t WtM BI WH»a WI HIW t WailW HIBW tM IWi»HtKHi n iiillHtl 
 
Bookii^in^-- 
 Copyright N^-L^-O^^ - 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
/ 
 
DRIFTWOOD 
 
 BY 
 
 RUSSELL WHITCOMB 
 
 ^^RUSS RUSCOW 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 The Gorham Press 
 1906 
 
Copyright 1906 by RusSEi^L Whitcomb 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 L5BRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two CoKiec Received 
 
 DF.C 14 5 906 
 
 ■ /rxOowright Entry 
 CLASS A XXC, No. 
 COPY B. 
 
 
 Many of the verses in this volume appeared origin- 
 ally in The New York Times, Suburban Life, The 
 Christian Intelligencer, The Presbyterian Standard, 
 The Haidem Argus, The New Jersey Standard, The 
 Editor, The Oracle, and The National Sportsman. 
 The author desires to thank the editors of these 
 periodicals for their courteous permission to reprint 
 these verses in this form. 
 
 The Gorham Press, Boston 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 Driftwood ...... 7 
 
 Sunrise at Sea 
 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 The White and the Red 
 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 The Moon . 
 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 My Garden Sleeps 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Sunset 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Reflection 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 The Old Garden . 
 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 The Coming of Winter 
 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 By the Fire 
 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 The Blizzard 
 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 Farewell Old Year 
 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 Hail to the New Year 
 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 Cloud Scamps 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 Moods 
 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 The Rose . 
 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 Deceit 
 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 The Pictures in the Pan 
 
 
 
 
 15 
 
 The Letter . 
 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Spring Fever 
 
 
 
 
 18 
 
 Seed Sowing 
 
 
 
 
 18 
 
 Life . 
 
 
 
 
 19 
 
 Hail to Spring 
 
 
 
 
 20 
 
 Summer Flowers 
 
 
 
 
 20 
 
 Alone 
 
 
 
 
 20 
 
 On the Threshhold 
 
 
 
 
 20 
 
 Love-Light 
 
 
 
 
 21 
 
 In the Crucible 
 
 
 
 
 22 
 
 Sunset Dreams 
 
 
 
 
 22 
 
Birthdays 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 The Whisperings of the Muses 
 
 
 23 
 
 Caution .... 
 
 
 24 
 
 Where Love is Trtie 
 
 
 
 24 
 
 A Question 
 
 
 
 26 
 
 Harriette 
 
 
 
 26 
 
 Southern Eyes 
 
 
 
 27 
 
 A Corner of the Library 
 
 
 
 28 
 
 At Grandmother's House 
 
 
 
 30 
 
 My First Pockets 
 
 
 
 31 
 
 When Life was all Fun 
 
 
 
 33 
 
 Boyhood Sports 
 
 
 
 34 
 
 Golden Fruit 
 
 
 
 34 
 
 Happy Tears 
 
 
 
 36 
 
 The Light House 
 
 
 
 36 
 
 A Romance of the Rocks 
 
 
 
 37 
 
 The Cry of Russia 
 
 
 
 38 
 
 Retribution 
 
 
 
 38 
 
 The Sign in the Sky 
 
 
 
 39 
 
 The Call of the Stars 
 
 
 
 39 
 
 Courage 
 
 
 
 41 
 
 The Call 
 
 
 
 42 
 
 Faith 
 
 
 
 43 
 
 Black and White 
 
 
 
 43 
 
 At Night .... 
 
 
 
 44 
 
 The Reason 
 
 
 
 44 
 
 Come on Boys 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 The Awakening . 
 
 
 
 46 
 
 'Twas ever Thus 
 
 
 
 46 
 
 The Re-Incarnation of Youth 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 School Days 
 
 
 
 48 
 
 Friendship 
 
 
 
 49 
 
This Driftwood burns with many hues, 
 The somber, and the brighter : 
 The deep tones will appeal to some. 
 While others like the Hghter. 
 
DRIFTWOOD 
 
 When autumnal gales first ravage, 
 
 With the East-wind's awesome screech, 
 
 And when spent, leave strewn the wreckage 
 
 Along the chastened beach, 
 
 It is then I gather drift-wood 
 
 For the spacious chimney fire, 
 
 That the ever-changing colors, 
 
 May my sleeping Muse inspire. 
 
 And the songs my Muse will whisper 
 Are too sweet to pen or tell, 
 While I watch the burning embers. 
 Held entranced by mystic spell. 
 There can never be a magnet 
 That will draw my Muse to me, 
 Like the burning of the drift-wood, 
 That I gather from the sea. 
 
 SUNRISE AT SEA 
 
 The clouds are cold with a leaden grey. 
 Where they meet the horizon far away, 
 Then soft, fair tints of the coming dawn. 
 Melt the cold grey into a delicate fawn, 
 While fingers of light, so soft and faint. 
 Begin at the edge of the clouds to paint. 
 
 Shade by shade the colors are spread, 
 
 From deUcate pink to gorgeous red, 
 
 And the artist's touch grows firm and bold, 
 
 As he floods the sky with a burning gold. 
 
 Then the ocean's swept with the sunhght free, 
 
 As the Day- King leaps from the waves of the sea. 
 
THE WHITE AND THE RED 
 
 American Beauty, 
 So fair to the eye, 
 Thou hast not a rival 
 'Neath all the blue sky. 
 When by the pure Lily 
 You lift your proud head, 
 All nature bows down 
 To the White and the Red. 
 
 American Beauty 
 And Lily so fair, 
 With thy contrasting glory. 
 What else can compare? 
 In the realm of fair flowers 
 On sunbeams you're fed. 
 As you bend to the breezes : 
 The White and the Red. 
 
 American Beauty, 
 You grace every fete, 
 And Lily you rest. 
 On the altar sedate. 
 Bring cheer to the living. 
 And watch o'er the dead, 
 Sweet Rose and pure Lily : 
 The White and the Red. 
 
 THE MOON 
 
 Silvery moon, thy radiance bright, 
 Bathing the scene in a ghostly Hght, 
 Makes a sweet fairyland out of the night. 
 Where lovers may dream to their hearts delight. 
 
MY GARDEN SLEEPS 
 
 In my garden, by the window, 
 Where the fairest posies grow. 
 There's no blossom, — not a flower, — 
 Where the roses, sweet, did blow. 
 
 All the bushes and the branches. 
 Now, are hung with crystals bright, 
 And the flower-beds and pathways, 
 Are enwrapped in snow-drifts white. 
 
 It is winter in my garden, 
 And all flora is asleep, 
 While I wait the resurrection 
 When the buds again will peep. 
 
 Then I'll see my friends returning, 
 With the first, fond flush of spring. 
 And I'll welcome each fair blossom, 
 Which the summer-time shall bring. 
 
 SUNSET 
 
 The long, deep seat on the stair. 
 In the arch of the window bow, 
 
 Is the place I love at the close of day 
 When the sun to its rest must go. 
 
 REFLECTION 
 
 As a lake's calm surface mirrors, 
 The mountain's rugg^ed side, 
 
 Kind deeds become reflected 
 In a world that's far and wide. 
 
THE OLD GARDEN 
 
 Beyond the hedge of box, 
 
 The old-time flower still grows, 
 
 In Grandma's quaint, trim garden, 
 With stately paths and rows. 
 
 There's phlox and red geranium, 
 The tall sun-flower, that blows 
 
 In the breeze that sweeps the garden, 
 With a kiss for each tea-rose. 
 
 THE COMING OF WINTER 
 
 Snow-flakes on the window pane, 
 Making weird, fantastic forms. 
 
 Fleecy drifts of downy white, 
 
 Scattered o'er the once green lawns. 
 
 BY THE FIRE 
 
 When the feathery flakes of the first falling snow, 
 In lacy mantilla enfold the bare trees, 
 
 I love to draw close to the bright, burning log, 
 And dream, while my book lightly falls on my 
 knees. 
 
 10 
 
THE BUZZARD 
 
 Upon the window ledge, banked high, 
 The snow drifts deep to shut us in. 
 
 There's wood a burning on the hearth, 
 And plenty more piled in the bin. 
 
 There's pork in briny pickle packed, 
 And vegetables for a year. 
 
 Lay siege, Old Boreas, Lay siege. 
 The cider barrel's full of cheer. 
 
 FAREWELL OLD YEAR 
 
 The Christmas feast of joyous cheer, 
 Now, fades into the fond New Year. 
 
 Farewell, Old Year, with memories dear. 
 Your bright successor now is here. 
 
 New hope springs up to combat fear. 
 New stars to lead us, now appear. 
 
 HAIL TO THE NEW YEAR 
 
 The King, Old Year, is dead. 
 Long live. New Year, the King. 
 Our friendships old, we keep, 
 While new ones cherishing. 
 To each a greeting now we send, 
 "A year of blessing to the end." 
 
 11 
 
CLOUD SCAMPvS 
 
 A Lullaby 
 
 The little clouds chase 'cross the sky so high. 
 Way, far up above where the birds can fly, 
 And no one can tell what they're doing there, 
 Not even Grandma, in her rocking chair, 
 For, though she has watched them through many 
 
 a year. 
 She can tell you no more than my own baby dear ; 
 But still they go scampering on toward the sun, 
 Each trying to beat in the race that they run. 
 
 In winter, in summer, in spring, and in fall, 
 They vie with each other, the big and the small. 
 They change about colors, to white, pink or gray, 
 And take on strange shapes, both fantastic and 
 
 gay: 
 They form into pictures of animals wild, 
 To frighten each other, as well as my child. 
 Then turn into beautiful faces so fair, 
 You might take them for angels, with bright gol- 
 den hair. 
 
 Then, while we sit watching, they cover the sun, 
 So with him you'll play peek-a-boo, my pretty one, 
 But at night they keep closer together, my dear, 
 Because of their love, or perhaps of some fear : 
 So, sleep, Httle baby, and cuddle your head. 
 While mother is rocking your snug Httle bed, 
 For the "Cloud Scamps" which play all day in 
 
 the sky, 
 Are snuggling up now, just like baby and I. 
 
 12 
 
MOODS 
 
 The music softly drifting through the room, 
 Depressed my mind and wrapped my soul in 
 
 gloom ; 
 Then, came a change in sweet and plaintive notes, 
 That filled my heart, anew, with surest hopes. 
 
 At night I heard the croaking of a frog, 
 And all the course of life seemed banked with fog ; 
 But, with the dawn there came the robin's song, 
 And new-born courage made my heart grow 
 
 strong. 
 
 I lost the love of one both false and fair. 
 At which my heart was plunged in deep despair ; 
 I found the love of one both true and tried, 
 Then, I could see, 'twas best mv first love died. 
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 A garden fair I wandered through. 
 
 Radiant with Nature's blushing blooms 
 
 The changing colors charmed my eye. 
 As tapestries from Gobelin's looms. 
 
 One royal rose, of blood-red hue, 
 Of graceful shape and perfect form, 
 
 Held me entranced, as if alive. 
 
 And dreaming in the sunshine, warm. 
 
 I reached and touched its slender stem 
 And drew it near me, just to smell 
 
 The odor which I knew it gave. 
 When, lo, its petals shook and fell. 
 
 13 
 
With startled shudder I withdrew 
 
 The hand that spoiled its form so fair; 
 
 Then looked aghast at what I'd done 
 And wished I'd left it standing there. 
 
 In life 'tis ever thus ; we find 
 
 That by some thoughtless act, or deed, 
 We shatter hopes, or crush poor hearts, 
 
 Our curiosity to feed. 
 
 The hardest test that God gave Man 
 Was that the apple should remain 
 
 Upon the tree where it had grown. 
 
 And plucking it brought naught but pain. 
 
 DECEIT 
 
 Deceit is like the swish and swash 
 
 Of the ocean's surf, on a wind swept shore, 
 
 Which shifts the sands and traces forms, 
 That soon are lost and seen no more. 
 
 With arching waves and cresting caps. 
 And a rise and fall that is never sure. 
 
 It lays the marks of the ebbing tide, 
 
 On a shifting sand, that will not endure. 
 
 14 
 
THE PICTURES IN THE PANE 
 
 In the window pane, now, purpled 
 By the sunlight of long years. 
 
 There appear some old-time visions, 
 That my boyish heart reveres. 
 
 All alone its secret holding, 
 
 I am often lost in dreams, 
 While I watch some fairy picture, 
 
 As with brilliancy it gleams. 
 
 And the purple tints illumine 
 All the changing pictures there, 
 
 With a mystic glow resplendent, 
 That makes every creature fair. 
 
 For within my magic mirror, 
 
 I behold occasions gay. 
 In the days now lost in history. 
 
 Such as Grandma's wedding-day. 
 
 There I watch the guests walk stately 
 Through the old-time minuet. 
 
 Or can see them gayly dancing 
 In the lanciers, set by set. 
 
 And again I see the children. 
 
 Who were young long years ago. 
 
 As they danced at Christmas parties. 
 Moving lightly to and fro. 
 
 There is Papa, scarcely my age, 
 And my Aunty, but a child, 
 
 There is Uncle, full of mischief. 
 
 Cutting capers, strange and wild. 
 
 15 
 
And my Grandpa, at a table, 
 
 Much absorbed in playing chess, 
 
 While dear Grandma smiles serenely, 
 In her quaint, old-fashioned dress. 
 
 And my secret window-pictures. 
 Keep me gazing at the pane, 
 
 For if once I look behind me, 
 I'll not see them there again. 
 
 I will tell no one about them, 
 For I early came to know. 
 
 That as soon as others sought them. 
 They would fade and quickly go. 
 
 So I dream and see my visions 
 In the purple window pane, 
 
 While the children often wonder 
 What I'm watching, down the lane. 
 
 THE LETTER 
 
 I'm kept in to write a letter to my "Aunty, " 
 And I want to write it, — but it's awful hard 
 
 To think how to spell the words I use, correctly, 
 When the other boys are playing in our yard. 
 
 But Mamma says, I can go out playing, later, 
 If I write a nice long letter to my aunt. 
 
 But no matter what I think of, nice to tell her. 
 When it comes to spelHng words, I simply can't. 
 
 For my thoughts are all about the other fellows. 
 Who are having bully fun, out in the yard, 
 
 While for me, it's "stay in doors and write to 
 Aunty," 
 When I'd rather send a pretty postal-card. 
 
 16 
 
So I'm going to write my "Aunty" all about it, 
 And just tell her that I do not think it's fair, 
 
 For, although I love her just as much as ever, 
 I'd a great-deal rather be out playing, there. 
 
 vSo she must excuse all my mistakes in spelling, 
 
 And that, if the writing is not very good, 
 She must just remember that my friends are play- 
 ing 
 A fine game, which we have named "Bold- 
 Robin-Hood." 
 
 And the boys say, I'm the Prince, who's held a 
 captive, 
 Locked within the cold and dismal fortress tower, 
 And that they, my comrades bold, have come to 
 save me. 
 And will surelv have me out within an hour. 
 
 vSo I'll play that "Aunty" is my noble Princess, 
 Who is waiting in my Castle till I come. 
 
 Bringing with me spoils-of-war, and richest jewels. 
 That in value represent a mighty sum. 
 
 And I'll write and tell her, soon, I'll bring the 
 treasures. 
 That I've won in bloody battles, fierce and long, 
 And I'll urge her not to doubt my safe home-com- 
 ing, 
 For, my men are warriors, loyal, brave, and 
 strong. 
 
 17 
 
SPRING FEVER 
 
 When the Spring has come a-budding, 
 And we boys feel full of "stunts," 
 
 With our poles we vault the brooklet, 
 Or, we go on "Indian hunts." 
 
 Then upon the bridge sit watching, 
 All the "autos," racing by, 
 
 While we talk about "vacation," 
 In the Summer, with a sigh. 
 
 For it seems a long time waiting, 
 Till the school days all are done. 
 
 In the Spring we hate our lessons, 
 And we want to "just have fun. " 
 
 'Course we have our tops and marbles, 
 But as soon as we're at play, 
 
 Goes the school-bell jangle, jangle, 
 Just to call us all away. 
 
 Still, we'll have to grin and bear it, 
 For the school-year's nearly done. 
 
 And vacation-time's a-coming, 
 When we'll have no end of fun. 
 
 SEED SOWING 
 
 When you were a little boy. 
 
 Once, you found a source of joy. 
 
 In a garden that was all your "very own;" 
 
 Where sweet flowers to raise you tried, 
 
 Till they wilted, drooped, and died. 
 
 And with weeds that garden soon was overgrown. 
 
 18 
 
And you thought you'd fill your town, 
 
 With the fame of your renown, 
 
 As a wonder-worker, — from results thus shown ; 
 
 But your flowers would fail to blow, 
 
 And your seedlings scarce would grow. 
 
 Till, with weeds that garden all was overgrown. 
 
 You would teach the World, to do 
 Better things because of you. 
 In the days you made that garden, "all alone;" 
 But, by failures often made. 
 Soon, you learned you must have aid. 
 Lest Life's garden should with weeds be over- 
 grown. 
 
 LIFE 
 
 When the days reel off with a swing and go, 
 
 For your mind is free, while your heart's aglow, 
 
 And your body's strong, 
 
 And no walk seems long : — 
 
 Then you're young, whether sixteen or sixty. 
 
 When the hours seem longer than days of old ; 
 
 For your heart is sad, while the World looks cold, 
 
 And your bones all ache, 
 
 And you nostrums take: — 
 
 Then you're old, whether eighteen or eighty. 
 
 It is not the years that make youth or age. 
 
 But the record you've kept on life's long page. 
 
 'Tis the things you've done, 
 
 As the months have run, 
 
 In your life, whether nineteen or ninety. 
 
 19 
 
HAIL TO SPRING 
 
 New hope grows strong within each breast, 
 
 And Cupid cannot be suppressed, 
 
 As all cry, "Hail to Spring." 
 
 The blushing brides will now appear, 
 
 The festal gay, the cup of cheer, 
 
 And wedding bells will ring. 
 
 SUMMER SHOWERS 
 
 The sweet scented breath of the summer is blown 
 In my face. 'Tis a forecast of showers. 
 
 I welcome this sign, for it means a new life, 
 To the thirsty and sun-beaten flowers. 
 
 ALONE 
 
 Above the stars, beyond the blue, 
 My straining eyes e'er seek for you. 
 Yet, all my search of sky and space, 
 Reveals no glimpse of your dear face. 
 
 But, in my dreams I'm with you, there. 
 Where all is bright and wondrous fair. 
 Then, when I wake, the seeds are sown 
 Of wild despair, — for I'm alone. 
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 
 
 Her love-lit eye my heart enthralls, 
 
 The World dissolves and is no more, 
 
 My brain is numbed, my thoughts are chained, 
 
 My lips are dumb as ne'er before. 
 
 20 
 
Where confidence should lead me on, 
 And bounding heart would bid me speak, 
 I stand embarassed, seeing there 
 The world-wide love for which I seek. 
 
 'Though 'tis the time to say good-night, 
 It is the crisis in my life. 
 Dare I proclaim my love and say, 
 "Beloved, will you be my wife?" 
 
 LOVK-LIGHT 
 
 In the glimmering stream of soft light from the 
 moon. 
 
 O'er the lake comes a memory sweet. 
 To awake a love-song from the dear days of youth, 
 
 Which I sang as I lay at her feet. 
 
 Once again I recall that still night in July, 
 
 As it were, just a fond yesterday ; 
 But the far-away moon is no longer alive, . 
 
 With its love-light all faded away. 
 
 And I think of the days when my heart, free from 
 care. 
 
 Was all love, and my life was a dream ; 
 Yet, the love-light of Hfe, — faded, as in the moon,— 
 
 On my heart still reflects its soft gleam. 
 
 So I sing as of old, the sweet songs of a love. 
 That will constant remain, every day, 
 
 For the fires that then burned are still smouldering 
 now, 
 And I know that they will be, alway. 
 
 21 
 
IN THE CRUCIBLE 
 
 Out of the moonlight came youthful love, 
 Ardent to claim the opportunity, 
 And burned he wildly every torch he held. 
 To fire response in his affinity. 
 
 But Virtue, proud, a frigid breath exhaled, 
 To chill the fires enkindled by Love's flame. 
 A cool, calm sense enwrapt the lover's minds, 
 And rampant thoughts fled far, for very shame. 
 
 And when beneath the Sun they met again, 
 Full conscious of a glorious victory, 
 The silent Moon no longer cast the spell, 
 And love adored his true affinity. 
 
 SUNSET DREAMS 
 
 Out of a blood-bathed sunset sky. 
 
 Flashed to my heart's heart a wild sweet dream, 
 
 Wildest of thoughts, and all unreal. 
 
 Brought to me, watching, on one bright beam. 
 
 Dreaming, I saw the sun move down. 
 Lower and lower it sank to rest. 
 And, while it peeped from yonder hill. 
 Dreamland was lit by the flaming West. 
 
 Then, in the silence came a song. 
 Sweetly, and fondly it sang to me. 
 While I inscribed it in my heart, 
 That I might sing it, again, to thee. 
 
 Love, burning love— the clouds portrayed, 
 Symphonies tuned to a minor key, 
 But, with the flagging of those fires. 
 Came back, once more, all my doubts to me. 
 
 22 
 
BIRTHDAYS 
 
 Year after year rolls on its way, 
 And time cannot be stayed one day, 
 But while new years come in our door, 
 We'll count them not for less, nor more. 
 
 For what our age by history sung. 
 We'll ne'er be old with hearts still young, 
 And Youth will long maintain its hold, 
 On those whom years cannot make old. 
 
 Sanguine and happy, day by day, 
 Laughing the passing years away. 
 Singing and loving, turn each page. 
 Leading into a sweet old age. 
 
 THE WHISPERINGS OF THE MUSES 
 
 Should your Muse begin to whisper, 
 
 Words of music in your ear. 
 
 Do not wait, but write it quickly. 
 
 When the inspiration's clear; 
 
 For your Muse will cease inspiring, 
 
 If you fail to hear the song, 
 
 When it comes to charm and cheer you ; 
 
 Be it short, or be it long. 
 
 There are songs, that down the ages, 
 
 Still would echo sweet and clear. 
 
 Had the whisperings of the Muses, 
 
 Been retained by those who hear. 
 
 23 
 
CAUTION 
 
 Letter-writing is an art, 
 
 Which plays a most important part ' 
 
 In the affairs that touch the heart : 
 
 So careful be, lest you should start 
 
 Some flame, which kindled may impart 
 
 More pain than pleasure, and a dart 
 
 Become, before 'tis dead. 
 
 WHERE LOVE IS TRUE 
 
 My Muse bids me sing a strange love song. 
 Not of love in a vine-covered bower, 
 Nor beneath the deep shade of the willows, 
 Nor of lovers in old castle tower. 
 
 No royal rose garden environs 
 The love which my Muse bids me tell, 
 No moon shines on romancing sweethearts, 
 No stars cast about them their spell. 
 
 'Tis not love in an ivy-twined cottage. 
 Nor on yachts that sail calm summer seas. 
 Nor is it of laddie and lassie 
 As they hark' to the hum of the bees. 
 
 'Tis the love of Pat Murphy and MolHe, 
 The laborer's wife, I must write. 
 As she cooks the plain meal in the evening. 
 As the day fades away into night. 
 
 Through the day she has scrubbed at her wash- 
 ing, 
 While her baby lies near on the bed, 
 Now she sings while she watches the coffee, 
 And carefully toasts the dry bread 
 
 24 
 
She sings, for her man now is coming 
 To give her his smile of good cheer, 
 As he has at the end of the day's work, 
 Every night without fail through the year. 
 
 "Ah, shure, 'tis me own self same darUn', " 
 Calls his voice as he opens the door, 
 "A cooking me supper, as usual, 
 There ne'er was the like born before. 
 
 "Shure, must ye forever be workin'. 
 Can't ye wait till I'm home, 'fore ye start? 
 Shure, two hands make Hght work, me darlin, 
 An' on wash days I'd help wid a part. 
 
 "I could fix up the coffee an' toast, shure, 
 I'd lay on the dishes an' cloth, 
 And while you was restin' a bit, dear, 
 I'd dip out the stew, or the broth. " 
 
 ' ' Oh, go on wid yer joking, Pat darlin,' 
 Take ye coat off an' thin sit ye down. 
 Did ye not hear me singing so happy, 
 'Cause I knowed that ye'd soon be around? 
 
 "D'yer think I'd be happy not workin'? 
 
 And ye, wid yer back nearly broke, 
 
 A diggin' all day fer yer wages. 
 
 That might turn me head — such a joke. " 
 
 "Well kiss me then, MolHe, me sweetheart; 
 Each day, shure, I'm lovin' ye more. 
 For though there may be other women, 
 There ne'er was one like you, before. " 
 
 25 
 
A QUESTION 
 
 When the love that your youth so readily gave, 
 Seems a phantom of days that are past, 
 You wonder, if ever you could love again, 
 As you did; and if so — would it last? 
 
 As you think, you recall happy days that have 
 
 been, 
 Sweet moments of bliss, long since gone, 
 While you bring back each scene from the long, 
 
 long ago. 
 From the days when your young love was bom. 
 
 Can it ever return, that passion of old, 
 Which your earliest sweetheart inspired? 
 Will your heart, again, beat as it did in those days, 
 When to love and be loved, you aspired. 
 
 HARRIETTE 
 
 Sweet Harriette, your winning smile, 
 Your soulful eye, your dainty grace. 
 Those features delicate, refined, 
 With golden curls about your face. 
 All charm me 'till I seem to see 
 Some goddess of an ancient race. 
 
 No Celtic princess, Teuton bride, 
 Fair queen of Egypt, Rome or Gaul, 
 Nor beauty of the Eastern World, 
 Who ruled a court, or graced a ball, 
 Could rival you in graces rare. 
 For you, fair one, outshine them all. 
 
 In early days when Indian tribes 
 Did roam this country of the free. 
 
 26 
 
You surely would have been enthroned 
 In wigwam 'neath some sacred tree, 
 Or by the Norsemen, on the shore, 
 To rule the Vikings of the sea. 
 
 Yet in our midst you move about. 
 
 At festal fete, or home time hour, 
 
 A simple maid of charming mien, 
 
 Your virtues rich, a royal dower, 
 
 'Midst free men of this land, their Queen, 
 
 Unconscious of your mighty power. 
 
 SOUTHERN EYES 
 
 To shoot, I went to Southern wilds. 
 
 Seeking both rest and game : 
 I met a mountain maiden fair. 
 
 No Northern will could tame. 
 
 Do you know what it is to fall in love 
 
 With a luscious pair of eyes, 
 The kind that sparkle and bum and snap, 
 
 In the light of the vSouthem skies : 
 
 Where passion and love live side by side. 
 
 While innocence flashes its fire, 
 And longing and sympathy both hold sway, 
 
 Yet virtue controls desire? 
 
 Do you know what it is to be held entranced 
 
 By a soul such eyes reflect? 
 If your cold heart never has thus been stirred, 
 
 You have little in life to expect. 
 
 Bum on and flash ye eyes of black, 
 Though you break my heart in play ; 
 
 I'd rather, than live a whole life through, 
 Be thy martyr of this sweet day. 
 
 27 
 
A CORNER OF THE LIBRARY 
 
 There's a comer of my library 
 
 Where I often Uke to go, 
 To take down some faded volume, 
 
 From a worn and age-stained row. 
 
 They are books around which cluster 
 Many memories that are dear, 
 
 For they were my boyhood treasures. 
 That I've had for many-a-year. 
 
 There are books that " Mother " gave me. 
 
 In her writing, they're inscribed 
 " To a loving son, from Mother." 
 
 Sweetest mem'ries there abide. 
 
 There are, also, books from " Father," 
 To " his boy," with greetings fond, 
 
 Which bring back those days of fishing 
 With " My daddy," in some pond. 
 
 There are books from brothers, sisters, 
 And they each recall some thought 
 
 Of the days when home was perfect, 
 With a Peace that can't be bought. 
 
 There are Christmas books from fellows 
 That I used to " chum " with, then, 
 
 And one volume from " my sweetheart," 
 When my years were six-and-ten. 
 
 The inscription, in this treasure, 
 
 Is too sacred to write down, 
 For, though life our ways has parted, 
 
 I'd regret to make her frown. 
 
 28 
 
Twenty years, 'tis since I saw her, 
 
 And I've never married yet. 
 It was but the love of boyhood, 
 
 Yet, a love I'll ne'er forget. 
 
 As I turn those leaves devoutly, 
 
 I can feel my heart beat fast 
 With the love of " sixteen summers." 
 
 Though, so many years have paSvSed. 
 
 And I dream of her, as being, 
 Just the same as she was then, 
 
 While I wish that I might see her, 
 And might tell her, once again. 
 
 What I told her, with such ardor, — 
 While I blushed as if a girl, — 
 
 When I asked her, as a token 
 Of her love, for just one curl. 
 
 But, strange changes have come over 
 Both " the sweethearts " of that day; 
 
 And the " girl " is now a woman. 
 While " the boy " is getting gray. 
 
 And the World, which then seemed joyful, 
 
 Since, has proved a sohere of care, 
 Where a youth would rush in blindly, 
 When a man would scarcely dare. 
 
 But that corner of my Hbrary, 
 
 Holds that volume from " my girl," 
 
 And I often kiss the book-mark, — 
 Just a brownish golden curl. 
 
 29 
 
AT GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE 
 
 Can you remember that " spare-room " bed, 
 Where you used to shiver and cover your head 
 With the counterpane, quilted, in white and red. 
 At Grandmother's house? 
 
 Can you recall those jolly, good days, 
 When the farmer'd " no use for new fangled ways " 
 Of heating the rooms, — where the visitor stays — 
 At Grandmother's house? 
 
 My! Wasn't it cold, on those winter nights? 
 And didn't you think that you saw strange sights — 
 Weird shadowy ghosts when there were no lights, 
 At Grandmother's house? 
 
 But, wasn't it fine, to wake after dawn, 
 
 And scamper, with night-shirt and slippers on. 
 
 To the sitting-room stove, which would burn till 
 
 mom, 
 At Grandmother's house? 
 
 Then, to dress just enough to go to the shed. 
 To " duck," in the frosty spring water, your head. 
 And come out with your cheeks all tingling and 
 
 red, 
 At Grandmother's house? 
 
 'Twas then you could eat with a good appetite, 
 And everything cooked always tasted "just right" — 
 Remember the doughnuts and milk late at night — 
 At Grandmother's house? 
 
 30 
 
MY FIRST POCKETS 
 
 There is much that I remember, 
 And there's more that I forget, 
 
 But my first " pants," with real pockets, 
 I have not forgotten yet. 
 
 Wondrous pockets, were those first ones, 
 And the things they stowed away, 
 
 Set all the boys a-staring. 
 
 When their contents I'd display. 
 
 There were tops, and nails, and fish-hooks, 
 There was string of every kind. 
 
 There were marbles and some candy. 
 And a piece of old cheese-rind. 
 
 There was chewing gum, fast sticking 
 
 To a penny bright and new, 
 A bird's nest, and a number 
 
 Taken from the big church pew. 
 
 There were buttons, strange and common, 
 
 And a pencil and a pin, 
 A silk-spool and a jack-knife 
 
 With one thick blade and one thin. 
 
 The things that never rested 
 In those famous pockets, new, 
 
 Could be written in a jiffy. 
 For they'd be but mighty few. 
 
 There is only one good reason 
 
 Why a thing was never there. 
 That's because it was too big, 
 
 Or, perhaps, I didn't care. 
 
 31 
 
I remember Mother's scolding 
 
 When I found a "poor, dead mouse," 
 
 And her plain, and firm, instructions, 
 " Don't you bring it in the house." 
 
 But it went down in my pocket, 
 When her eyes were turned away, 
 
 And I " swapped it " with a school mate, 
 For an old pipe bowl, of clay. 
 
 When I'd gone my way to dreamland, 
 And dear Mother'd fold my clothes. 
 
 She would take out all my treasures. 
 And then lay them out in rows. 
 
 There were some things often missing, 
 In the morning, when I'd look, 
 
 But I never cared, for Mither'd 
 Always tell me what she took. 
 
 Then, my pockets got so loaded 
 
 With a lot of dandy stuff. 
 That I soon forgot the lost things, 
 
 For, I always had enough. 
 
 But my bulging first pants-pockets 
 Were the greatest wealth I've known, 
 
 And I've ne'er possessed real riches. 
 Since those pockets were out-grown. 
 
 32 
 
WHEN LIFE WAS ALL FUN 
 
 Those were good, happy days, 
 
 When, as boys, we could run, 
 And romp in the fields. 
 
 And get tanned in the sun. 
 The weeks of vacation, 
 
 When school days were done, 
 And books were forgotten. 
 
 And life was all fun. 
 
 'Twas then that the squirrels. 
 
 Were kept on the run. 
 For they fought mighty shy. 
 
 Of a boy with a gun. 
 And the fish, in deep waters. 
 
 Our new hooks would shun, 
 For they knew there 'd be trouble, 
 
 When Hfe was all fun. 
 
 The birds and the game, 
 
 Were wise, every one, 
 And would keep in the brush, 
 
 When the school year was done. 
 Yet, we'd follow through thicket, 
 
 Or swamp, with a gun, 
 For time didn't count. 
 
 When life was all fun. 
 
 On days when great floods 
 
 In the gutters did run, 
 'Twas up in the hay-loft, — 
 
 Oh, such yams as were spun, 
 Of robbers and cow-boys, 
 
 And the deeds they had done; — 
 For 'twas summer vacation. 
 
 And life was all fun, 
 
 33 
 
BOYHOOD SPORTS 
 
 Catching fish in silvery stream, 
 While you wait you think and dream, 
 At the break of day, 
 From the month of May, 
 Till the winter comes at last 
 With its frost and chilHng blast. 
 
 Then you're off to coast and slide, 
 And enjoy the cold sleigh ride. 
 Frost and falling snow, 
 Nipping ear and toe. 
 Till again comes lovely May, 
 And for fishing you're away. 
 
 So the years will quickly run, 
 Till your manhood has begun, 
 With its conflicts, cares. 
 Growing " wheat and tares:" 
 Then will memories of the past 
 Help you pluck and bum these last. 
 
 Those fond boyhood sports remain, 
 Cheering comforters in pain. 
 Which at times must come, 
 In life's long hum-drum. 
 Till the sun again shall beam, 
 Warming up life's winding stream. 
 
 GOLDEN FRUIT 
 
 " Ripe apples, sir, only a penny? 
 
 They're nice ones, all yellow, like gold; 
 I've just a few left in my basket." 
 
 The child's voice was trembling with cold. 
 
 34 
 
She stood 'neath the glare of the lamp-post, 
 Where the frosty wind cut to the bone, 
 
 Her scanty clothes gave no protection, 
 Standing there, with her basket alone. 
 
 The man hurried by, scarce observing 
 
 This little bread-winner of seven, 
 When there flashed through his mind this one 
 sentence, 
 
 " For of such is the kingdom of heaven.*' 
 
 He turned and walked back to the corner, 
 " Why are you out here in the cold?" 
 
 " My mother is sick, sir; I'm helping, 
 I'll go home when my apples are sold." 
 
 He thought of his own child, now waiting. 
 By the cheerful, warm nursery fire, 
 
 To welcome him on his arrival; 
 
 And her mother, his fond heart's desire. 
 
 He took all the ripe golden apples, 
 
 And gave to the child a crisp bill ; 
 " Now, run along home, little daughter, 
 
 Or you'll catch a cold and be ill." 
 
 A smile quickly came o'er her features, 
 " Oh, thank you, sir; now I can go;" 
 
 Then, as he walked ofi, she ran after, 
 
 " Twas ten dollars you gave; did you know?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, little one, that's all right; 
 
 Now hurry on home and get warm." 
 Were the tears in his eyes from the cold, 
 
 As he wished her "God speed" and ''no harm?" 
 
 35 
 
HAPPY TEARS 
 
 A few tiny garments, laid-by in a box, 
 
 Neatly tied with blue ribbon, in the days that 
 are gone. 
 
 She kisses these treasures, which carry her back 
 To the time when her one little baby was bom. 
 
 A merry young voice calls her out of her dreams, 
 As she puts, once again, the old box in its place. 
 
 ** Why, Mother, you're crying — What has hap- 
 pened?" he says. 
 As he kisses the tale-telling tears from her face. 
 
 " Just tears of remembrance, from long, long ago," 
 
 She whispers, and fondles his brown, curly hair. 
 
 " Sometimes, one sheds happy tears, Darling, you 
 
 see, 
 
 Like the dew-drop^ that come when the weather 
 
 is fair." 
 
 THE IJGHT HOUSE 
 
 Scanning the sea, like an eagle's eye. 
 Search-light of Navesink, thrashing the sky, 
 Watching for mariners sorely distressed, 
 Light in the gloom to those bitterly pressed ; 
 Like the good that shines out in a care-ridden 
 
 world, 
 Keep flashing your warning, lest ships should be 
 
 hurled 
 On the strands, or the bars, or the rocks of the 
 
 shore, 
 And lives that are precious, be lost by the score. 
 Around in your circle continue to whirl, 
 So that ships in safe harbor their canvas may furl. 
 And a light in the darkness to sailors still be 
 'Till the earth shall itself be engulfed in the sea. 
 
 36 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE ROCKS 
 
 An ocean Swell 
 To a Mermaid belle 
 
 Said: "Won't you elope with me? 
 You shall wear my crest, 
 And forever rest, 
 
 In the light of the moon-swept sea. 
 
 "You shall travel wide 
 On the flowing tide, 
 
 In the trough that follows me; 
 While your hair is drest 
 By the combing crest 
 
 Of the billows of the sea. 
 
 "While you float in your nest 
 On the Ocean's breast 
 
 I'll murmur my love to thee. 
 And we'll drift away. 
 While seafolk say, 
 
 'They're the sweethearts of the sea.'" 
 
 But old Neptune, 
 Who heard them spoon, 
 
 Stirred the ocean into foam. 
 So the Swell couldn't wait 
 To hear his fate, 
 
 And the Mermaid stayed at home. 
 
 37 
 
THE CRY OF RUSSIA 
 
 A voice came over the restless seas, 
 
 Riding the waves on a stiff west breeze; 
 
 I scarce could catch the tale that it told, 
 
 But the words were fierce and the language bold. 
 
 'Twas the cry of the long downtrodden slaves, 
 
 And curse after curse came in with the waves. 
 
 "No quarter, — no mercy, — no peace," — was the 
 
 cry, 
 "Give us liberty, freedom, or else let us die. 
 Long years have we suffered the iron bound hand, 
 That has crushed in its grasp every hope of our 
 
 land. 
 We want no crumbs from a royal repast, 
 But give us our freedom, and Peace that will last." 
 
 RETRIBUTION 
 
 Rattle and shake, ye old, dry bones, 
 
 Of a dynasty past and effete. 
 You're the damp, cold ghost of a dead regime. 
 
 And your ruin is now complete. 
 
 Tremble and quake, ye autocrats, 
 
 While your reign of oppression dies. 
 
 You crushed the weak and you killed the strong, 
 And were deaf to the childrens' cries. 
 
 Now, millions of homes, which you deluged with 
 woe. 
 
 Shriek curses on you in hate, 
 And shout, in a chorus that fills the Earth, 
 
 "Too late, — too late, — too late." 
 
 38 
 
THE SIGN IN THE SKY 
 
 Like the blade of a curving scimitar, 
 
 In the deep of the dark night sky, 
 Hangs the new-bom moon o'er the Russian homes, 
 
 Where the slaughtered people die. 
 
 Has God shut his eyes, to the awful woe 
 
 Of those who writhe and swoon, 
 That a blazen sword is swung on high. 
 
 In the place of the tranquil moon? 
 
 Or is it the sign of vengeance, sure 
 
 To fall on each guilty head, 
 When the sentence rings through earth and sky, 
 
 " Let the murders die, like their dead?" 
 
 THE CALL OF THE STARS 
 
 Stars of the night, so bright and mysterious, 
 Sparkhng like gems in the deep azure set. 
 
 As I gaze at you, up in the heavens a-gleaming. 
 With hot blinding tears are my eyes quickly 
 wet. 
 
 How do you thus move me so strangely, so deeply? 
 
 Impelling my thoughts to those far distant 
 
 days, 
 
 When, then, as a simple, young child I did watch 
 
 you, 
 
 Before I knew ought of the world's wicked ways. 
 
 Why do I so clearly recall my dear mother. 
 Beside whom I stood when I first learned to say 
 
 The verses that told of my wonder about you, 
 As night shut us in at the close of the day? 
 
And, why do my lips start to reverently murmur, 
 The words, *' Now I lay me," when ready to 
 sleep? 
 That sweet, simple prayer which in childhood I 
 offered. 
 Asking that, through the night. He in safety 
 would keep? 
 
 What is this strange spell that you cast .round 
 about me, 
 
 Which quickly eliminates all time, and space, 
 And makes me stop short, as I think, and I realize 
 
 How I have neglected those first means of grace ? 
 
 You cannot bring back the pure life of my child- 
 hood. 
 
 With all of its simple, unquestioning trust ; 
 Nor, can you restore the old faith that I once had. 
 
 To fight against worldliness, avarice and lust. 
 
 Yet, as your pure radiance shines down upon me, 
 My soul fills with hope and responds to your 
 call. 
 
 Back, to the old, simple faith of my childhood, 
 Back, to the days that preceded my fall. 
 
 Back, to the knees of that dear, saintly mother. 
 
 Back, 'till I feel the caress of her hand, 
 As she pushes back, lightly, the hair from my 
 forehead. 
 While she points out the way to the fair prom- 
 ised land. 
 
 Again, I can feel her arms snuggle about me ; 
 
 Once more her sweet kisses are drying my tears, 
 And now, once again, as in days of my childhood, 
 
 Comes the courage to face both temptation and 
 fears. 
 
 40 
 
COURAGE 
 
 Have faith and hope, for though the heart be 
 heavy, 
 While care and trouble have perplexed your 
 way, 
 Remember that the night is always darkest 
 Before the breaking into glorious day. 
 
 There never was a day so dark as seemeth, 
 
 When looked at through the fogs, and darkened 
 more 
 By minds depressed by painful, bitter troubles, 
 And hearts despondent, bruised and crushed 
 and sore. 
 
 Think what the world was once, with no Messiah ; 
 
 Think how His wondrous birth made darkness 
 light; 
 Why then despair because of passing troubles? 
 
 A single day may make your life more bright. 
 
 Through ages long the Jews proved patient, wait- 
 ing, 
 
 Yet few were fitted their rich prize to gam, 
 Shall we not strive in faith to wait His hour 
 
 To shower blessings freely as the rain? 
 
 All life is made of many trying contrasts. 
 
 The rain and sunshine quickly changing place. 
 
 While joy and trouble ever seem competing 
 For leading place in hfe's continuous race. 
 
 'Mid joys we should not ever feel too sanguine. 
 For soon they've fled with laughing, mocking 
 scorn, 
 
 While troubles we should think of as but poachers, 
 And bid them, once again, be off and gone. 
 
 41 
 
The blessings that we have are well worth prizing, 
 The trials but the testing of our strength, 
 
 Life's journey is obstructed oft' with troubles, 
 But joys extend through its entire length. 
 
 Be thankful that each day begets a blessing, 
 The Christ Child had sore troubles in His path. 
 
 Let thanks go up to Him, who kindly keeps us 
 To gather, daily, at the family hearth. 
 
 THE CALL 
 
 You tell me he is dead? That youth. 
 With frame of steel and muscles strong; 
 
 The athlete who had courage both 
 To shun temptation and the wrong. 
 
 My friend, but yesterday so bright, 
 So full of hope and life and power. 
 
 And now, you tell me he has gone. 
 As 'twere the passing of an hour. 
 
 Yet I live on, and others live. 
 
 Who oft' have stood so near Death's door, 
 And we survive to add up years, 
 
 While he, the strong, has gone before. 
 
 Your words fall as a mighty blow, 
 To fill me with mysterious fear. 
 
 Why are the good and strong cut down, 
 To leave the weaklings waiting here? 
 ***** 
 
 There breaks a light in this dark hour, 
 The mystery is now made clear. 
 
 The vacant places there are filled 
 
 By those who've won their laurels here. 
 
 42 
 
FAITH 
 
 The night is dark and fog obscures my course, 
 And I am stunned and cannot see my way, 
 
 Yet, far above the haze, shines out the star. 
 That shepherds saw, on that first Christmas day. 
 
 And there is comfort in this single thought; — 
 I know that star will lead me on and on, 
 
 Although unseen, a guiding power to be, 
 Until the mysteries of life are gone. 
 
 BLACK AND WHITE 
 
 Some folks dey goes a huntin'. 
 
 Away back in de woods, 
 
 An' miles an' miles dey seem to want to roam. 
 
 But the darkey likes de bestest, 
 
 Fo' to go out late at night, 
 
 An' ketch de cunning possum near at home. 
 
 Some folks goes huntin' game birds, 
 
 An' lookin' round fo' quail, 
 
 An' takes along a dog dey keeps a ** sickin'," 
 
 But dis darkey find mo' pleasure, 
 
 A hangin' round a " coop," 
 
 An' slyly pulling out a fat young " chicken." 
 
 De white folks has dere huntin,' 
 
 An' it may be mighty fine. 
 
 An' perhaps dey knows a heap mo dan de "coon, 
 
 But de darkey gets his pleasure. 
 
 In his own peculiar way, 
 
 A prowlin' by de silvery Southern moon. 
 
 43 
 
AT NIGHT 
 
 The sun has set in the Western sky, 
 
 Its after-glow has past, 
 The birds have quietly gone to sleep, 
 
 And the woods are dark at last. 
 
 Quietly out from the shore there glides, 
 A canoe with hunter and guide, 
 
 Scarcely a ripple stirs the calm, 
 As over the lake they ride. 
 
 Not a sound from the paddle's blade 
 Disturbs the still of the night, 
 
 Only a pair of silent men, 
 
 Watch some shy deer to sight. 
 
 A sudden gleam shines across the lake 
 
 Two eyes reflect its light, 
 A flash from a gun, then falls a deer, 
 
 Thus ends the hunt of a night. 
 
 THE REASON 
 
 The old fish know the sun is out, 
 Because they see no " bobs " about, 
 And when it rains they know it, too, 
 By angle-worms on hooks of blue. 
 
 So then they wisely **ope' their eye," 
 Lest they mistake a bogus " fly " 
 And sport themselves in deepest pools, 
 While younger fish are silly fools. 
 
 This will explain, at least it ought. 
 Why small fish are more often caught, 
 While big fish lie in hidden nooks, 
 Far from the points of dangerous hooks. 
 
 44 
 
COME ON BOYS 
 
 Come on, boys ! It's time for fishing, 
 On the lake, or by the brooks. 
 
 Get your poles and lines together, 
 
 Then pick out some good, sharp hooks. 
 
 Get your bait, and take a plenty. 
 Just the kind to make them bite, 
 
 And, if I am half a guesser. 
 
 We'll bring home a " mess " by night. 
 
 Shall we try the brook, or river? 
 
 Or the lake — what do you say? 
 There's the deep hole by the mill dam, 
 
 How'll that do to try today? 
 
 Well, come on! We're losing time, boys. 
 
 Got your knife to scrape and clean ? 
 Now, we're off. The weather's perfect. 
 
 As fine a day as I have seen. 
 
 Whistle, boys, while we are walking. 
 
 That will bring a breeze, you know, 
 Rufifling up the water, then, boys, 
 
 The fish won't see us from below. 
 
 Whistle some good, snappy march tune, 
 
 With a lot of swing and go. 
 That's the stuff — now stretch your legs out, 
 
 It's only, 'bout a mile or so. 
 
 Now, we're all young boys, together. 
 Age forsworn, and fancy free. 
 
 When the fish, begin " a-jumpin'" 
 Sixteen' s no less than sixtv- three. 
 
 45 
 
THE AWAKENING 
 
 The voice of spring upon the air, 
 And earthy odors everywhere, 
 Declare the winter's gone. 
 The crocus lifts its yellow head, 
 Beside its mate of flaming red, 
 And grass peeps through the lawn. 
 
 'TWAS EVER THUS 
 
 In the days when brave knights won fair maidens, 
 By fair means, or by foul, if need be. 
 
 Came the Lady Elaine from her castle. 
 For a walk by the wall near the sea. 
 
 Never heeding, she passed the young lover. 
 Unto whom her heart seemed as but steel, 
 
 But, her eye caught her name on a letter. 
 On the wall — with his crest on the seal. 
 
 It was then, that the woman within her. 
 Overpowered her haughty disdain. 
 
 " I must learn its fond message," she reasoned. 
 " Could a woman, who's human, refrain?" 
 
 She could feel that he watched, from a distance. 
 And to read was a weakness confessed. 
 
 So, she leaned on the wall, looking seaward, 
 With a mind that was sorely distressed. 
 
 •* It were better to die, than be tortured, 
 
 By inquisitive, curious mind; 
 And to Hve, and ne'er know what he's written. 
 
 Would be torment and torture combined." 
 
 46 
 
'Twas the same as with Eve and the apple, 
 And the bold lover knew what to do. 
 
 When he took her hand, gently, she murmured; 
 " I'd no thought of it being from you." 
 
 THE RE-INCARNATION OF YOUTH 
 
 When the leaves of the trees unfold in the spring, 
 And the birds have returned, and so merrily sing; 
 When the brooks crowd their banks with their 
 
 crystal-clear tide, 
 And the boys, with their poles, fish the streams 
 
 far and wide; — 
 
 When the first blades of grass appear on the lawn, 
 And the earth is enwrapt in its new Hfe, just born ; 
 Then, I feel, once again, that quickening pulse. 
 Which brings back my youth, with its boyish 
 impulse. 
 
 *Tis then, as I tramp by the river or lake, 
 
 I'm the boy, as of old, who, his " tackle " would 
 
 take, 
 And wander for hours, alone with his dreams. 
 While he dangled his hook in the mirror-like 
 
 streams. 
 
 The spring-Hfe, within, dispells all my fears. 
 That have come, in the winter of Hfe, with the 
 
 years, 
 While the re-incarnation of youth, in my soul. 
 Makes me strive for the ripest old-age as a goal. 
 
 47 
 
SCHOOL DAYS 
 
 I wonder if the school house, where 
 
 I spent such happy years, 
 Looks as it did when we were young, 
 
 With neither cares nor fears? 
 
 I wonder would the class room be 
 
 As it was long ago ? 
 And would the same old desks be there, 
 
 Placed in a double row? 
 
 I wonder would the names be there, 
 Scratched on the window pane, 
 
 And would the comer-closet hide 
 That painful "master's cane"? 
 
 I wonder would it seem the same 
 
 Old place it used to be, 
 Or would it be all changed and new, 
 
 And look quite strange to me? 
 
 I wonder could I conjure up 
 
 The faces of my mates, 
 And see the boys and pretty girls, 
 
 All bending o'er their slates? 
 
 I wonder would the one I loved 
 
 With all my youthful heart, 
 Look up, and give that " friendship's sign " 
 
 Without which we'd not part? 
 
 I wonder has that old school changed, 
 
 As has the world, with years? 
 If so the sight would bring but pain. 
 
 And dim the eyes with tears. 
 
 48 
 
I wonder where those school friends are ? 
 
 Some have, no doubt, since died. 
 Some cHmbed to fame and fortune's lap, 
 
 And others wandered wide. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 
 
 When the winter sky is gloomy, 
 
 And the feathery snow-flakes fly, 
 May your heart be warmed by friendships, 
 
 That can never fade and die. 
 And among those friends found faithful, 
 
 Let my name be written clear. 
 As one who changeth never, 
 
 In the bright days and the drear. 
 
 41) 
 
EC U t90b