t^ ^.^r^' 14 y^^HOy 14 1899 
 
 
 -*■ 
 
3 
 
 CrE.'S. BREWSTER 
 
 COPYRIGHTED 1899 
 
 BY C. E. S. BREWSTER 
 
 AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER, 
 
 MONTROSE, PA. 
 

 5G142 
 
 So tfic '^Poincn of (SlmcZ'ica iv/lo ate patiottf:-/ toifituj 
 
 afona "Si-fiio'^Vcatic^oHic ^Paij,'^ tfii:> fittle, 
 
 Soof} io affzctionai'cCij c'cSicatcP, 
 
 SJiCOf^a CO»>Y. 
 
 
Twilight. 
 
 There's a calmness that comes with the twilight 
 
 We feel at no other hour, 
 An influence floating aronnd us 
 
 That holds us with mystical power. 
 
 And it steals o'er our spirit as gently 
 As a breath from a soft zephyr blown; 
 
 And it brings us such peace and contentment, 
 As we sit in the gloaming alone. 
 
 We forget all the cares and the turmoil 
 
 That have crowded our life through the day; 
 
 And Thought goes a roaming in Dreamland, 
 Whilst Fancy holds despotic sway. 
 
 And faces come crowding around us 
 That long since had passed from our sight; 
 
 But they come to us now in the twilight, 
 With the deepening shadows of night. 
 
 And the faces, dim outlined and misty. 
 Seem to beckon us back through the years; 
 
 And again we're a child, free and hapi)y. 
 Though our eyelids are heavy with tears. 
 
And v/e wander tlirongli woods as in childhood 
 And search for the flowers blooming first, 
 
 E'er the brown waving branches above ns 
 Into emerald beauty have burst. 
 
 And we hear the sharp crackle and rustle 
 Of twigs and brown leaves 'neath our feet; 
 
 And the fragrance of earth and sweet blossoms, 
 Make the charm of our senses complete. 
 
 And we wander again in the meadows 
 And search for the strawberries red; 
 
 Whilst tlie butter cups, daisies and clover, 
 Nod gracefully over our head. 
 
 Or else in some nook cool and shady 
 
 We're dreaming the hours away; 
 Whilst wafted on breeze v/arm and lazy, 
 
 Comes the scent of the nev/ly mown hay. 
 
 And the bobolink skims o'er the grasses 
 And pours out his soul in his song; — 
 
 Oh! the days of a summer in childhood. 
 How wondrously hapjDy and long! 
 
 And then with our gay young companions 
 We walk by the shores of the lake. 
 
 And search neath the leaves of the laurel 
 For the tender young winter-greens' sake. 
 
Or we float on the smootli placid waters, 
 
 And gleefnlly langii, as tlie sound 
 Of our voices in lond liaj)x>y chorus 
 
 Make the v/oods witli deep echoes resound. 
 
 And the lilies! those fragrant pond lilies! 
 
 With hearts of the yellowest gold, 
 And petals of pure waxy whiteness, 
 
 What a charm for our senses they hold! 
 
 And then in the years that come later, 
 We're walking in love's happy dream. 
 
 Till a whispering phantom beside us 
 Tells us things are not now what they seem. 
 
 And the faces that crowded our fancy. 
 The grave long has claimed for its own — 
 
 They have flown like the years that have vanished, 
 And I sit in the gloaming alone. 
 
 But the gloom of the grave and its sadness 
 Have lost, o'er our spirit, their power — 
 
 There's a calmness that comes with the twilight 
 We feel at no other hour. 
 
The Last Roll. 
 
 'Tis tlie thickest of the battle, 
 
 And the bullets flying fast, 
 Make many a gallant soldier feel 
 
 That moment is his last. 
 
 And the air is thick and heavy 
 With the smoke and dnst of fray; 
 
 And the rattle of the muskets 
 Fill the stoutest with dismay. 
 
 But above that din of battle. 
 And above its roar and hum, 
 
 What is it gives them courage? 
 'Tis the beating of the drum. 
 
 And the men are nerved to action 
 As they hear that stirring beat; 
 
 Though the earth be strewn with dying 
 That have fallen neath their feet. 
 
 And each heart beats high and hopeful 
 
 As that dear familiar roll 
 Seems to speak to them of victory, 
 
 As it thrills each manly soul. 
 
And tliat valiant, little drummer. 
 
 Though but a boy, is brave 
 As he who shoulders musket, 
 
 His country's life to save. 
 
 All day, though worn and weary, 
 
 He has kept himself in file- 
 Not once has stopped his drumming, 
 Himself to rest awhile. 
 
 But hark! the music falters! 
 
 He has fallen in the fight! 
 And many a stern old veteran 
 
 Feels a dimness of the sight. 
 
 And as the smoke of battle 
 
 Shuts the sun light from the day: 
 
 So his stroke grows fainter— fainter, 
 As his life's blood ebbs away. 
 
 "What can I do to help you?" 
 
 A pitying comrade cries; 
 And to his tearful question 
 
 The drummer boy replies: 
 
 "Comrade, you cannot help me; 
 
 I'm beyond the reach of man; 
 But pour the bullets at them! 
 
 And I'll drum as best I can." 
 
And when tlie battle's over 
 Tliey find liim white and cold, 
 
 But in those stiffened fingers 
 The drumsticks yet, behold. 
 
 And though his weex^ing comrades 
 Cannot hear their gentle beat; 
 
 He is drumming for the Angels 
 As they walk the golden street. 
 
 And we're sure he's earned the x)laudit 
 Of "A Faithful Duty Done," 
 
 That he wears a crown of glory 
 Which with honor here he's won. 
 
 Tobacco. 
 
 Young man, beware! In yonder weed 
 The pestilence of death doth breed; 
 
 Its subtle poison steals away 
 The noblest manhood of the day; 
 
 And many of its thousands slain — 
 All may be lost, there is no gain. 
 
Come! walk with me this filthy street, 
 Unlit to tread by christian feet; 
 
 Made loathsome by the foulest weed 
 That ever grew from nature's seed, 
 
 Its taint fills all the air around. 
 No place of x",urity is found. 
 
 The breath from yonder low saloon 
 Is worse than Egypt's fell simoon. 
 
 And yet men deem it blameless, wise, 
 To choke our breath, and blind our eyes- 
 
 Ah, yes! These men so coarse and rough 
 Delight to see us cough and jDuff. 
 
 Step lightly o'er the pools of juice 
 Distilled by m.an to our abuse; 
 
 And whilst distilling loses wealth. 
 The power of intellect and health — 
 
 Ah, deep the penalty he pays; 
 A paux^er's lot or shortened days. 
 
 And here a savage stands erect 
 In paint and tinsel gayly decked; 
 
 His iron hand he keeps outstretched 
 To entertain each welcome guest; 
 
 This emblem seems most fit indeed 
 For those who use the filthy weed. 
 
Ah, yes, the sculptor well has wrought, 
 For in each line a lesson's taught 
 
 To those who see and read aright, 
 The lesson taught by yon vile sight. 
 
 See yonder shaking palsied man! 
 
 See yonder face so pale and wan! 
 And breathe the brea,th of this i)oor sot— 
 
 The poison's mixed that he hath got; 
 He took the noxious weed at first, 
 
 And then the drink to quench his thirst, 
 Ah, terrible the work thus wrought; 
 
 And terrible the lesson taught; 
 Yet many heedless pass it by 
 
 And say 'tis not for such as I! 
 My will is strong to break the chain, 
 
 It ne'er o'er me such power will gain! 
 But when too firmly bound, they find 
 
 The power of habit over mind, 
 They cry too late! My friend beware 
 
 How thou art caught within the snare! 
 Thinkest thou that love could stoop to sij) 
 
 From yonder stained polluted lij)? 
 Aye! Turn away with deep disgust 
 
 And take the weed now if you must; 
 Methinks would scarce beguile away 
 
 The scenes we've witnessed here to-day. 
 
But if percliance the lesson's lost — 
 
 Or tlion liast reckoned not tlie cost — 
 One word my friend, before we part; 
 
 Deep may it sink witliin thine heart. 
 If tliou wouldst follow out God's i)lan 
 
 And in His image be a man — 
 If thou wouldst cleanly be and pure 
 
 And make thy hojDe of Heaven sure; 
 Oh, turn thou from that lilthy weed 
 
 Where pestilence of dea.tli doth breed! 
 Oh, turn, as from some reptile vile 
 
 That fascinates yet kills the while — 
 And thou rnayst never curse the day 
 
 That found thee caught within its sway. 
 
 The Two Conquests. 
 
 On arid plain, 'neath burning sun, 
 
 With flash of steel and boom of gun, 
 
 ' Mid dust and smoke, and dying groan 
 Of heroes slain like grass that's mown, 
 
 A chieftan stands with sword in hand 
 And urges on his fainting band. 
 
 Since early morn they've bravely fought 
 
And naught but desolation wrought — 
 Yet once again he shouts command — 
 
 His courage thrills the little band — 
 Thrice beaten back — thrice surging on — 
 
 They gain the wall — the victory's won. 
 And loud they shout their chief tan's name 
 
 And loud the victory proclaim. 
 Ah, proudly steps that chief tan now, 
 
 Whilst laurels deck the noble brow — 
 Nor thinks he of the thousands slain 
 
 On yonder ghastly burning plain. 
 
 A lonely attic, old and bare, 
 
 That gives no comfort, has no care; 
 An empty grate — a heap of straw — 
 
 A winter's night that's bleak and raw — 
 A wretched man is kneeling there 
 
 In earnest, agonizing prayer — 
 The beaded drops are standing now 
 
 On pallid lips and knotted brow — 
 His trembling form sways to and fro 
 
 Like broken reeds when storm winds blow; 
 And all the burden of his prayer 
 
 Is, "Save me from the tempter's snare." 
 From eve till morn he wrestled there, 
 
 With none to see and none to care — 
 
No noble band to lielp him win 
 
 The conquest over death and sin — 
 
 No noble band! Do I mistake? 
 
 For just as dawn begins to break, 
 
 And when at last the victory's given, 
 
 The Angels shout — there's joy in Heaven. 
 
 Ah, he receives the crown of state 
 
 Who conquers self, not cities great. 
 
 The Doctor's Horse. 
 
 Old Frank lives on a i^ension; 
 There's naught for him to do 
 
 But gaze at the skies 
 
 With far off eyes, 
 And meditate — and chew. 
 
 He lives like all that's aged 
 In days that long are j)ast; 
 
 And things that seem 
 
 Are but a dream 
 Of things that do not last. 
 
 13 
 
And now lie's swiftly flying 
 O'er country roads again, 
 
 As the doctor si)eeds 
 
 To the urgent needs 
 Of weak and suffering men. 
 
 And now he is homeward plodding 
 As slow as a funeral knell; 
 
 For the Doctor's asleep, 
 
 Or in reverie deep, 
 As the old horse knows full well. 
 
 And now old Frank is lonesome, 
 He's pawing in the stall; 
 
 Then he whinnies low 
 
 For the master's slow, 
 Then harks for the master's call. 
 
 But the dear old weary Doctor 
 At last has peaceful sleej) 
 
 Where none can molest 
 
 Or break on his rest — 
 Or wake from his slumber deep. 
 
 The Doctor's son — Gfod bless him — 
 Has thought for old Frank's need; 
 
 Now Frank has rest. 
 
 And the softest nest. 
 And the very best of feed. 
 
 H 
 
All yes, old Frank's in clover; 
 There's naught for him to do 
 
 But gaze at the skies 
 
 With far off eyes, 
 And meditate — and chew. 
 
 By and By. 
 
 Have you heard of Baby Eda? 
 
 Though not three summers quite, 
 She seemed for all the household 
 
 To be the life and light. 
 
 How everybody loved her! 
 
 E'en the men upon the street 
 Had a word for "Baby Eda"— 
 
 She seemed so fair and sweet! 
 
 And oh, the wondrous sayings, 
 So wise and yet so quaint! 
 
 Not half their childish beauty 
 My feeble pen could paint. 
 
 Sometimes God in his mercy 
 Sends a blessing for a while, 
 
 That from some poignant sorrow 
 Our hearts he may beguile. 
 
 15 
 
So, as in healtli and beauty 
 
 She flourished every day, 
 Another good and noble 
 
 Was fading slow avy'ay. 
 
 And we know no holy angel 
 
 Sent from the God above, 
 Could to a suffering mortal 
 
 Lend more of watchful love. 
 
 And she must bring the cushion 
 
 To imt in "Papa's chair;" 
 And all her little loleavsures 
 
 With "Papa" she must share. 
 
 And early in the morning 
 
 When just wakened from his rest, 
 'Tv/as "Dood morning darling Papa," 
 
 Ah, the words were doubly blessed. 
 
 But at last there came a morning — 
 'Twas the Heavenly Father's v/ill — 
 
 When that darling baby's Papa 
 In death's arms lay white and still. 
 
 Then the baby's heart was broken, 
 And with lips that quivered so, 
 
 Said "He nev'll say dood mornin 
 To de baby any mo-o." 
 
 i6 
 
And when tlie friends liad gathered 
 To take their last farewell, 
 
 Of him whom they had honored 
 And learned to love so well. 
 
 Then jnst amid the sermon, 
 
 When the last sad rite was near— 
 
 "Only de Baby's Papa" 
 Smote upon the startled ear. 
 
 And every heart was melted — 
 'Twould turn a heart of stone 
 
 To see that look of anguish, 
 And hear that mournful tone. 
 
 And to think that such an infant 
 Must learn the depths of woe; 
 
 That our darling little Eda 
 Should mourn and sorrow so. 
 
 And oft that dreary winter 
 To the window she would go, 
 
 And ask if "Baby's Papa 
 Lay neath the cold, cold snow?" 
 
 Then we would tell her "Papa, 
 Though buried from our sight, 
 
 Dwelt with the Holy Angels 
 Amid the realms of light." 
 
 17 
 
"But that if God was willing 
 And to love Him slie would try, 
 
 We'd go and live witli Papa 
 Ui3 in Heaven by and by." 
 
 And often in tlie distance 
 
 She would gaze with longing eye, 
 And ask in mournful accents 
 
 If it wasn't "by and by?" 
 
 Oh, the weary months of winter 
 "When the heart is filled with woe, 
 
 Only the heart that sorrows, 
 Their weariness may know. 
 
 And oh, the weary waiting 
 
 For the ijromised "By and By," 
 
 But for darling little Eda 
 The time was drawing nigh. 
 
 One night from out her slumber 
 Eda wakened with a scream; 
 
 "Papa's come to get the Baby!" 
 People say 'twas but a dream. 
 
 And when the startled mother 
 
 The child would pacify, 
 "Papa did come back to baby, 
 
 For I see him," was her cry. 
 
 i8 
 
And in tlie early morning 
 
 When slie'd searched for him in vain, 
 "Papa did come back to Baby — 
 
 Papa's don away adain." 
 
 But in the early spring time 
 When the crocus lifts it head; 
 
 And lovely little violets 
 Wake from their mossy bed; 
 
 When the woods resound with gladness 
 And the hills bright colors show; 
 
 We thought that Baby Eda 
 Would forget to sorrow so. 
 
 But neither merry spring time, 
 Nor summer's brightest day, 
 
 Could for that darling Baby 
 Drive the shadows quite away. 
 
 And often on her little hand 
 She'd lean her head and say, 
 
 "Oh, de Baby tannot 'tand it 
 Anoder single day." 
 
 "For de Baby is so-o lonesome, 
 
 'Aint it almost by and by? 
 Baby 'ants to see her papa;" 
 
 Then would come the long drawn sigh. 
 
 19 
 
I wonder if lost loved ones 
 Do sometimes hover near, 
 
 And by their unseen presence 
 Our lonely hearts to cheer. 
 
 Or, if God sometimes in visions 
 To his best beloved will show, 
 
 That weal or woe awaits them 
 That they His will may knov/. 
 
 For one night in early autumn 
 Eda wakes with beaming eye — 
 
 "Papa's come to get de Baby!" 
 Oh the Joy in that glad cry! 
 
 Only three weeks of waiting, 
 And the baby was at rest; 
 
 And we know a soul so lovely 
 God has numbered with the blest. 
 
 And when the death damjD gathered 
 
 Upon that baby's brow; 
 "Baby's doin' to see her papa; 
 
 Don't you cry for baby now." 
 
 Oh, those words so softly whispered 
 Mamma's breaking heart to cheer; 
 
 It would seem God's holy spirit 
 Must be hovering very near. 
 
And we know for Baby Eda 
 There is now a iDerfect day; 
 
 That the choicest liowers of Heaven 
 Blossom for her, bright and gay. 
 
 And in the arms of Jesus 
 With her papa safe on high, 
 
 Baby Eda Ivnows no sorrow, 
 'Tis the i^romised "By and By." 
 
 Restlessness. 
 
 For hours and hours I've lain and tossed 
 Till hoi^e is gone and patience lost! 
 
 Oh, why must I this vigil keep, 
 
 Why, oh why, can I get no sleep? 
 
 My poor limbs ache, and my brain's like lead! 
 
 I sometimes think I've a double head! 
 Quite sure I am that I suffer for two — 
 
 Oh dear, dear me, what shall I do? 
 
 I've hummed Old Hundred o'er and o'er; 
 
 Counted my fingers ten times or more; 
 But alas! these failed me quite — and then 
 
 I told one hundred and back again. 
 
But hark! What ever's that noise below? 
 
 It's ghosts— or robbers — or worse I know! 
 But courage is something that I've no lack — 
 
 0-o-h dear how the chills creep up my back! 
 
 There now it is gone! I guess after all 
 
 It's a cat, or a mouse, or a tly on the wall — 
 
 But one thing is certain, some sleep I must get, 
 Or I shall be nervous and iklgety yet. 
 
 Falling Asleep. 
 
 I am floating away into Dreamland; 
 
 Away o'er the shadowy seas; 
 Whilst my weary form is lightly fanned 
 
 And kissed by the evening breeze. 
 
 And I'm. tenderly rocked on the billows 
 As they sing me a svv^eet lullaby — 
 
 And I nestle my head on the j:)illovv"s, 
 And contentedly blissfully sigh. 
 
 All things of this earth that are real. 
 Must, I know for a season, be lost; 
 
 Yet relief from their burden, I feel 
 
 Will more than balance the cost, n 
 
And my sight seemetli dim and uncertain — 
 A glimmer — a shadow— a sheen — 
 
 It's the something that formeth the curtain, 
 Myself and the unseen between. 
 
 And the low distant music and murmur 
 Of voices, my ears seem to fill; 
 
 Like the humming of insects in summer. 
 When drowsiness conquers the will. 
 
 And the air seemeth heavy with sweetness 
 That is stealing my senses away, 
 
 And I yield up my spirit in meekness, 
 I^or the mesmeric influence stay. 
 
 The Settlers' Home. 
 
 A hundred years! As we hear the din 
 Of the busy world we're moving in, 
 
 As we're caught in the crowded bustling throng, 
 And are borne with the surging tide along — 
 
 It seems a vista deep and wide. 
 The past and present to divide. 
 
 But far away o'er that sea of time 
 There conies to us in a rythmic rhyme, 
 
 Echoes of voices soft and low 
 That tell of the times of long ago. 
 
 23 
 
Tliey tell of a forest, trackless, wide. 
 Of clangers that crowd on eitlier side; 
 
 Where wild beasts lurk with stealthy tread. 
 Or crouch in branches over head; 
 
 Whilst the creaking tree tops saw and sigh, 
 And sing them a weird lullaby. 
 
 No beaten track the traveller sees; 
 
 His only guide the blazoned trees; 
 As he toils his weary way along, 
 
 Or joins in merry laugh and song. 
 Perhaps he wakes the startled deer, 
 
 That quickly springs from the thicket near; 
 The partridge drumming on yonder log. 
 
 Or the dismal croak from a distant bog; 
 A deer jmrsued by baying hound 
 
 May cross his ]3ath with a mighty bound, 
 When the flintlock musket speeds a ball ~ 
 
 And the noble creature's doomed to fall; 
 Then the great white owl in the home-tree nest 
 
 Cries who! who! who disturbs my rest? 
 So, toiling on till the fading light 
 
 Foretells the deepening shades of night. 
 
 But now. Oh joy to the weary eye! 
 They catch a glimpse of the sunset sky; 
 
 24 
 
Like boj^s tliey laugli and shout and sing 
 
 At the sight of a lovely crystal spring; 
 Then nine strong men draw gravely round 
 
 A fire that's built on open ground, 
 And each with a hungry zest partake 
 
 Of their "injun" bread and venison steak; 
 No feast of kings is half so good 
 
 As this humble meal in the lonely wood. 
 
 But hark! That cry from a distant hill! 
 
 Now their j)ulses quiver, and throb and thrill! 
 Ah, listen now! 'tis the answering cry 
 
 From the wooded hillside nearer by — 
 And yet again — now far, now near, — 
 
 'Tis the gathering pack whose voice they liear- 
 Ah, brave stout hearts by the camp fire glow 
 
 The meaning of that shrill cry well know. 
 
 Beyond the embers burning low 
 
 A panther's eyes may gleam and glow; 
 So a watch is set, and through all the night 
 
 A fire's kept burning clear and bright; 
 And with boundless trust in the Gfod of all 
 
 Who keepeth a watch o'er great and small, 
 The white man rests in the forest wild, 
 
 And sleei3s the sleei? of a little child. 
 
 25 
 
And then in the early morning's beam, 
 
 The woodman's ax swift catch the gleam; 
 And the forest monarchs bow and fall 
 
 At the hand of the monarch over all; 
 'Tis weary toil from day to day, 
 
 From early morn till even gray; 
 Then here and there a clearing stands, 
 
 And a cabin raised by sturdy hands. 
 
 Time passes by, and we hear the sound 
 
 Of a si:)inning wheel turned swiftly round; 
 As stepping forward and back again 
 
 The good wife spins the fleecy skein; 
 And we hear the click of the wooden reel 
 
 As the yarn is wound from the spinning wheel- 
 Then the creaking swifts turn slowly round 
 
 As the yarn is doubled again, and wound — 
 And now the wheel is put away. 
 
 She'll twist the yam some other day. 
 
 So, singing soft by the firelight's glow 
 
 The dear old hymns of long ago. 
 As the stocking grows from top to heel, 
 
 With a wondrous magic swift and real; 
 And the baby's cradle, rough and quaint, 
 
 Creaks back and forth with loud comjjlaint. 
 
 26 
 
The settler's gun liangs o'er the door — 
 There's bear and venisons a goodly store; 
 
 Perhaps the good man's been to-day 
 To the mill that's many miles away 
 
 And the samp that bubbles upon the crane 
 Has just been ground from the golden grain. 
 
 The good man sits in the corner near, 
 
 His face aglow with honest cheer; 
 Or bowed in sober earnest thought 
 
 On the works of God as for him they are wrought. 
 
 The baby now is sleeping sound 
 
 And mother has knit to the seam around; 
 
 So now she puts her knitting by 
 And cuts a venison steak to fry; 
 
 And deftly mixes the corn-meal cake 
 She iDuts on a board by the fire to bake. 
 
 The furnishiugs here are plain and few — 
 
 There's a table of pine and a chair or two; 
 The high post bed in the corner stands, 
 
 Made plump and smooth by skillful hands; 
 The cat sleeps sound on the bear skin rug 
 
 Close up by the chimney corner snug — 
 Old Tige with head stretched on his paws 
 
 Seems studying deep on nature's laws 
 
 27 
 
As with comical turn of liis soft brown eye. 
 He watclies the sparks up the chimney fly. 
 
 The cake on the hearth is turned and browned, 
 
 The broiling steak sheds a fragrance round — • 
 The pewter platters burnished bright 
 
 Catch an added gleam from the glowing light; 
 Ah, the joy, the comfort, the cheer, the glow 
 
 Of a hickory blaze we ne'er shall know! 
 And that a little room so rough and bare, 
 
 Holds a joy and peace not found elsewhere, 
 
 Tlie blessing said and supper begun, 
 
 They speak of the work they each ha^-e done — 
 Oi the nev/s he's heard in town that day — 
 
 Of their neighbors, perhaps ten miles away; 
 Of the friends they've left in their native town; 
 
 Of the beauties of wife's new home-spun gown — 
 Of the many trials through which they've j^assed — 
 
 AYhen the com was low and they had to fast; 
 Of the land that's cleared, of the land that's tilled; 
 
 Of the meeting house they hope to build; 
 Of their joys — their cares — their hopes — their fears, 
 
 Of the work to do in after years; 
 But they never dream that a toil-worn hand 
 
 Shall mould the fate of a mighty land; 
 
 38 
 
That an influence true, and deep, and strong, 
 Shall grow and spread through the years along, 
 
 And through all time their names shall stand 
 The fairest and noblest in all the land. 
 
 The Farmer's W/fe, 
 
 OR 
 
 A THOUGHT FOR WOMAN. 
 
 She brewed and broiled in the morning; 
 
 And scrubbed and scoured and swept 
 In every nook and corner, 
 
 The neatest house ever kept. 
 
 She washed all the children's faces 
 And put up their dinners for school; 
 
 Heard Jennie recite all her spelling, 
 And Katie, that horrid old rule. 
 
 Then she tied up their bonnets and aprons 
 And sent them away for the day; 
 
 With a sigh of relief, "She thanked goodness 
 The children were out of the way!" 
 
 Then she fed all the chickens and turkeys, 
 And the hen that she set yesterday; 
 
 And the one she iDut under a barrel 
 Because of her obstinate way. 
 
 29 
 
But with never a thought of the beauties 
 Of that glorious bright summer day, 
 
 She hurried back to the kitchen 
 Where her kettle was boiling away. 
 
 Then she ironed and baked until noon-time, 
 And then there's the dinner to get, 
 
 "For men folks are always so hungry 
 And dinner was never late yet." 
 
 And so this woman was busy. 
 
 And busy as busy could be, 
 From five o'clock in the morning 
 
 Till the clock on the mantle struck three. 
 
 And she thought of the homely old saying 
 "A woman's work never is done;" 
 
 As she took up the basket of mending 
 That yesterday only begun. 
 
 The "men folks" have taken their nooning 
 In the shade of the wide-spreading trees. 
 
 Cracked jokes — talked politics over — 
 Reclined on the grass at their ease. 
 
 And now in the cornfield together 
 
 They merrily clatter away; 
 For cheerful companions in labor 
 
 Makes hoeing seem only child's play. 
 
 30 
 
Tlie woman alone in the farmhouse 
 
 Seeks not to be happy and gay, 
 With only a thought for her labor 
 
 She wearily stitches away. 
 
 She knows by the brook in the meadow 
 
 Are beds of the daintiest cress; 
 That shadows are cool in the orchard — 
 
 And she's "Glad there is one stocking less. 
 
 No pleasure, no rest, and no sunshine, 
 No food for the soul or the mind — 
 
 To give all your life to your labor. 
 Oh woman! how foolish and blind! 
 
 For it's worry and hurry at morning. 
 
 And worry and hurry at noon; 
 And her day' s work is never accomplished 
 
 For night comes upon her too soon. 
 
 The lamp that is ever kept burning 
 
 Soon burns all its fuel away; 
 The stream that ne'er draws at the fountain 
 
 Soon dries, and is vanished for aye. 
 
 Oh woman, take rest from your labor! 
 
 Throw patching and darning away! 
 Go out in God's beautiful sunshine 
 
 And draw from its life whilst you may. 
 
 31 
 
For there's sunsliine along witli tlie shadows 
 
 In every land under the snn; 
 There are joys to be had for the seeking 
 
 With every duty that's done. 
 
 So whether we plod or we hurry 
 
 Along life's wearisome way, 
 Let us look for the sweetest blossoms 
 
 And gather them whilst we may. 
 
 Montrose, Pa., 
 
 Independent Republican Print, 
 
 1S99. 
 
LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 861 975 1