 
 But even so, shall none give praise 
 
 Where due? If yes, what purse-proud puffer 
 Could do the trick? Ah! duty lays 
 
 That task on some poor rhyming duffer. 
 
 So runs the world. The few may eat 
 
 Of pleasure's substance, but the many 
 
 Must think joy's shadow's shadow sweet 
 And buy it with their pauper's penny. 
 
 The rhymer's task is to deceive 
 
 By painting want in pleasing colors; 
 
 To filch the grief from them that grieve 
 And rob dull life of half its dolors; 
 
 To make the husk seem golden grain; 
 
 Inspire the roofless wretch with sorrow 
 
That others out in misery's rain 
 
 Share not his hope of happy morrow. 
 
 * * * >!-- 1: 
 
 Long years have flown since you lay down, 
 
 Quitting nicotiana sadly, 
 But never singer wove thee crown, 
 
 Where many should have wrought it gladly 
 
 Let then this tribute, rude but warm, 
 
 Unworthy of its inspiration, 
 Claiming no grace of thought or form, 
 
 Receive \\\\ friendly commendation. 
 
 And let me add, ere farewell's said, 
 
 The ills you had you bravely bore 'era; 
 
 So I'll fling naught at Fortune's head. 
 
 But smoke my pipes and thank God for 'em. 
 
A TRUCE TO THE BATTLE. 
 
 As the righteous God is a loving God, 
 
 So the righteous man is a loving man; 
 And whether he ride or run or plod, 
 He follows the path that the Master trod 
 And he lives by the Master's plan. 
 
 The world is narrow for all that throng 
 Hungrily over its hills and plains; 
 And ever its prizes adorn the strong, 
 As often — too often — imperious Wrong 
 Seizes its rarest and fairest gains. 
 
 The weak abide in the huts of want. 
 
 God, we inform them, will hear their cry; 
 The Father will banish the grey and gaunt 
 Specter of Woe from its ancient haunt 
 
 Some time, surely, before they die. 
 
 And then we hastily turn away, 
 
 Eagerly seeking the phantom Gold; 
 Their griefs forgotten as, day by day. 
 We ardently struggle to make that prey 
 
 Which each may capture but none can hold. 
 
 What wonder that down in the cellars dim 
 
 And up in the pitiful garrets bare, 
 The hates of the millions gather grim 
 When hunger gnaws at each weary limb 
 And prayers expire on the empty air? 
 
A truce to the battle, if only an hour; 
 
 Let living and loving one purpose find! 
 The children, robbed of their dearest dower, 
 Are shackled in sight of the sacred tower — 
 
 Be kind to His loved ones as Christ was kind, 
 
GOOD COMPANY ALL. 
 
 On ihc walls of my room, in contusing disorder, 
 Famous thinkers and driidvors hang border lo border. 
 
 Dreamy Wordsworth, perhaps, worldly merriment learns 
 From the mischievous eyes of his vis-a-vis, Burns; 
 
 While the latter, frnd father, is dandling the wean 
 That has toddled across from its mother, fair Jean. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson listens while Newton discourses 
 His opinion of earth and its natural forces. 
 
 To the left Browning furtively quakes in his cloak 
 Lest his neighbor, 'Gene Field, play a practical joke. 
 
 Just beyond them John Wesley, v/ith iron-clad chin. 
 Is rebuking Boccaccio's quizzical grin. 
 
 But the devil a ))it does Boccaccio care; 
 
 As he sits on the outermost edge of his chair, 
 
 He's apparently planning a sociable call 
 On a picturesque girl in the opposite wall. 
 
 Justbelov/ where great Lincoln and Sherman abide. 
 With old England's own Gladstone erect at their side, 
 
 Julius C:esar the King and Pope Boniface stare 
 At each other all day through the smoke-laden air. 
 
 * * * :;< >)r- ■'.■■ :ic * j}: ^: 
 
 Whether soldier or priest did the more for his race 
 We need hardly inquire, since each in his place 
 
Was an instrument ruled by the Maker of man, 
 And but played his brief part in the infinite plan. 
 
 Whether singer or mighty philosopher more 
 Of the manifold woes of his species upbore, — 
 
 Which, in passing, let most for our benefit fall, 
 
 It were rudeness to ask, since the Gods gave them all. 
 
THE BETTER PART. 
 
 Worldly gear is yours, 
 Its pleasures I resign: 
 
 Heavenly joy's my share, 
 
 With ISIary's hands in mine. 
 
 Threadbare is my coat — 
 
 Its empty pockets flout mel 
 
 Still do I rejoice 
 
 With Mary's arms about me. 
 
 The man to men unknown 
 Their notice never misses; 
 
 He finds a sweet reward 
 In bonny Mary's kisses. 
 
 The great from all their gold 
 
 Grim Death will shortly sever; 
 
 But Mary's love is mine 
 Forever and forever. 
 
THE CORONATION. 
 
 The great of all nations watched with awe 
 
 The lord of the vast white empire crowned 
 
 Ruler of destiny, fount of law; 
 
 Unnumbered ghosts from the frozen ground 
 
 Afar to the north came sweeping down 
 
 And heaped their curses on king and crown. 
 
 Invisible they to the blinded eyes 
 
 Of the mighty host in the kingly hall, 
 
 But some there were who could see them rise 
 And hear them wildly for vengence call; 
 
 For these were leaders in freedom's van. 
 
 Who went to death for their fellow man. 
 
 Ah I nameless heroes in unmarked graves, 
 Men may forget you, but never God! 
 
 To every mortal that sternly braves 
 
 For a people's freedom a tyrant's rod. 
 
 He giveth to see, in His own good time, 
 
 Punishment fitted to every crime; 
 
 Justice exalted; the despot hurled 
 
 Headlong down from his blood-stained throne; 
 Liberty's glorious flag unfurled; 
 
 The sovereign people come to their own; 
 Virtue and plenty on every hand; 
 A happy race in a fruitful land. 
 
 The way is far and the time is long — 
 
 How long may none but the Father know; 
 
10 
 
 Vet right in the end will subdue the wrong, 
 For the years that steadily onward flow 
 liear nations, as men, to the perfect day 
 When Love shall command and the world obey. 
 
 1806. 
 
11 
 
 OLD JOURNEYMAN DAYS. 
 
 Those days were the days when a cooper knew 
 
 He was more than a cog in a wheel; 
 Then he merrily traveled the comitry througli, 
 And he flaunted the rose but never the rue, 
 x-\s the shops had plenty for all to do 
 
 Wherever we made appeal. 
 His wage was good and his arm was strong, 
 
 And his soul was free from care; 
 So he sang at his toil the whole day long, 
 TYie happiest heart in a rollicking throng, 
 
 And finding the whole world fair. 
 
 And on Saturday night. 
 With the lasses bright, 
 
 And the glasses clinking gay. 
 The hours sped by 
 Till the dawn drew nigh 
 
 Ere he sought the homeward way- 
 The dawn drew nigh 
 In the eastern sky 
 
 Ere he homeward bent his way. 
 
 He had no wife and he had no child, 
 
 Nor never a home for long; 
 And the Parson told him his course was wild- 
 That his age would taste like a stream deiiled 
 If he wandered on as a fool beguiled 
 
 By the voices of drink and song. 
 But his years were few and his blood w^as hot, 
 
 And the lasses were fair and kind; 
 
12 
 
 So he heard the Parson but heeded him not; 
 And I venture to say that he clean forgot 
 The good man's praise of the pious lot 
 And the joys of a holy mind. 
 
 For on Saturday night, 
 With the lasses bright, 
 
 And the glasses clinking gay, 
 The hours sped by 
 Till the dawn drew nigh 
 
 Ere he sought the homeward way 
 The dawn drew nigh 
 In the eastern sky 
 
 Ere he homeward bent his way. 
 
13 
 
 THE OLD WORLD. 
 
 Unnumbered soldiers load their guns, 
 And stack them handy by; 
 
 Five hundred million cringing clods 
 For bare existence cry; 
 
 A hundred royal rulers drain 
 Their peoples' purses dry. 
 
 Lo, Greed and Hate march side by side 
 
 Beneath the flag of Lust; 
 The sword of war is burnished bright, 
 
 The spade resigned to rust; 
 While all the nobler arts of man 
 
 Lie prostrate in the dust. 
 
 Higher the serf shall sorely climb 
 
 To work his own release; 
 Then prayer and song shall celebrate 
 
 The monster War's decease, 
 And glad mankind at last abide 
 
 In universal peace. 
 
14 
 
 TO A BOYHOOD FRIEND. 
 
 Lamb's gossip stands neglected by; 
 
 The blaze leaps cheerily up the log, 
 Whiles on my cozy couch I lie 
 
 And think upon thee, dear old dog. 
 
 Di)St thou recall, in that far place 
 
 Where long time since we laid thee down, 
 The stately walk, — the madcap race,- - 
 
 And dost thou still with relish think 
 Upon thy sober-comic pranks- 
 How thou didst smoke, with knowing blink, 
 Erect upon thy shaggy shanks? 
 
 Methinks that sometimes in the spring. 
 When apple-blossoms deck thy bed. 
 
 Their blooms line memories to thee bring 
 Of woodland ways wc loved to tread. 
 
 And thou dost spy once more with me 
 The dainty bluebells where they hide 
 
 Beneath the giant oaken tree, 
 
 With fragrant cowslips close beside: 
 
 And haply, when the summer's heat 
 
 Hath warmed the placid river through, 
 
 In vagrant fancy dost repeat 
 
 The merry games I taught to you. 
 
 How well must thou recall the day 
 The waters closed above my head, 
 
15 
 
 And thou didst fetch me safe away, 
 
 As one recaptured from the dead. 
 
 Thou dost remember, dost thou not. 
 Our some-time playmate, little Jim? 
 
 Dear laddie! — I have not forgot— 
 
 With thoughts of thee mine eyes grow dim. 
 
 Thou, too art resting from thy play; 
 
 A deep and peaceful sleep is thine. 
 I plod along the homeward way 
 
 And do not murmur nor repine. 
 
 But sometimes, whiles I dimly pore 
 
 Beneath the lamp's benignant beam 
 
 Some favorite bit of bookish lore, 
 
 I pause to nod — and doze — and dream. 
 
 My narrow cell becomes a wide 
 
 And lovely room; two children fair 
 
 Smile up to me from either side 
 
 As if they had been always there. 
 
 And then you come upon my view, 
 As years ago you bounding came; 
 
 Thy deep-toned voice the voice I knew, 
 Thy quick and eager eyes the same. 
 
 I stroke thy head that thou dost lay 
 
 With fond assurance on my knee. * * * 
 Before me little Jim doth play, 
 
 A child through all eternity. 
 
Then cometh one of angel grace; 
 
 At her white throat a jewel gleams; 
 Her beauty doth illume the place — 
 
 The saintly lady of my dreams, 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Thus let me dream, nor not awake, 
 So happy I in dreamland be, 
 
 Where care is lost in Lethe's lake 
 And visions fair encompass me. 
 
17 
 
 LEARN TO LABOR AND WAIT. 
 
 For the lessons of life 
 
 They are many and stern; 
 
 And the hardest to learn 
 Is not masterful strife 
 
 For a king or a state; 
 
 It is only — to wait. 
 
 Youth is eager to start 
 
 On life's ocean alone 
 
 Ere his strength be full-grown: 
 And through Age from his heart 
 
 May of perils inform, 
 
 Still he thirsts for the storm. 
 
 If his courage be high, 
 He may struggle along 
 And by sorrow grow strong; 
 
 And the years, as they fly, 
 May allot him life's prize 
 On this side of the skies. 
 
 But the many that strive 
 
 For the laurels must fail; 
 And full many a sail 
 At Death's port shall arrive, 
 That could enter Joy's gate 
 Would its m.aster but wait. 
 
18 
 
 RESPONSIBILITY, 
 
 God sees, but His children are blind; 
 
 They incessantly strive for the mire 
 That they tread on. The gems of the mind 
 
 Of Creation few mortals desire. 
 
 God hears, but His children, aflame 
 
 With a lust for the gauds that men tliuml, 
 
 Succor not babes that cry in His name 
 And expire in the anguish of want. 
 
 God loves! of His goodness we live! 
 
 But His children, ungrateful and cold. 
 Ignoring His mandate to give — 
 
 Defying what time shall unfold, — 
 
 'JMiey dare to abide at their ease 
 
 In the midst of the gathering roar. 
 
 Like the thunder on storm-troubled seas, 
 Of the hungry that beat at their door. 
 
 God loves! yet the blasphemous dare 
 To assert He created the Few 
 
 To ascend on the Many; they swear 
 
 That the talons the strongest imbrue 
 
 In the blood of the weak, but obey 
 
 His command— that the race shall arise 
 
 Injhe lives of the Few on a way 
 
 That is paved with the Poor they despise. 
 
 * « H-- 3i< * 
 
19 
 
 He knows, and we may not possess 
 
 The key to His infinite grace; 
 Yet we feel that the men who transgress 
 
 The commands which He gave to the race — 
 
 To love, to forgive and be kind, 
 
 To share with the lowly the bread 
 
 That His goodness has taught us to find — 
 
 Shall confront Him with trembling and dread; 
 
 With a burden of guilt on the soul 
 
 Too vast for repentance to mend. * * * 
 On the Master of Equity's scroll 
 
 Each must balance accounts in the end. 
 
90 
 
 THE THREE GIFTS. 
 
 We thank Thee, Lord, for Thy first gift. Life; 
 
 Precious the privilege, living to see 
 The race arising to peace through strife. 
 
 Merciful, generous, chivalrous, free. 
 
 Not yet, we know, have Thy children grown 
 Into the brotherhood Heaven hath planned; 
 
 But Thou wilt garner where Thou hast sown 
 Plentiful harvests in every land. 
 
 We thank Thee, Lord, for life's dearest prize. 
 Love that abideth while life abides; 
 
 That lightens the way to the distant skies, 
 Guiding us fairly whate'er betides. 
 
 Love hath its sorrows, we know, as deep 
 
 As its fountains of joy where we drink at will: 
 
 Yet love lives on past the dreamless sleep 
 Of the dear ones out on the quiet hill. 
 
 We thank Thee, Lord, for Thy last gift, Death, 
 Making for all of our ills amends; 
 
 That gently severs the fainting breath, 
 Giving us over again to our friends. 
 
 The grave is low and a darksome room, 
 Yet shall we enter with never a fear; 
 
 And rest at peace in its rayless gloom. 
 
 Knowing, O Father, that Thou art near. 
 
21 
 
 ASPIRATION. 
 
 Ten thousand poets pipe their paltry lays; 
 
 Empurpled panders prostitute the press, 
 While sodden dullards cant of " old dead days " 
 
 And paint a fearful future of distress. 
 
 Perverted " science " leads the weak from God; 
 
 An individual greed promotes the thought 
 That loyal love has perished from the sod 
 
 Whereon our fathers human freedom wrought. 
 
 The sleek, insidious sophistry of towns 
 
 Would sacrifice our honor to our trade; 
 
 But far upon the plain the freeman frowns, 
 
 As from his scabbard springs his stubborn blade. 
 
 My country! Still God's mighty will inspires 
 The patriot faith that has no feeble fears, 
 
 Still lights on humble hearths the holy fires 
 
 That made and saved this land in other years. 
 
 The race advances — Destiny impels; 
 
 Through drowsy peace and war's baptismal fire, 
 One lesson Time in glowing letters spells: 
 
 "On! Sons of God — to nobler heights aspire!" 
 
32 
 
 MAKING HrS PILE. 
 
 "Early and late he is working- 
 Says that's his natural style; 
 
 He wasn't cut out right for shirking, 
 And they say he is making his pile." 
 
 *' Married, of course," I suggested, 
 
 " With babies to climb on his knee?" 
 
 " No; too many dollars invested — 
 He's never had leisure, you see. 
 
 " No hand for sports— isn't active; 
 
 And ask him to go to the play. 
 And he'll say it's mighty attractive, — 
 
 He'd be glad to — on some other day. 
 
 " And suppose you suggest that he's losing 
 The joys that make living worth while; 
 
 He declares your ideas are amusing 
 And asks: 'Ain't I making my pile? 
 
 " * No wife to dispute my dominion, 
 
 No children to go the bad; 
 Give me cash, in my humble opinion, 
 
 The best friend a man ever had.' 
 
 " If you speak of the pleasures of giving, 
 
 He puts on a cynical smile, 
 And remarks that ' you'll learn more by living. 
 
 Poor fool! — but he's making his pile." 
 
33 
 
 A NEW STAR IN THE FLAG, 
 
 I. 
 
 Strange people, these Mormons that were; 
 Caught up in the folds of Smith's faith, 
 The starvelings of Europe's big towns 
 Came over by ship loads, like sheep; 
 Recruits left lean farms where the soil 
 But barely supported men's lives. 
 A few came with money, and some 
 Who had culture exceeding their wit; 
 Yet others foresaw in the church 
 The means of advancing their fame. 
 These were led — these and others— by men 
 Who saw with fanatic fore-vision 
 An empire built in the west — 
 Themselves as its masters supreme. 
 
 II. 
 
 They journeyed past rivers and plains; 
 
 They climbed the dark mountains and tiled 
 
 Through the passes the Indians knew. 
 
 God had frowned on the land where they stopped: 
 
 It parched under harrowing suns. 
 
 The sage brush and grease wood were there, 
 
 And the cactus snarled up from the sand, 
 
 But men couldn't live there — till then. 
 
 These Mormons, however, were stern; 
 
 They watered the plains with the snows 
 
 That melted and ran from the ranges. 
 
 They plowed, and they planted—and prayed; 
 
at 
 
 And they reaped, for the soil teemed with gold 
 That needed but water to fuse. 
 
 Ill . 
 
 More came across seas, and their priests 
 
 Made converts throughout all our east. 
 
 Polygamy peopled the plain, and its masters 
 
 Grew proud. And pride ever was blind. 
 
 They builded on ignorant hope, 
 
 On vain superstition and fraud. 
 
 On hunger, on fear and on lust. 
 
 They thouglit that the church could so weld 
 
 Its people together in time 
 
 That the ceaseless wave-beating without 
 
 Of a civilization more pure 
 
 Could never disintegrate them. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Monogamists saw that the land 
 
 The Mormons had settled was good. 
 
 They entered thereon and they dropped 
 
 In the ripening soil of the minds 
 
 Of the children of Mormons the seed 
 
 Of a higher spiritual life. 
 
 What's the fruit of it all? Well, to-day 
 
 This land that the Mormons reclaimed 
 
 Comes into the Union — a state — 
 
 A sister to Maine and Montana, 
 
 To Delaware, Texas, Ohio- 
 
 Well worthy the welcome they give. 
 
 Polygamy skulks in the rear, 
 
25 
 
 Disowned by the best of its sons, — 
 Disowned by the church that it built! 
 
 V. 
 
 Time's alchemy baffles the wisest, 
 Here's good sprung from evil direct. 
 What good? Well, a desert made green; 
 A tribe of good men come to life 
 From the loins of polygamous sires; 
 A new star in the flag; a new step 
 To the ultimate union in one 
 Of all hopes of this nation of ours. 
 You, there, in the senate and house, 
 Give the members from Utah your handi 
 
 1895. 
 
THE CREED OF TOIL. 
 
 To-day is your day, not the day that is past; 
 
 To-morrow's a day that has yet to be born. 
 Toil earnestly, then, for the hours fly fast 
 From the morn. 
 
 You have never a minute for idle despite, 
 
 Nor a second to childishly grieve; 
 Lay hold, and success crown your toil with delight 
 In the eve. 
 
 Life is brief at the best, and its aim is not clear, 
 
 But spend it so well that, whatever impend, 
 You'll have naught for repenting and never a feai 
 At the end. 
 
27 
 
 TO HOPE AND NOT TO MOURN. 
 
 To-day the poor kneel low beside 
 
 The grave where Burns reposes, — 
 
 Pray as they kneel, all misty-eyed. 
 To strew the mound with roses. 
 
 That always, in the peaceful land 
 Life's losses purchase after, 
 
 Their bard may wander hand in hand 
 With gracious Love and Laughter. 
 
 Ah! Robbie, could you but have known. 
 Ere daisies bloomed above you, 
 
 How, when a hundred years had flown 
 The hearts of men would love you, — 
 
 Had you but known ere, grief-arrayed. 
 Your spirit sought its bourne, 
 
 You might have felt that man was made 
 To hope and not to mourn. 
 July 21, 18G8, 100th anniversary of the poet's death. 
 
»8 
 
 WITH MARY BY THE CEDAR'S SIDE. 
 
 Wee sin^^ers in Ihe rural shade 
 
 Made glad the country far and wide; 
 The woods their sweetest blooms displayed, 
 What dreamy hours I fondly strayed 
 With Mary by the Cedar's side. 
 
 Sage Lydia ruled the floral jaunt 
 
 But seldom closed her broken ranks; 
 
 Her power she had no wish to vaunt; 
 
 So I found oft a cozy haunt 
 
 W^ith Mary by the Cedar's l)ank?. 
 
 Though sober comrades all designed — 
 Stern bent on learning Flora's arts — 
 
 To make each flower that they might find 
 
 An added treasure of the mind, 
 
 To me all buds were Cupid's darts. 
 
 Old Cedar, childhood's friend and guide, 
 
 Safe confidant of boyhood's dreams, 
 Glad witness of the lover's pride — 
 Long years may sweethearts stroll beside 
 
 Your beauteous borders, queen of streams. 
 
GHOSTS. 
 
 Few ghosts v/ould haunt the soul's dim shelves 
 Were men but honest with themselves. 
 
 REFORfl. 
 
 Mankind could save one-half its wasted labor 
 Would each but heal himself and spare his neighboi 
 
 A CLASSIC. 
 
 'Tisa record of olden-time dreamings or deeds 
 That each one of us owns and that nobody reads. 
 
30 
 
 THREE LIVES. 
 
 Dives, racked with pain and driving down the street. 
 
 Passed close beside a digger in the ditch. 
 "Alas!" he thought, " had I his rugged strength 
 
 And naught beside, still would I deem me rich." 
 
 The digger, pausing, gazed with envious eye 
 Upon the passing mockery of health, 
 
 And, frowning, thought, " How gladly would I change 
 My strength and want for his disease and wealth." 
 
 The sick man died. The digger, through the years, 
 Had scanty portion of the world's delight. 
 
 J-Iach least desired the treasure that he held. 
 
 And each, unhappy, passed from mortal sight. 
 
 Within a tiny cottage by the way 
 
 A bent and gray-haired woman made abode. 
 Nor strength nor riches had she, yet she found 
 
 A means to lighten oft a neighbor's load. 
 
 Where sickness came to deepen want's degree 
 
 Of misery, she also came to cheer; 
 And when she patient toiled among the poor. 
 
 They felt that God's own minister was near. 
 
 So laboring, praying, helping to the end, 
 
 In her last moments healing others' fears, 
 
 She sank, serenely happy, to her rest, 
 
 Pearl-crowned by humble neighbors' honest tears. 
 
31 
 
 THE POEHS THAT NOBODY WRITES. 
 
 O, many and fair in the work-a-day grind 
 Are the songs that the generous hearts shall find; 
 And oft shall they garner the dear delights 
 Of the beautiful poems that nobody writes. 
 
 The grip of the hand to the man who is down, 
 That encourages hope neath Adversity's frown; 
 The patient endeavor to balance a wrong 
 That a brother endures — each one is a song. 
 
 The flower bestowed on a giftless child; 
 The word of defense for a wretch reviled; 
 The charity given where Want invites- 
 All these are the poems that nobody writes. 
 
32 
 
 THE HOPE OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Wiihiii thvj hour, when, borne before my door, 
 Wilh shadowed sight I view the heavens o'er, 
 
 My spirit, singing, parts the feeble bars 
 
 To mount triumph-int 'mong the glorious stars; 
 
 There, from the topmost planet, looks around 
 On mighty worlds that men have never found: 
 
 Then, earthward called, from his exalted place 
 Peers dimly down through ever-lengthening spac 
 
 Until at last his native globe appears — 
 A far, small star amid the grander spheres; 
 
 Still gazing, sees his comrade bowed in paii'i 
 And sadly hastes to leave the heavenly plain. 
 
 My moital frame, endure the common lot-- 
 To live, to toil, to die and be forgot; 
 
 But O, my spirit, yoked to mortal ill, 
 Have you no nobler mission to fulfill? 
 
 Has He ordained a life of fear and doubt, 
 A final gasp and utter blotting out? 
 
 The spirit buried at the body's side, 
 All wishes unfulfilled, all hopes denied? 
 
 It canni t be. What sorrows here assail 
 Will vanish when the future lifts death's veil; 
 
 And pa ;t the grave, while countless ages r;)]l, 
 Eternal (iod, wilt Thou sustain mv soul! 
 
33 
 
 THE FRIENDS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Willing sacrifice, sympathy, pleasure — all blend 
 With the magic of love in the gentle word friend. 
 
 The friends of old age are not many; 'tis fate 
 That though many come early, but few remain late. 
 
 Other ties take the place of the first in the heart, 
 And the friends, half unconsciously, wander apart. 
 
 Yet the few that are steadfast you feel you can trust 
 Until day dawns no more and the dust turns to dust. 
 
 But the friendships of childhood are rich and as pure 
 As the best that the future shall prove to be su 
 
 The birds that are nesting in yonder low tree, 
 They call my wee laddie away from my knee; 
 
 And, as oft as he seeks them, through all the day long. 
 They pledge him their love in the merriest song 
 
 His savage cloth dog, that by day finds deligh 
 In putting his timid pet lambkins to flight — 
 
 This terrible beast, when the shadows creep down 
 From the skies in the east to envelop the town. 
 
 Stands guard at his pillow, a sentinel bold. 
 That a mischievous fairy would fear to behold. 
 
 Right well doth he know, as he sinks into sleep, 
 What a vigilant watch his protector will keep; 
 
 And the rubber doll cuddles up close in his arms, 
 Full sure they arc safe from the fearful alarms 
 
34 
 
 That scinetinies arouse them, all trembling with fear, 
 In the thought that a hideous ogre is near. 
 
 P^or it happens, sometimes, that the dog runs away, 
 And he cometh not home at the close of the day. 
 
 Then my little one prays that his Lord will forefend 
 What dangers he fancies may threaten his friend; 
 
 While the fatherbird, snug in his nest in the thorn, 
 Stands guard for the fickle cloth dog till the morn. 
 
 Though sorrow will come, as it comes to us all, 
 It is sure that, whatever disasters befall — 
 
 Whatever of loss from his life may ensue, 
 These friends to the end will be faithful and true. 
 
DESOLATION. 
 
 A rude log hut on a lonely hill, 
 Snow on the north wind flying; 
 
 Darkness within where a man lies still, 
 And a woman sighing. 
 
 Night, but no stars. On the blizzard's blast 
 Ride souls that have felt God's spurning, 
 
 Hideous wraiths from the world's dead past 
 For an hour returning. 
 
 They grapple the cabin on either side, 
 Laughing and shrieking and twisting; 
 
 The roof beams sullenly grumble, tried 
 By the toil of resisting. 
 
 The watch dog starts from the floor to growl. 
 
 The terrors of night defying. 
 Away in the valley a lone wolf's howl 
 
 And a nameless crying. 
 
 A rude log hut on a lonely hill, 
 
 Deep sunk in the land-sea's foam; 
 
 But Death steals in where the man lies still, 
 And he gathers him home. 
 
36 
 
 BALLAD OF COUNTRY TRAHPS. 
 
 We're Hungry Ike 
 
 And Weary Bill; 
 We never worked — 
 
 We never will. 
 The hedge our roof, 
 
 The sod's our cot; 
 An oyster can's 
 
 Our coffee pot. 
 
 We break our fast 
 At break o' day; 
 
 Then hoist our traps 
 And go our way. 
 
 We revel in 
 
 Fair nature's moods; 
 We're long on joys 
 
 If short on foods. 
 
 Our life is free — 
 
 We skip the towns; 
 
 No copper fierce 
 Upon us frowns. 
 
 We make no bluff 
 About hard times; 
 
 The '73 
 
 Or other crimes. 
 
 We do not claim 
 
 That we refrain 
 From work to save 
 
37 
 
 Our fellows pain; 
 That jobs may fall 
 
 In other hands, 
 We but obey 
 
 The Lord's commands. 
 
 Man v/as not born 
 
 To toil and sweat; 
 We bow to fate 
 
 With no regret. 
 We're Hungry Ike 
 
 And Weary Bill 
 We never worked— 
 
 We never will. 
 
THE RICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 The room was narrow and mean and bare 
 
 Where the baby gasped for breath; 
 The mother murmured a hopeless prayer 
 That died in the hell of the blazing air 
 For the fields of her girlhood, cool and fair, 
 While the infant fought with Death. 
 
 A wee form lay on the ragged sheet 
 
 That was wet with a mother's tears; 
 But its white soul rose through the blinding heal 
 That sank like a pall on the squalid street — 
 Ah! Death took all that her heart held sweet 
 And left her the lonely years. 
 
 O, you that in purple and silks abide, 
 
 Had the babe no claim on you? 
 Had the mother's prayer at her darling's side 
 No power to pierce through the walls of pride? 
 Do you owe no debt to the Man who died? 
 
 Did He leave you naught to do? 
 
 Add not God's wrath to the human hates 
 
 That fester in garrets dim; 
 I tell you the rage of the ages waits 
 And crouches low at your mansion gates; 
 God's brotherhood only its thirst abates,— 
 
 Go forth in the name of Him! 
 
FI5HiNQ SONG. 
 
 (Brule is pronounced " Bruly.") 
 
 Come, boys, get down your dusty poles. 
 Your reels and flies and lines; 
 
 We're off to where the Brule rolls 
 Among the northern pines— 
 
 To where the sparkling Brule rolls 
 Among the fragrant pines. 
 
 The ice is gone; the river flows 
 
 Serenely on her way. 
 (But whether south her current goes. 
 
 Or north, I cannot say; 
 I only knows the whiskey flows 
 
 The old familiar way.) 
 
 Before our tent beside the stream 
 
 We'll sit and smoke at eve; 
 The nights shall pass with ne'er a dream, 
 
 The days with naught to grieve — 
 Clear nights whereon the pale moon's beam 
 
 Shall linger loth to leave. 
 
 The fish? Alas! again must I 
 
 Confess I know them not. 
 Guides named them all when I was by, 
 
 But I have clean forgot; 
 (Or else the poteen held my eye 
 
 So that I heard them not.) 
 
 Enough it is that I declare 
 
 Earth has no fairer scene — 
 
40 
 
 Xo joy not held in that crisp air 
 Deep in the wildwood green, 
 
 Where gleams the Brule debonair, 
 Her vineclad banks between. 
 
 So come, get down your fishing poles, 
 Your patent reels and lines, 
 
 And we'll go where the Brule rolls 
 Among the northern pines — 
 
 To where the sparkling 15rule rolls 
 Among the fragrant pines. 
 
41 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Two men went down to the sea in a ship, 
 
 Flushed with the scarlet of drink and song; 
 
 A ribald jest was on either's lip 
 
 And their pulls at the bottle were deep and strong. 
 
 A storm arose and the vessel sank ; 
 
 The sea rejoiced in triumphant hate, 
 And tw^o fought death on a narrow plank 
 
 That shivered and sank beneath their weight. 
 
 Then one cried out: " I must leave you, Jack; 
 
 You have babes and a wife, but luckily I 
 Have none who will mourn if I come not back; 
 
 And one may live, but one 77iust die." 
 
 " True," said the other, ** my wife will wail; 
 
 'Tis a coward deed, but I nmst live on." * * * 
 Two hours later a passing sail 
 
 Took up the one, but the other was gone. 
 
 The dull world cheers for the man who wins, 
 And looks not under the sea or the sod; 
 
 So it says of the one that " he died in his sins," 
 While the other " was saved by a loving God," 
 
42 
 
 IN THE OTHER DAYS, 
 
 When hearts turn back to other days 
 
 Where youth ran on in flowery ways, 
 
 Tears blot the lines of Time's long scroll 
 
 And silent sadness fills the soul. 
 
 •'The other days," when time was young, 
 
 When gladness sang from every tongue — 
 
 So fair a grace the vision wears 
 
 That man forgets his present cares. 
 
 Clearly before him doth arise 
 
 A picture dear to boyish eyes; 
 
 A slender girlish figure stands 
 
 Welcoming him with open hands. 
 
 Within her eyes a light there shines 
 
 Whose meaning he but half divines; 
 
 A reverent fear forbids the plea 
 
 He longs to make on bended knee. 
 
 Fate's hour flies. They lightly part, 
 
 With sad-sweet yearning in each young heart— 
 
 A dream, perhaps, of a distant land, 
 
 Where two might wander, hand in hand. 
 
 The years that pass, to girl and boy, 
 Bring equal measure of pain and joy; 
 He out in the world at life's behest, 
 She sheltered still in the old home nest. 
 Widely apart lie the paths they took; 
 Yet she, at home in her quiet nook 
 Perchance, day-dreaming, may backward gaze 
 To boyish homage of other days; 
 
43 
 
 As oft, when the world frowns cold and grim, 
 And the prize he seeks seems far and dim, 
 The present fades and before his sight 
 She stands as fair as she stood that night. 
 Then time turns back and the fragrance rare 
 Of her garden sweetens the heavy air; 
 It beareth the penetrant, rich perfume 
 Of her crimson rose tree's royal bloom; 
 The day departs, night's shades descend, 
 Twilight and darkness subtly blend, 
 And the words he breathes are a prayer of praise 
 For a fleeting glimpse ot the other days. 
 
44 
 
 LOVE SONG. 
 
 The world's applause is a draught divine, 
 
 Its love is a precious prize; 
 But dearer than both are the vows that shine 
 
 In the deeps of my lassie's eyes- 
 Far dearer than all is the true-love sign 
 
 In the deeps of my lassie's eyes. 
 
 We twain stray on with but empty hands, 
 Yet our hearts with joy o'erilow; 
 
 The gold that the spirit of youth demands 
 Is affection's ardent glow — 
 
 O, youth, as ever, to-day demands 
 But affection's fervent glow. 
 
 What matter to me that far away 
 The wealth of the Indies lies? 
 
 A fig for it all! I'll watch the play 
 Of the light in my lassie's eyes — 
 
 I'll bow my head to the potent sway 
 Of the love in my lassie's eyes. 
 
45 
 
 MY ANCIENT FRIEND DE FOE. 
 
 Long years have sped the days I read 
 
 Your daring deeds and bloody — 
 Since, safely hid behind the lid 
 
 Of what I seemed to study, 
 Your thrilling tale of storm and sail 
 
 Transfixed me with its wonders, 
 And brought to pass in every class 
 
 A startling train of blunders. 
 What cared I then which tribes of men 
 
 Put forth across the oceans? 
 On what pretext should I be vexed 
 
 With vain grammatic notions? 
 No teacher's gruff and curt rebuff 
 
 Had slightest power to phase me. 
 While Crusoe's skill and sturdy will 
 
 Continued to amaze me; 
 
 Until, alas! it comes to pass 
 
 That, just when Crusoe sighted 
 
 The foot-marked road where Friday strode, 
 The teacher's cane alighted. 
 
 No lightning stroke more swiftly broke, 
 Nor none more swiftly shattered; 
 
 With evil mind he stood behind 
 
 And stoutly whaled and battered. 
 
 And then he took that precious book— 
 O, grief all else transcending! 
 
 With vile intent and fiercely rent 
 Its pages past all mending. 
 
46 
 
 His savage glare so chilled the air, 
 
 As spitefully he threw you 
 In fragments by, that straightway I 
 
 Made sure he never knew you. 
 
 Each year that flies doth emphasize 
 
 The loyalty I bore you; 
 Old Time's retreat but makes more sweet 
 
 The pangs I suffered for you. 
 
 What else transcends the joy of friends 
 Whose steadfast faith involves them 
 
 In ceaseless fear of peril near 
 
 From which time ne'er absolves them? 
 
 'Tis even so; whiles 'neath the glow 
 Of evening's lamp I've shrined thee, 
 
 Unconsciously I turn to see 
 If he lurks not behind me. 
 
 Still do I dread his cat-like tread, 
 His cane upraised to flay me; 
 
 But still do you, as ever new, 
 
 With plenteous meed repay me. 
 
 Wherefore, old friend, if chance shall send 
 That teacher's soul before you, 
 
 Forgive, I pray, the hasty way 
 
 In which he one time tore you. 
 
 Consider, too, the i)atience due, 
 
 And let no rage run through you: 
 
 Nor be forgot his mournful lot 
 In that he never knew you, 
 
47 
 
 LOSSES AND GAINS. 
 
 Though God has veiled his purpose 
 From our unseeing eyes, 
 
 He bids us hope unceasing— 
 The weakling as the wise. 
 
 He makes the glowing Future 
 To blossom from the Now; 
 
 Of ills He cx>ineth blessings, 
 Although we know not how. 
 
 And in the fiery furnace 
 
 Of sorrow and of loss, 
 His alchemy divorces 
 
 True metal from the dross. 
 
 As who would scan with pleasure, 
 The verdant vale's delights, 
 
 Must first, with steps untiring, 
 Ascend the mountain heights, 
 
 Mayhap to struggle onward, 
 
 With bruised and bleeding feet, 
 
 Ere half the weary journey 
 Before him be complete. 
 
 So rises Man, the pilgrim, 
 
 On lessons bought with pain, 
 
 And learns there is no losing 
 Without a greater gain. 
 
4K 
 
 IN THE ARHY BLUE. 
 
 A gray old man on a bench in the sun, 
 
 The years of his pilf]^rimage ahnost done; 
 
 Smoking and dreaminii^ the long day thmuLdi- 
 A bent old man in the army blue. 
 
 A black boy leisurely saunters along, 
 Merrily humming a vagrant song; 
 
 Gazing betimes, with an eager eye, 
 
 At bird or butterfly passing him by. 
 
 The lad rejoices, he knows not why, 
 
 In bird and butteriiy, earth and sky; 
 
 No thought of the sorrowful p>ast has he, 
 Or present or future — he wanders free. 
 
 Away by the sea, where the nation's dead 
 Await God's call in their last low bed. 
 
 The cannons boom on this day of days, 
 Solemnly voicing a nation's praise. 
 
 And far to the south, at a cottage door. 
 
 With dimmed eyes scanning her treasures o'er 
 
 Letters and pictures, faded and old, — 
 A mother mourns in her empty fold. 
 
 They erred, we know, in the light of the years, 
 But justice yields to a mother's tears; 
 
 So blest be the prayer she breathes this day 
 For the boys who died in the rebel gray. 
 
49 
 
 And he who sits on the bench in the sun, 
 
 When taps are sounded and life is done, 
 May he dream fairly the long years through, 
 
 Enfolded still in the army blue. 
 Memorial Day. 1 896. 
 
50 
 
 MORNING ALONG THE CEDAR. 
 
 Let the laurels be worn where the fates may allot 'em; 
 
 As I lie on the bloom-bordered banks of this stream, 
 Where the fish, like philosophers, sleep near the bottom, 
 
 'Tis the choicest of luxuries merely to dream. 
 
 Here the sod is as sweet as a flower queen's crown, 
 And as fragrant as hope in the heart of a child; 
 
 Here the wandering waters run murmuring down 
 And my soul is by vagabond fancy beguiled. 
 
 What's the worth of the world to a man who despises 
 Its contempt of the living, its praise of the dead? 
 
 Dearer far is the wood where the morning breeze rises, 
 And in cool benediction strays over my head. 
 
51 
 
 A SONQ OF A MOTHER. 
 
 Sometimes, when dusk creeps softly down 
 
 From out the eastern sky, 
 Weary of toil and sick at heart, 
 
 I lay my labors by. 
 
 And fold my hands and close my eyes 
 
 To sit and dimly dream. 
 While all life's sorrows drift away 
 
 On reverie's silent stream. 
 
 Then I am but a little boy 
 
 Beside my mother's knee, 
 Hearing again the old sweet songs 
 
 That once she sang to me. 
 Happy the dreams wherein arise 
 
 Dear visions of the past; 
 Ah! dear, so dear that I could pray 
 
 They might forever last — 
 That I might thus through all the years 
 
 Her boyish lover be, 
 And hear again the old sweet songs 
 
 That mother sang to me. 
 Some time, perhaps, when life is done, 
 
 We two once more shall know 
 The pure delight that graced our days 
 
 So very long ago; 
 Love's compensation shall atone 
 
 For all the lonely years. * * * h^ 
 To-night accept, O, mother mine. 
 
 The tribute of m.y tears. 
 
53 
 
 UNREST. 
 
 Love hath its tides; 
 The ship that rides 
 
 Upon their ebb and flow 
 Is never blessed 
 With perfect rest, 
 
 But swings — now high — now low, 
 
 Life hath its cares, 
 And whoso bears 
 
 The burden of its years, 
 Until the end 
 Must hourly blend 
 
 Its laucrhter with its tears. 
 
53 
 
 A DREAM IN THE DUSK. 
 
 On the bank of a lake is a little green cot 
 Where the ivy creeps over the eaves — 
 
 Where a dream in the dusk lends a balm to my lot, 
 While the wind whispers low in the leaves. 
 
 There the whip-poor-will calls in a pentitent way, 
 For a punishment none could advise, 
 
 And the katy-did solemnly pauses to lay 
 All her wickedness bare to my eyes. 
 
 There I dreamed on an evening of nations and men. 
 And the burden of care in each heart, — 
 
 Of the troubles perplexing humanity, when 
 I was roused from my chair with a start. 
 
 Youthful voices in musical unison joined 
 Wafted sweetly across the dim lake, — 
 
 Swelling tones into mellowest melody coined 
 Told of love that should never forsake. 
 
 And I listened and, somehow, the spirit of gloom 
 That had saddened my soul passed away, — 
 
 Passed away and there rose, like a lily in bloom, 
 Fragrant hope of the ultimate day — 
 
 Of the day when all mankind, eternally young 
 
 By the grace of the Father above, 
 Shall rejoice in the harp of existence full strung 
 
 With the quivering fibers of love. 
 
 O, the youth that is past like the breath of the wind! 
 
 O, the love that steals into the heart 
 Ere the crosses of life leave their shadows behind!— 
 
 Why— why must their glory depart? 
 
JUST AN HOUR OF FUN. 
 
 What the soul o' man needs is an hour of fun, 
 So we fiddle and sing when our labor is done; 
 And we'd dance if our knees were limber as when 
 We went straying with Mary and Jennie and Ben. 
 
 O, we'll fiddle and sing 
 
 Till the old house'll ring, 
 And the pleasures we lack the oldfiddle'll bring. 
 
 All the flowers were fair in those happy old days, 
 When Sage Lydia led us in botany's ways. 
 Ah! the games that Dan Cupid puts up on young men! — 
 It is botany now— it was love-making then. 
 
 So we fiddle and sing — 
 
 O, we fiddle and sing; 
 All the dreams left behind the old fiddle'll bring. 
 
 We've a short road behind and a long one ahead; 
 We're but few years alive and we're many years dead, 
 And there's never a day is so hard or so long 
 But we finish it up with a jolly old song. 
 
 Then we fiddle and sing — 
 
 O, we fiddle and sing; 
 When the old fiddle laughs we're as rich as a king. 
 
65 
 
 IN THE QUIET EVEMNQ. 
 
 Before the hearth the boy reclines at ease, 
 
 He stares wide-eyed into the dancing flames. 
 
 Tiierein appear before him grotesque elves; 
 
 Quaint fairies rise to mock him and he hears 
 
 Tlie crackling laughter of the merry sprites 
 The fire releases from the blazing log. 
 
 The lassie tucks her dollies snugly in — 
 
 The black-eyed Susan; Jane, her first delight; 
 
 Repeats beside their bed her evening prayer, 
 Bestows on each a fond maternal kiss, 
 
 Commending them to sleep and pleasant dreams; 
 Then, book in hand, pursues grey learning's path. 
 
 Domestic duties done, the mother scans 
 
 Her favorite journal; studies modes of dress; 
 
 Perchance recites a pleasing bit of song 
 Selected from the page the poets claim; 
 
 Or, pausing, idly strokes the arching neck 
 
 Of Tabitha, who purrs her grateful thanks. 
 
 Back in a shadowed corner of the room 
 
 The gran'ther tells the father how they won 
 
 With Grant at Shiloh on the second day; 
 And how a wave of pity swept the ranks 
 
 When Halleck (under orders, as he thinks) 
 
 Bade Grant relinquish what he'd hardly gained. 
 
 '* Poor Will!" the old man sighs. Two tears roll down 
 
 The mingled furrows on his wrinkled cheeks; 
 His thoughts are with the brother of his heart. 
 
56 
 
 Who slumbers through the swift and silent years, 
 A nameless soldier in an unknown grave. 
 
 Shall they e'er meet again? God only knows. 
 
 Of such is life — the simple life I love; 
 
 The budding boy aflame with fancy's thrill; 
 The lassie learning care beside her dolls; 
 
 The gentle wife, wise guardian of us all; 
 The good old man, preserved by kindly fate 
 
 To fit past learning to the present need. 
 
67 
 
 ARflENfA, 
 
 A sultan sat on a crumbling throne— 
 
 And the Christian kings took stock of his lands. 
 
 The sultan's troops slashed right and left 
 With sword and dagger. A Christian fell 
 At every sweep of a pagan blade. 
 
 Old England's long, slim fmgers curled 
 Lovingly over the sultan's gold. 
 
 The sultan's soldiers snatched wee babes 
 From mothers' breasts and dashed their brains 
 Ferociously out on the frozen earth. 
 
 Austria, Germany, Russia, France, 
 
 Saw and were silent. The sultan sneered. 
 
 Where maids and matrons shrieking ran, 
 The sultan's hirelings struck them down 
 And ravished and slew them where they lay. 
 
 The word passed over the shuddering earth, 
 But never a nation raised its hand. 
 
 God! for a year of the brave old days 
 When Christian sword smote pagan lance, 
 Swung by the knight of the snow-white cross! 
 January, 1896. 
 
58 
 
 THE CORN-SILK CIGARETTE. 
 
 When autumn dries the held corn's fleece 
 
 And browns its wavin^;^ blade; 
 When all the trees in brilliant cloaks 
 
 Are handsomely arrayed, 
 And summer's parting messages 
 
 Inspire a vague regret — 
 'Tis then the rural youth enjoys 
 
 The corn-silk cigarette. 
 
 The brittle filler vents no fumes 
 
 To foul the fragrant air; 
 The yellow husk he wraps about 
 
 W^ith quick but loving care 
 Exhales no opiate odors — 
 
 No foreign scents, but yet 
 He smokes with all a sultan's pride 
 
 His corn-silk cigarette. 
 
 He has, perhaps, attained the calm 
 
 And serious age of ten, 
 Wherefore he sits and meditates 
 
 The destiny of m.en; 
 Betimes to younger comrades tells 
 
 Adventures he has met, 
 WTiat while for each he deftly rolls 
 
 A corn-silk cigarette. 
 
 He recollects a city boy 
 
 W^ho came to see the Grays, 
 
 And who (until he licked him) 
 Besought in various ways 
 
59 
 
 To prove the pale, ill-smelling tubes 
 He sent back home to get, 
 
 Were finer far than any form 
 Of granger cigarette. 
 
 Hov/ now, my pipe — what trick is this? 
 
 Your soothing savor's gone; 
 Is it eclipsed by subtler scents 
 
 From memory's garden drawn? 
 Ah! well, I grant you're ill-equipped 
 
 To pay the heavy debt 
 Incurred by your progenitor — 
 
 The corn-silk cigarette. 
 
60 
 
 IN THE OPEN AIR. 
 
 Awheel and away from the smoky town, 
 
 To the country-side, where the earth blooms fair; 
 From the fiery ways where the sun beats down, 
 
 For a bracing run in the open air. 
 
 Spring into the saddle with feverish haste, 
 
 Keen joy in the heart and a laugh for care; 
 
 Away where the branches are interlaced 
 With the glorious blue of the open air. 
 
 The soul grows lean in the narrow streets; 
 
 The spirit barkens to grim despair. 
 Awheel and away where the rarest sweets 
 
 Scent every breath of the open air. 
 
 The soul shall expand and the heart grow light 
 In the distant lane where the city's blare 
 
 Is lost like a phantom of vanished night. 
 Awheel and away to the open air! 
 
61 
 
 ADDRESS TO CEDAR RIVER. 
 
 Old Cedar, by your shady pools 
 
 Where minnows hide and pickerels follow, 
 A truant from the stifling schools, 
 
 As fancy free as thrush or swallow— 
 What happy hours have I reclined, 
 
 A shy, day-dreaming lad, to ponder 
 Upon the mysteries I might find 
 
 W^ithin the cloud-topped woods off yonder. 
 
 The s(iuirrel, darting up his tree, 
 
 I saw but dimly in my dreaming; 
 Your placid waters, rolling free, 
 
 A mighty sea were, to my seeming; 
 Each gold-lipped lily near your marge, 
 
 'Twixt wind and current lightly swaying, 
 Became a splendid royal barge. 
 
 Whereon were elves and pixies playing. 
 
 What giants lurked beside your brim. 
 
 Or met by chance in fierce contention 
 In that far forest, dark and grim, 
 
 I knew them well — but dared not mention. 
 For men are dull and credit naught 
 
 Not based upon material chances. 
 And e'en the puling babes have caught 
 
 The tendency to sneer at fancies. 
 
 When my boy comes of proper age, 
 
 He'll have no legend-killing teacher, 
 Nor any use for printed page, 
 
But you shall be his book and preacher. 
 So shall you, whispering where he plays, 
 
 With many a pleasing secret store him, 
 And lead his thoughts in flowery ways 
 
 As you do mine and did before him. 
 
68 
 
 THE SINGER SLEEPS. 
 
 Lines written on the death of Eugene Field. 
 
 The magic pen is rusting, and the page 
 
 Awaits a touch that it shall never know. 
 The gentle hands are folded on his breast; 
 
 The shadowed chamber somber silence keeps 
 r.ead soft without, speak low -the singer sleeps. 
 
 Fair fall what dreams illuminate his rest, 
 Tlie chosen friend of childhood and the sage, 
 
 Through all the tireless years that come and ^ 
 And in God's time be his the tender joy 
 To be awakened by a Lyttel Boy. 
 
 'O 
 
b4 
 
 POESY PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 From the earliest ages the poets' complaints 
 
 Of the harshness of fate have appealed to men's ears; 
 
 Old Homer, blind wanderer, first of the saints, 
 
 Had woes that come quavering down thnnigh the 
 years. 
 
 His patrons grew shy and decided in turn 
 
 That he might be all right — and undoubtedly was — 
 But so far as it seemed they liad money to burn, 
 
 They preferred to ignite it in some other cause. 
 
 Noll Goldsmith, whom Providence gave to the race 
 As an offset for Lissoy, laid low by a lord — 
 
 He sang like a seraph, but never gained grace 
 
 With the men in whose vaults British guineas were 
 stored. 
 
 Poor, dreaming, impractical, idolized Burns, 
 
 With the soul of a prince and the purse of a clod; 
 
 Confronted by want wheresoever he turns 
 And glad at the last to go under the sod! 
 
 Proud Poe, what a pitiful story was thine I 
 Most gifted of geniuses, jealousy drags 
 
 Your fame through the gutter (a vengeance malign) 
 Who wrote like a demigod — perished in rags! 
 
 Thank God we can turn in relief from the past, 
 
 With its bust of starved genius erect in each niche. 
 
 For the triumph of song is accomplished at last — 
 We have millions of poets, and all of 'em rich. 
 
^ 
 
 TO A MOUSE IN A TRAP. 
 
 Poor, trembling wretch, what sad mishap 
 Has brought you tight within my trap? 
 Had man's vile greed so clean bereft 
 Your bairnies that you'd stoop to theft? 
 Ah, who'd not lay his scruples by 
 That heard his babies' hungered cry? 
 
 Still, though to mercy I incline, 
 
 Must I the ends of law resign? 
 
 The crust you sought full well you knew 
 
 Belonged to me and not to you. 
 
 But — peace! I'll grant your frenzied plea, 
 
 Move back the bars and set yuu free. 
 
 If man one God-like spark can claim, 
 Then surely mercy is its name. 
 So, though you meant to steal my bread, 
 I'll spend no anger on your head, 
 But, warmed by gentle mercy's flame, 
 I'll let you go as poor's you came. 
 
 As poor's you came, yet richer far 
 By freedom's gift than now you are. 
 Your life's to me of little worth — 
 To you the grandest fact of earth; 
 So now, whilst I throw wide my door. 
 Begone, wee neighbor — sin no more! 
 
A SUriHER DAY. 
 
 Whilere the sun halh risen from the sea 
 
 The cock's alariun wiikes the sleeping farm. 
 
 The good wife riseth and the shiggish boys 
 
 Turn, grumbling mildly, from their downy couch, 
 
 15eyond the lane, snug under willows housed, 
 
 The heavy cattle stand and 'gin to graze; 
 
 The horses whinny shrilly in their stalls; 
 
 Mine old friend Tray stalks stiffly from his hut; 
 
 The eager swine proclaim the coming day 
 
 By calling loudly for their meed of corn. 
 
 The monarch sun, ere that he comes to view, 
 
 Hath paled and purpled all the eastern arch; 
 
 He drives the stars, night's sentinels, from the sky 
 
 And last their cpieen, fair Luna, doth depose. 
 
 Again, what while I drive tt)\vard the fiel.l, 
 
 Ariscth to the cloudless dome of blue 
 
 The ancient rooster's "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" 
 
 ^]■y wagon rumbles past the osage hedge, 
 
 And past the pond whose banks blue lilies fringe; 
 
 I note the drops of dew, which, like fair gems, 
 
 Do sparkle on their petals; and I see 
 
 Where, near the farther shore, a wild duck feeds. 
 
 A rising gentle breeze doth stir the flags 
 
 And toss with airy grace the corn's green plumes. 
 
 The sun's bright rays do heat the placid air 
 
 Until the world seems wrapped in waves of light. 
 
 Whiles to and fro my horses draw the plow 
 
 Betimes a rabbit darts across my path; 
 
 Or Master Squirrel cocks his pretty head 
 
67 
 
 And gazeth slyly on me ere he turns, 
 Evanishing as stilly as he came. 
 The sun sails upward to the middle day; 
 I crave a cooling flagon from the well, 
 When calls across the fields the welcome bell. 
 
 When wife and I and our two sturdy sons 
 Are seated at the plain, but bounteous board, 
 I ask God's grace upon our food, our toil — 
 Beseeching Him that He will give us peace 
 What while we live, and in the end will close 
 Our days in hope to bide with him for aye. 
 The noon time passes quickly and I go 
 Back 'midst the corn and labor till the eve. 
 When that the shadows slant athwart the earth, 
 And Sol doth sink into the western sea, 
 I leave the plow and turn my team toward home. 
 The evening meal dispatched, our boys depart 
 To call upon the neighbor youths hard by. 
 The stars return to watch throughout the night. 
 And she, their queen, resumes her wonted throne. 
 Thus, while she floods in radiance all the land, 
 My wife and I sit silent, hand in hand. 
 
68 
 
 SINNING AND REPENTING. 
 
 The dull routine of daily life, 
 It palls upon the best of us; 
 
 They find the narrow path too tame — 
 And jump it like the rest of us. 
 
 Old Adam's taint that stirs the blood 
 Demands a roaring hour of us; 
 
 We know it's wrong, but to deny 
 
 Its plea's beyond the power of us. 
 
 So off we flit, with happy hearts 
 To where inspiring spirits be; 
 
 We laugh and sing and swap old yarns 
 With e'er increasing gayety. 
 
 Braw Bobby weaves a fearsome tale 
 Of mysteries all new to us. 
 
 While Tommy's artful tongue unfolds 
 Full many a pleasing view to us. 
 
 'Twixt pipe and bowl our joy ascends. 
 But sad, O, sad's the fall of us, 
 
 When, wandering home at break of day, 
 Reproaches welcome all of us. 
 
 With tears and with a lecture keen 
 The good wife stirs the soul in us, 
 
 Till we resolve henceforth to tread 
 No path but that of holiness. 
 
69 
 
 NIGHT AND DAY. 
 
 Whenas my clay 
 Slumbereth from the day 
 My soul goes out where ransomed spirits play. 
 
 The clock within the tower 
 Tolls midnight's hour 
 As swift I fly past forest, field and flower. 
 
 Joy! — joy to flee 
 
 From that which burthens me, — 
 To be from all its ills and crosses free. 
 
 The weary day 
 Too long — too long doth stay, 
 But like love's hour the night doth speed away. 
 
70 
 
 THE BABIES' TANDEM TOUR. 
 
 Fair Helen holds the handle-bars — her happy daddy's 
 hands; 
 The laddie, perched behind her, it would do you 
 good to see. 
 Then off they go a-touring through many foreign lands 
 Upon the family tandem, viz.: your humble servant's 
 knee. 
 
 Through By-Low Town and Cradle Cove they leisurely 
 proceed; 
 They view the pleasant scenery, they hear the local 
 lore — 
 How giants thrill these quiet spots with many an awful 
 deed; 
 How fairies all the playthings of the sleeping babes 
 explore. 
 
 From time to time a robber band appears on either side; 
 
 In husky tones they hail us from a thicket or a glen. 
 And gracious me! you ought to see the fearful pace we 
 ride; 
 
 Not even Mr. Zimmerman could travel with us then. 
 
 The roads we know are always smooth, as roads should 
 always be, 
 The places that we visit we have visited before; 
 But that is no objection, as you easily could see, 
 
 If you should hear the tandem team appeal to me 
 for more. 
 
71 
 
 When we have wheeled past villages and cottages and 
 farms, 
 We stop at last beside a fence to watch some funny 
 sheep; 
 Then Paul's eyes close and he falls off into his mother's 
 arms, 
 While Helen drops the handle-bars and cuddles up 
 to sleep. 
 
73 
 
 AN HOUR OF REST. 
 
 The autumn chill is on the breath of morning; 
 
 The autumn winds sweep gustily along; 
 Too soon within the forest's gay adorning 
 
 Will rise the lingering singer's farewell song. 
 
 The goldenrod is fading from the highways; 
 
 The latest woodland blossoms disappear; 
 Dead leaves drift down and strew the rural byways; 
 
 The hush of Nature's hour of rest is here. 
 
 An hour of rest and quiet; of reflection; 
 
 Of pure content with labors nobly done; 
 Of gratefulness and solemn introspection, 
 
 While through Time's glass the last sands slowly 
 run. 
 
 Old age comes so to them that in life's morning 
 With willing hearts heed rigid Duty's call; 
 
 God grants with love, their peaceful homes adorning, 
 An hour of rest before the end of all. 
 
73 
 
 THE ARGOSIES OF JUNE. 
 
 Books lose their pleasing power 
 When fairer scenes invite; 
 
 I toast June's sweetest flower— 
 The graduate in white. 
 
 Upon the toiling myriads 
 
 I calmly turn my back, 
 To drink his honeyed periods— 
 
 The graduate in black. 
 
 Each bears a cure unfailing 
 
 For all our earthly ills; 
 Each " argosy goes sailing "— 
 
 And father pays the bills. 
 
 Their mother sits a-smiling, 
 
 And little brother grins 
 As each, with words beguiling, 
 
 The " broader life " begins; 
 
 While I sit back a-dreaming 
 
 Of other happy days, 
 When other children, beaming, 
 
 Received the public's praise. 
 
 Wherever have they vanished— 
 To what untoward clime?— 
 
 By what misfortune banished. 
 
 Who should have shone sublime? 
 
 I fear that Fate, unfeeling. 
 
 Has forced some to the wall, 
 
Has scoffed at their appealing 
 And gloried in their fall; 
 
 That many a bold beginner 
 
 In life's eventful ride 
 Has made a hasty dinner 
 
 For the hideous monster, Pride; 
 
 That others, gayly faring 
 
 With Pleasure, as they rode. 
 
 Have found him change his bearing- 
 No longer lead, but goad. 
 
 Some, mayhap, let Ambition 
 Deceive more cautious Fear 
 
 And shriveled by attrition 
 With sterner bodies near. 
 
 Ah! well, there's no use grieving 
 Before dark days come in — 
 
 Time brings his undeceiving 
 Whether you lose or win. 
 
 So, then, away out yonder, 
 Beyond the sunset land, 
 
 Let each one gladly wander 
 With Fancy, hand in hand. 
 1806— June. 
 
75 
 
 THE MAN WHO WILL. 
 
 Though lowly born and humbly bred 
 
 In Poverty's dominion, 
 The man who will may rear his head- 
 Onward and upward may he tread, 
 
 Despite adverse opinion. 
 
 If tricksy Fortune seem to smile 
 
 On many another brighter, 
 The man on whom she spends no wile 
 Should quicklier pass each weary mile- 
 His knapsack's all the lighter. 
 
 With naught to woo his steadfast will 
 Astray from his ambition, 
 
 Sooner should he ascend the hill, 
 
 Prepared to win and ably fill 
 The coveted position. 
 
 Let none lament that Fate declined 
 
 With plenteous gifts to store him; 
 The man who will may leave behind 
 The clay he was and some time find 
 Life's joyance spread before him. 
 
76 
 
 POVERTY'S CHILDREN. 
 
 Some time, when the Wandering Jew comes around, 
 
 We shall borrow a part of his treasures of gold; 
 
 Then we'll charter the Charity, fairest of ships, 
 
 And set off on the longest and rarest of trips. 
 
 When we've crowded the uttermost nooks in the hold 
 
 With the daintiest sweets to be anywhere found. 
 
 And the loveliest toys that the world can afford. 
 
 We shall take all of Poverty's children aboard. 
 
 Then when breezes blow fairly and breezes blow strong, 
 
 We shall sail down to sea with a jolly old song. 
 
 O, the babes of the poor, with the sorrowful eyes. 
 
 Where the fingers of Want have imprinted their sign — 
 
 I know what wee playthings you long for and lack; 
 
 How the little eyes see and the little hearts crave; 
 
 And I know how sad tears wet the mother's pale cheeks 
 
 While she stills on her bosom the little one's sighs. 
 
 Be patient, O children, be patient and brave — 
 
 God loves you — God loves you. And some time, my 
 
 dears. 
 Some time, when we've waited through all the long 
 
 years — 
 When we've patiently waited in hunger and cold, 
 He will send us the Jew with the treasures of gold. 
 
77 
 
 THE QLOOriY DAY. 
 
 Sort of a shivery, showery day; 
 
 No occasion to smile — 
 There is nothing worth while; 
 
 Sky lowers down in a smothery way. 
 
 People all ugly, or seemingly so; 
 
 Make talk to your neighbor 
 
 And get for your labor 
 A sulky, short " yes," or a short, sulky " no." 
 
 Kind of a day when you sit and feel blue. 
 While suspicions creep in 
 Of your friends or your kin, 
 
 Or of anyone else who is probably true. 
 
 But, somehow or other, your thoughts wander off 
 To a pleasant old time 
 When the world ran in rhyme. 
 
 And you lose your desire to cavil or scoff. 
 
 You think of the lassie you won for a bride, 
 And the laughter and tears 
 Of the subsequent years, 
 
 When— hallo! there, it seems to be brighter outside! 
 
 The clouds of despondency speedily part; 
 Your suspicions take flight — 
 The old world is all right!— 
 
 For the sunshine of love is at work in your heart. 
 
78 
 
 TIHE, THE PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Have done with idle lamentations — 
 This rule holds true of men and nations: 
 
 For all the ills that they endure, 
 Until the last, Time has a cure; 
 
 And when the last the spirit humbles, 
 Nor man nor nation ever grumbles. 
 
79 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Divine the gift the Father last bestowed — 
 Hope's beacon bright that lightens all life's road. 
 
 In every grief its gentle ray descends, 
 For every bitter sorrow makes amends; 
 
 Uplifts the soul and points the forward way, 
 Where Peace awaits to crown a better day. 
 
 The homeless wretch that on the moorland lies 
 And shrinks abashed from curious human eyes, 
 
 His vision seeks the vaulted fields afar, 
 And he reads hope in yon benignant star. 
 
 Wherever men, beneath oppression's rod, 
 With bleeding hearts reproach a passive God, 
 
 He bids them gaze upon the beacon fair 
 And read the inspired message written there: 
 
 "On! on! and ever on!" The sinking soul 
 Regains its strength and seeks again the goal. 
 
 Doubt's shadow fades, fears vanish, cares depart 
 When seraph Hope renews the fainting heart. 
 
 Shine on, O Star, a boon to mortal sight, 
 Hope's promise tracing on the walls of night; 
 
 Still lead us on— our stumbling footsteps guide, 
 Until at last we reach the Father's side. 
 
80 
 
 THE END OF IT ALL, 
 
 Ah! the end of it all— 
 
 Of this life that we live; 
 Of the blows that we get 
 
 And the blows that we give; 
 Of the joys and the griefs 
 
 That to each of us fall — 
 Blind humanity dreams 
 
 Of the end of it all. 
 
 The lover who yearns 
 
 For afifection denied; 
 The prince in his hall 
 
 And the pauper outside; 
 The parent whose darling 
 
 Lies under the pall- 
 Each mournfully dreams 
 
 Of the end of it all. 
 
 Since God in His love 
 
 For His children denies 
 This glimpse of the end 
 
 To humanity's eyes, 
 Let each bravely answer 
 
 Life's manifest call, 
 And rely on the Lord 
 
 For the end of it all. 
 
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