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And -sou used to .uiy I never would make a farme) 
 
Wa 
 
 yside Poems 
 
 For 
 
 Old and Young 
 
 
 / 
 
 
 / By 
 
 
 E. W. VAN SLYKE 
 
 
 Author of 
 
 
 HOME MELODIES 
 
 
 and Other Poems 
 
 
 Illustrated.., ,,,,..;,,-.;', 
 
 
 BING H AMTON, N. Y. 
 
 
 Chronicle Publishing Co. 
 
 
 1902 
 
It •!•.'. 
 
 
 JTHE \.!BRAi^> OF 
 I CONOKESS. 
 
 NOV. 25 tfS(v9 
 
 CLASeCX.XXc. No. 
 OOfY B 
 
 2d 
 
 Copyright 1902 
 By Elmer W. Van Slyke. 
 
CO 
 
 Index 
 
 Pa^cs. 
 
 A Wildwood Idyl 18-19 
 
 A Fisherman I Knew. ( Illustrated) 20-22 
 
 A Sinner's Soliloquy ....••••• 57"5° 
 
 A Spoiled Romance 59-60 
 
 A Tale of'lnfclicity 112-114 
 
 A Wise Old Mink 63 
 
 A Whale Story 66 
 
 All in Innocent Play ....--•■ 7° 
 
 An Evening on the Old Ranch .....•• ^6 
 
 An Old Time Husking Bee. [Illustrated) 87-97 
 
 And She is Gone . . . . • • • • • 5' 
 
 Constancy .......••• 84 
 
 De Ole Man Raise Mah Pay 61 
 
 Dear Old John 62-63 
 
 Dewey's Victory at Manila 99-100 
 
 Discouraging Prospects ........ 65 
 
 Easter Melody .......••• 83 
 
 Go Bear a Message .....••• 81 
 
 Hope of Tomorrow ..,.....• 35 
 
 Home From the War ........ 80 
 
 Hunting Crows. [Illustrated) 102-109 
 
 In the Night 47 
 
 Impressions From Poe's Poems ....... 33"34 
 
 johpny Black. ........ 78 
 
 Life's Battle 41-42' 
 
 Little by Little 72 
 
 Milking Time. [Illustrated) 44-45 
 
 My Honey Jo ......... 64 
 
 My Little Lady 79 
 
 Obstinate Folly 85 
 
 Oh, Tender Heart that Pity Moved 82 
 
 One Whom I Dearly Love 39-4° 
 
 Our Midget. [Illustrated ....... 7^-77 
 
 Our Own 5 6 
 
 Playing Grandma. ( Illustrated) ....... 67-69 
 
 Realm of the Soul 98 
 
Pages 
 
 Reverie of a Selfish Person ....... 86 
 
 Robert Burns ......... 97 
 
 Simeon Greene's Automobile. (^Illustrated) .... 27-31 
 
 Somewhere . . . . . . . . . . iio-iii 
 
 Spring Hill . . . . . . ' . . . . 37-38 
 
 Sympathy for Dad . . . . . . . . S'^'Sl 
 
 T. De Witt Talmage ........ 32 
 
 The Old Man's Dream. [UlustratcJ) ..... 36 
 
 The Lover's Soliloquy ........ 3 
 
 The Soul .......... 46 
 
 The Old Homestead. [Illustrated) ...... 48-49 
 
 The Sparrow House ........ 53 
 
 The Man Who Was a Genius. [Illustrated) .... 54-55 
 
 The Light of Hope ^3-^5 
 
 The Little Boy Who Died 71-72 
 
 The Prologue ......... 17 
 
 The Old Try sting Place 11 5-1 16 
 
 The Factory Slave. . . . . . . . . loi 
 
 Timothy Titus. [Illustrated) 73-75 
 
 Tommy Fisher ......... 78 
 
 Voices of Evening ......... 50 
 
 When Johnny Loops de Loop . . . . . . 1 1 1 
 
 You Loved Too Little, I Too Well 100 
 
^rcfacB 
 
 The poems contained in my first volume, •' Home Melodies," 
 published a year ago, were the work of less than three months; 
 and during that time I was extremely busy with the duties ot other 
 business, which never pressed harder upon me than then. But 
 in the lulls during business hours, in the office, on the railways, in 
 the evenings at home, or wherever I chanced to be and could find 
 an idle moment, a short poem was the result. Many ot the 
 poems were of an impromptu character, and in an unguarded 
 moment I put the manuscript in the hands of a publisher, and 
 almost before I had realized what I had done, the book was print- 
 ed verbatim, and placed on the market. The large sale that 
 followed, together with numerous letters received complimenting 
 the little book and urging me to further efforts along the same line, 
 and the deep appreciation my friends and neighbors manifested for 
 the book have induced me to issue this second volume, " Wayside 
 Poems," hoping it may meet with as much favor as the other. I 
 can give no better preface to the bagatelles I offer here, than the 
 beautiful proem to Mr. Longfellow's " Wait:" 
 
 " The day is done, and the darkness 
 
 Falls from the wings of Night, 
 As a feather is wafted downward 
 
 From an Eagle in his flight. 
 
 " I see the lights of the village 
 
 Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
 And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 
 
 That my soul cannot resist; 
 
 " A feeling of sadness and longing, 
 
 That is not akin to pain, 
 And resembles sorrow only 
 
 As the mist resembles the rain. 
 
" Come, read to me some poem, 
 
 Some simple and heartfelt lay, 
 That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
 
 And banish the thoughts of day. 
 
 " Not from the grand old masters. 
 
 Not from the bards sublime. 
 Whose distant footsteps echo 
 
 Through the corridors of time. 
 
 " For, like strains of martial music. 
 Their mighty thoughts suggest 
 
 Life's endless toil and endeavor; 
 And to-night I long for rest. 
 
 •' Read from some humbler poet, 
 
 Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
 
 As showers from the clouds of summer. 
 Or tears from the eyelids start; 
 
 " Who through long days of labor. 
 
 And nights devoid of ease, 
 Still heard in his soul the music 
 
 Of wonderful melodies. 
 
 " Such songs have power to quiet 
 
 The restless pulse of care. 
 And come like the benediction 
 
 That follows after prayer. 
 
 "Then read from the treasured volume 
 
 The poem of thy choice, 
 And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
 
 The beauty of thy voice. 
 
 *' And the night shall be filled with music. 
 And the cares, that infest the day. 
 
 Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
 And as silently steal away." 
 
Jlediccitar^ L,ttter 
 
 To My Father: 
 
 In dedicating the trifles contained in this book to you, I am not 
 unmindful of the probability that you will read this inscription 
 with a mingled feeling of awe and apprehension after all the advice 
 and warning you have given me against the pitfalls set for the 
 unwary poet. I will candidly admit to you that you have given 
 me the best of advice in the matter, and only for that wise counsel 
 that I have tried hard to follow, my whole life might have been 
 spent in a field for which my education had not fitted me, and 
 which might have kept me on the ragged edge of penury. I wish 
 to take this occasion to thank you for that counsel. But now that 
 I have reached the age of ripe manhood and have attained some 
 success in business, I feel that you may easily forgive me for this 
 departure in publishing a few of the little "Wayside" poems, 
 written in my leisure moments. Also for dedicating the same to 
 you, for you must know that writing has been the fondest dream 
 of mv whole life. Wherever I have gone and whatever I did, 
 the muses were constantly at my elbow, whispering to my senses 
 sweet messages that I am unable to transcribe in writing — yet 
 write I must, for their power over me is such that I cannot shake 
 it ofi^ entirely. In youth I thought it might be only a fancy 
 common to all, that I could live down or outgrow. But with 
 the passing years I find it has only grown more clamorous for 
 expression. I have been ashamed of its possession many times 
 and have written hundreds of poems just for the secret pleasure 
 they gave me, and then destroyed the manuscript before any one 
 should see it. I felt guilty at having it known that I even tried 
 to do anything of the kind. But to better show you how I have 
 had to struggle to restrain myself from the writing of verses, I will 
 quote Longfellow's poem: 
 
The H'ntt and His ^nngs 
 
 As the birds come in the spring, 
 
 We know not from where: 
 As the stars come at evening 
 
 From depths of the airj 
 
 As the rain comes from the cloud, 
 
 And the brook from the ground; 
 As suddenly low or loud 
 
 Out of silence a sound; 
 
 As the grape comes to the vine. 
 
 The fruit to the tree; 
 As the wind comes to the pine. 
 
 And the tide to the sea; 
 
 As come the white sails of ships. 
 
 O'er the ocean's verge; 
 As comes the smile to the lips, 
 
 The foam to the surge; 
 
 So come to the poet his songs, 
 
 All hitherward blown: 
 From the shadowy realm that belongs 
 
 To the vast unknown. 
 
 His, and not his are the lays 
 
 He sings: and their fame 
 Is his and not his; and the praise 
 
 And the pride of a name. 
 
 For voices pursue him by day 
 
 And haunt him by night, 
 And he listens and needs must obey 
 
 When the angel says " write." 
 
 I have felt the power of those voices since childhood. It grew 
 a part of my nature to love the poetic and fanciful. 
 
 The real things of life, however, have most strenuously mani- 
 fested a claim for first consideration. That I should know 
 where my next meal was coming from was imperative. Also that 
 the children were properly clothed, shod, and schooled; how bills, 
 bank notes and a thousand other petty matters were to be attended 
 to ; all of which are very galling to the poetic mind, and most 
 of which were quite likely to be overlooked in the nobler work of 
 listening to the muses and trying to interpret what they say. 
 
You can remember how as a boy on our piairie farm, I used to go 
 after the cows each night without being told — if I didn't forget 
 it. How you used to wake me up many a night to ask if I had 
 forgotten to feed the hogs or bring in the wood, or milk the cow, 
 any or all of which I was quite likely to do. 
 
 How I used to love to go into the field to plow, where I 
 would hitch the team in some secluded spot and proceed to 
 admire the beauties of nature. And you used to say I never 
 would make a farmer. 
 
 But I liked the farm — all but the work. Ah, there's the rub. 
 To go out into the pleasant sunshine, with the fields aflower and 
 birds warbling their magic carols around me, and the cool shade of 
 the cotton-wood tree overhanging the delightful old swimming 
 hole, beckoning silently but irresistibly in the distance; to be in the 
 midst of such delights as it were, and then be expected to just 
 work. It was a severe shock to my sense ot the fitness of things. 
 
 To hill-up the hateful and commonplace potato vines, and hoe 
 the smartweed and parsley out of the uninteresting corn, to know 
 when it was time to feed and water the clamorous swine, to split 
 the kindling and fill the wood-box every night of my life, in win- 
 ter to husk that same prosaic corn, with cold aching fingers, when 
 the rabbits, quail and squirrels in a thousand nooks and corners 
 were waiting for me to take a gun and go after them. 
 
 Such were a few of the trials of my early life, which you, sir, 
 may have thought I considered fun. Many were the humiliations 
 and reprimands I suffered from my unconquerable forgetfulness. 
 
 But there were things I never forgot. I noted and remembered 
 which way every pig on the farm curled his tail. I knew just 
 how many eggs were under the old blue hen, and when they 
 would hatch to a minute; and I usually had an even number of 
 long and round eggs under each hen, so half would be pullets and 
 half roosters Someone had told me the oblong eggs hatched 
 roosters and the round ones pullets. I never forgot that and my 
 experiments to prove the same were deep and interesting. 
 
I knew every hen on the premises at a glance, and the roosters 
 I knew without looking at them, by their crow. I never tired of 
 admiring the beautiful varieties of their plumage, and never forgot 
 to see them all safely housed for the night, all with their heads 
 turned the same way on the roost, and placed alternately, a hen 
 between two roosters. 
 
 I knew in short everv animal and fowl on the farm, and the 
 peculiarities of each. I knew the hole in the straw stack where 
 every egg lay hidden for two weeks before Easter, and just which 
 farmer in the neighborhood had the earliest watermelons. 
 
 I could tell when it was going to rain too hard to work but 
 would be just right to go fishing. I knew just how fast every 
 horse on the farm could run; for I had often ridden them against 
 every other horse in the neighborhood, though I don't remember 
 that I mentioned it to you at the time. 
 
 So you can easily see, sir, with so much to remember (and I 
 haven't told the half of it), and with my brain filled with so much 
 knowledge of vital importance to me, how it was that I always 
 appeared to you to be so forgetful and absentminded about a tew 
 of the little things that were expected of me, and which you 
 seemed to consider of some consequence. This mav explain to 
 you why I was frequently so tired out that I would lie down 
 under a tree and go to sleep when I was supposed to be hoeing 
 beans, and why I planted the pumpkin seeds all in one hill to save 
 going across the field so many times. 
 
 It may also make clear to you whv when I used to go on foot 
 after the cows, I would ride one of them home, or nearlv so, for 
 I remember I used to dismount just before I got in sight of the 
 house, so possibly you did not notice me. O, but I did have 
 tired spells in those days, when there was so much work to be 
 done. 
 
 But the epoch of mv voung life came with the spring succeed- 
 ing the terrible drought that ruined the corn crop, and our large 
 drove of hogs was left without food for their subsistence and vou 
 
gave me the easy and pleasant task of herding the hateful creatures 
 (now become a blessing) on the broad expanse of wild prairie 
 where thev could browse on the tender grass, and "root hog or 
 die." Ah, those were blessed days to me, when you did all ot 
 the farm work and I could be alone with nature and the hogs, and 
 sit in the shade of a friendly linwood by the "run," and pore 
 over the writings of my favorite poets, while the swine wallowed 
 contentedly in the series of muddy pools that marked the course of 
 the " run " in the rainv season. 
 
 How I did enjoy that spring time, studying the ways of nature 
 on the flowering heather, filled with sunshine and song that my 
 young and sensitive heart absorbed and never forgot. 
 
 Then when the young and thrifty new crop ot corn had grown 
 to the ear, so as to provide subsistence for the swine, you will 
 recall that I was given the task to herd on the range a drove of 
 2 50 Texas steers, and provided with a fine pony, a broad 
 brimmed hat and a whip with a lash sixteen feet long. That was 
 indeed the climax of felicity to me. It suited my taste to a dot, 
 and was about the first work I had been given to do, up to that 
 time that I fell in love with, and I did not neglect it, or let my 
 mind wander from it. 
 
 The beauteous nights of that summer and autumn, as well as the 
 days found me watchful and attendant to my coveted work. The 
 heat ot midday found me in some shady nook poring over a book, 
 with pony lazily grazing near me and most of the herd standing in 
 the shady pool, switching at the flies that seemed to come in 
 swarms. Sometimes a restless scamp ot a steer would grow 
 desperate over either the flies or the monotonv of things, I never 
 knew which, and would start things going for a merry time, and 
 there were always plenty of others to follow him, and away they 
 would run over the rolling prairie. Then the pony and whip 
 came into play, and my spirits rose to the occasion, as I raced 
 madly toward the leaders, standing erect in the stirrups, and play- 
 ing the long lash over the heads of the foremost steers to turn their 
 
course and " wind them up to a stand still." I forgot all danger. 
 The gopher hills and boroughs that might cause my pony to 
 stumble and throw me beneath the thundering hoots oi the herd 
 had no place in my mind. 
 
 I felt the cool wind on my hot face, and so true and swift did 
 the little broncho bear me it seemed as if I were flying, and my 
 spirits rose exultant over material forces, so it seemed, and my 
 heart was full of the keenest delight, and satisfaction with my 
 prowess. 
 
 With a blanket to sleep on how often did I spend a restful 
 night on that broad expanse of prairie, with the stars of heaven 
 twinkling above me, and the majestic moon sitting upon her throne 
 looking serenely down upon my happiness. 
 
 The alert and faithful broncho grazed near me or lay by my side 
 where she could poke an inquisitive nose under my blanket at 
 times to make sure I was there, and I would feel her warm breath 
 for a moment on my face, with the pleasurable sensation of 
 security a child feels when a watchful mother bends over its little 
 bed and kisses it. 
 
 At a Httle distance the contented cattle lay chewing the cud 
 and heaving many a sigh for stomachs over loaded, and the rattle of 
 their long horns, one against another, as they lazily swung the 
 head at an imaginary fly was the reveille that awoke me in the 
 morning, and the notes of frogs in the bayou, and of whip-poor- 
 wills in the edge of the marsh, and the song of the ever-present 
 katy-did and cricket constituted the love songs that lulled me to 
 sleep at night. 
 
 In looking back over the vista of years these seem to have been 
 my happiest days. The peacefulness and serenity of nature and 
 beaudes she unfolded to my eyes, both in the daytime, under the 
 glaring light of a semi-tropic sun, and in the night as I lay on my 
 back studying the wonderful and mystical planetary system, until all 
 would grow indistinct and 1 would wander off into the land of 
 sleep. 
 
Also as I look back upon those old davs I can but be impressed 
 with the rapid flight of time. You, who were then in the prime of 
 life have grown white haired and more feeble, and are nearing 
 life's dim border-land, where the hand of time begins to relax its 
 hold upon the soul, which, weary with the vicissitudes and sinful- 
 ness ot the flesh looks almost yearningly out over the rim of 
 material existence, and is resigned to be separated from its crumb- 
 ling habitation of clav, whenever an All- Wise Providence may 
 direct, and take up that other and better existence that is beauteous 
 and eternal. 
 
 I had not intended to write such a long letter, and I fear there 
 is little in it that is really pertinent to the case in hand, and it will 
 be a very unique dedication for a volume of poems. But the cir- 
 cumstances are unique under which this book has been produced. 
 After all of your admonitions and my own struggle to banish the 
 muses, they have remained steadfast through joy and sorrow, and 
 have made me happy under some conditions that else would have 
 been unbearable, and I am determined now not to go back on my 
 Hfe long friends that have helped so much to cheer my life. My 
 nature seems not to have changed much since the old days, and 
 their joy is still fresh in my heart, and through it all I trace your 
 love and kindness like a guiding star of truth and wisdom. 
 Whether we may ever meet again in this life is uncertain, on 
 account of the distance that divides us; but in dedicating this Httle 
 book to you I only wish to assure you of my undying love and 
 esteem, and mv admiration for your noble traits of character, that 
 I would to God I could imitate. That modest and unassuming 
 intregrity and honesty of purpose that moves firmly and steadily 
 toward the accomplishment of each worthy object, which you 
 possets to so large a measure, has been of inestimable benefit to 
 me in trying to shape my own course in life, though I have fallen 
 far short of that ideal that I have ever found exemplified in you. 
 
 ELMER W. VAN SLYKE. 
 
The Trolaiiur 
 
 Look not for talent in these simple lines, 
 You will not tind it here, I ween; 
 
 Tis but the upper strata of the mines 
 Whose wealth is still unseen. 
 
 Still unexplored. The delver's hand is weak 
 To grapple w^th the arduous task 
 
 That still remains to him ere he can seek 
 One jewel to unmask. 
 
 The classic song to him is still unknown. 
 
 His is tOi sing the humbler lay 
 Of only common-places round him thrown, 
 
 Or gathered by the way. 
 
 Still, e'en the croaking of a frog may please 
 An impluse of the restless heart; 
 
 So will I hope such rhymes as these, 
 Some pleasure may impart. 
 
 And if they shall some rays of joy contain, 
 To make a happier hour for one, 
 
 Who, by their reading, counts it gain, 
 'Twere not so badly done. 
 
 But should the critic roast them on his fork, 
 
 Over his candle, scientific, 
 May Satan aid him in the work ! 
 
 They'll find a field prolific. 
 
 '7 
 
^ ^Uildiuoatl Uy>\ 
 
 111 summer when the woods are green, 
 And leafy boughs are swaying, 
 
 How peaceful is the sylvan scene, 
 Where gentle winds are playing. 
 
 The dark trees nod their lofty crests 
 To greet the cloud that passes. 
 
 And birds go winging to their nests 
 Deep in the dark morasses. 
 
 The ground is carpeted with leaves 
 As soft as velvet Brussels, 
 
 That each recurring season weaves 
 Till footstep scarcely rustles. 
 
 The wild birds sing a roundelay. 
 When rosy dawn is breaking; 
 
 And bull-frogs in the marshes grey 
 Are joyous tumult making. 
 
 The red doe \vith her pretty fawn 
 Glides down among the rushes, 
 
 By cooling water, thither drawn 
 That from the mountain gushes. 
 
 The wild flower droops a pretty head, 
 Tike to a bashful maiden 
 
 When blushes on her cheeks lie red- 
 Tell-tale of heart love-laden. 
 
And wild-wood odors on the air, 
 Sweet as tlie breath of roses, 
 
 Constrain our thoughts to wander there 
 Where nature's charm reposes. 
 
 19 
 
A fisherman I once did know, 
 And he was fond of fishing, 
 
 But Httle else he cared to do, 
 Except a lot of wishing. 
 
 He lived within a little hut, 
 Close by the flowing river ; 
 
 His wife was good at working; but 
 Toil gave his heart a shiver. 
 
So she toiled on, o'er suds and soap 
 
 To fill the meager larder, 
 But he would sit betimes and mope, 
 
 And smoke his pipe the harder. 
 
 I never knew him swear, or steal, 
 Nor e'er give way to passion ; 
 
 So even ran his balance-wheel, 
 He seemed quite out of fashion. 
 
 In calm repose, I've marked him lie 
 Upon the greensward smoking; 
 
 And thoughts of work ne'er came a nigh 
 Despite the neighbors' joking. 
 
 He never grumbled at his fare, 
 
 Nor chided any neighbor; 
 His theme of life was, '1 don't care. 
 
 So that I keep from labor." 
 
 And when the wind was in the north. 
 And winter blizzards blowing; 
 
 Where e'er he could be holding forth, 
 I had no means of knoAving. 
 
 But sure it was, the first spring day 
 That augured, "fish were biting," 
 
 You'd see him by the water-way. 
 The likeliest places sighting. 
 
 With rusty hook and willow pole, 
 
 And line of doubtful tissue, 
 He tried the merits of each hole. 
 
 Expectant of the issue. 
 
And every time he felt a "bite." 
 
 That fish was his ah^eady; 
 His kick was simply "out of sight." 
 
 And he was cool and steady. 
 
 With gilded rod and silken line, 
 I sometimes fished beside him, 
 
 But he would beat me ever)' time- 
 Appearance so belied him. 
 
 And when I homeward turned to go. 
 His fish looked so inviting, 
 
 I'd buy them for a "plunk" or so. 
 And send my own a kiting. 
 
 So, thanks to thee, my humble friend, 
 
 I went in exultation ; 
 Your life had served a noble end; 
 
 You saved my reputation. 
 
TliE yglTt nf Ho|ic 
 
 I cherished a gulden hupe in my heart, 
 
 With a fortress, walled it about, 
 'Till 1 thought it secure in every part. 
 
 And I rested safe from doubt. 
 
 Youth painted the future in roseate hue, 
 
 And the picture was fair tO' see, 
 And my heart was happy when life was new. 
 
 Yet it seemed not so to me. 
 
 Like a magic glass I would hold this hope, 
 
 Where it tinted all tO' my sight, 
 'Till the future seemed a kaleidoscope 
 
 Of the land of pure delight. 
 
 But the Aveeds grew up by my fortress wall; 
 
 Yet I reckoned not of decay ; 
 For it seemed so strong that it could not fall, 
 
 As I careless dreamed away. 
 
 ]\ianhood came on, and the wall was still there, 
 
 Looking staunch in its ivy green, 
 That the fingers of Time had knit with care, 
 
 'Till the rifts could scarce be seen. 
 
 But another hope in my bosom grew ; 
 
 So T built a new wall in pride. 
 And the crumbling wall that my youthtime knew, 
 
 I left with the hope that died. 
 
 23 
 
Then feverish hopes came fohowing fast, 
 And my walls were hurried and frail, 
 
 But still I had ever believed the last. 
 The one that would never fail. 
 
 But ruinous Time, at work in the land. 
 
 Bade each one, it its turn to fall ; 
 But he still supplied with a lavish hand. 
 
 New strength to rebuild them all. 
 
 But now all the castles in ruins lie, 
 Where the joys of my heart have died— 
 
 Marking my course, as the years go by, 
 Like mile-posts by life's wayside. 
 
 With sweet recollections, scattered between. 
 
 To go with me adown the years, 
 That shall keep fond memories fresh and green. 
 
 Bedewed by remorseful tears. 
 
 Brave hopes ! and vain, they are living yet. 
 
 But the walls that I built in pride, 
 In ruins lie dark, like a vain regret. 
 
 Repented and cast aside. 
 
 Poor, weak humanity, built upon sand. 
 These walls, too, shall crumbling he, 
 
 But the soul is linked to a holier land. 
 That our hopes can dimly see. 
 
 Who knows? The future we see in our youth. 
 
 All seeming so fair and near,— 
 Who knows but that is the heaven, in truth. 
 
 We thought would be ours here? 
 
 24 
 
Hope carries the light and we follow on, 
 'Till we stand by the waters chill, 
 
 And over the tide its gleam has gone, 
 But it leads, it leads us still. 
 
 25 
 
^n guruing an the ®H ^lanclr 
 
 The cricket sang out from a hidden spot 
 
 A song with a lonesome refrain ; 
 The whip-poor-will answered across the lot 
 In tones my maturer years had forgot, 
 
 Till I dreamed of the old days again. 
 
 The bull-frog was croaking a bold bassoon 
 
 In the pond where the lilies sleep, 
 And the coyote wailed at the rising moon 
 In his lair far over the dark lagoon 
 
 Where the wild summer roses creep. 
 
 The ''whirr" oi a startled grouse on the air 
 
 And the shot from a hunter's gun~ 
 A crackling sound and a fire's red glare 
 Leaped out of the gathering darkness there, 
 On the prairie across the run. 
 
 The balmy breath of the prairie breeze 
 
 And the odor of burning grass, 
 Came wafting in through the cotton wood trees 
 And quickened my heart to old memories 
 
 Of the days that too quickly pass. 
 
 I listened long to the voices of night 
 
 And dreamily puffed my cigar, 
 While visions came to my sensitive sight. 
 Recalling those early scenes of delight 
 
 Like loved ones returned from afar. 
 
 26 
 
Simeon Greene's Automobile 
 
 .f^LL MEU,/NAMfffC.AD06H£RMD0ym. 
 
 Our Simeon Greene brought home a machine- 
 
 'Twas an automobile sure as sin. 
 Says he, ''Now B'gosh, they'll see 'f I'm a Josh 
 
 When past their old trotters I spin." 
 
 "I'll get there or bust and take nobody's dust 
 And I'll give them the merry go-by— 
 
 With their horses and traps they'll wonder perhaps 
 'F I'm a meteor out of the sky. 
 
 27 
 
"An' won't they all stare an' say, I declare 
 
 Ef thet r' aint old Simeon Greene 
 I s'posed he's too tight to spend such a sight 
 
 Fur a new fangled flyin' masheen. 
 
 "They'll open their eyes I guess in surprise 
 But I'll sit there and not care a durn 
 
 An' swell up in pride as past them I glide 
 While I give them bright handles a turn, 
 
 "O, ain't she a bird? these levers I've heard 
 
 Are as easy tO' work as can be ; 
 An' I understand about their command 
 
 Fur the feller explained it tO' me. 
 
 "Samanthy, come here, I'll show you my dear 
 A kerrige that is right up to date 
 
 'F you're afraid to get in, I'll take a short spin 
 An' I'll stop fur you here at the gate. 
 
 "I'll show you," said he, "It's safe as can be, 
 So' I'll just take a turn up the pike, 
 
 You wait fer me here, I'll stop fer you, dear 
 An' take yoti to church if you like." 
 
 Firm on the seat ; his hand on the lever 
 Simeon sat there feeling so clever. 
 Samanthy, his wife, quite approving looked on 
 While he touched the lever and off he was gone. 
 But he could not keep his machine inside 
 The road that he always considered wide. 
 And the fowls that basked in the sun that da}^ 
 Flew frightened and cackling out of his way. 
 
 28 
 
As he capered and curved from fence tO' fence 
 He felt the excitement growing intense ; 
 And somehow he couldn't obtain control 
 Of the apparatus, to save his soul, 
 And he came full nigh upsetting the thing 
 As he turned about on a "pigeon wing"~ 
 Topsy Turvy, his vehicle tipping 
 Two wheels up and the other two slipping 
 But it righted up as he caught the pike, 
 And he swore he never had seen the like 
 
 Of how those levers get mixed in one's mind 
 For the one he wanted he couldn't find. 
 So away he went with bobble and lurch 
 Forgot Samanthy and goin' to church 
 For to stop the thing was his only care. 
 But the speed increased till his flowing hair 
 And beard commingled, all backward blowing 
 Losing his head as the speed kept growing. 
 While Samanthy, dumb with affright stood still, 
 As he disappeared o'er a distant hill. 
 Zipping and skipping and tipping he went. 
 Tugging away at the lever now bent. 
 Pell mell, in a panic, a dog he ran down, 
 And chuffing and puffing he threatened the town ; 
 That lay in the valley in Sabbath repose, 
 And the people he passed, by the dust that arose 
 Knew some dire calamity dashed down the hill, 
 And wisely drew far to one side and stood still. 
 As the dust-covered Simeon, tugging in vain. 
 Still battled with levers his speed to restrain ; 
 Hatless, he wrought with the zeal of despair, 
 As he flew past his neighbors, grinning there-- 
 
 29 
 
"Go- it! You'll get there in time," said one-- 
 "Gee! Haw!" cried another, "That was well d(jne" 
 He geed and hawed, a reeling and spieling, 
 Which gave him a sort of a dizzy feeling, 
 And the faster he flew down the rutt}' hill, 
 The more he dreaded the inevitable spill. 
 And was casting around for a timely jump; 
 When the wheel struck a boulder with a thum[) !— 
 Just where the road to- the town branches off, 
 And he went k'splash in the watering trough. 
 While with many an angvdar turn and gyration 
 The auto' menaced the whole creation— 
 At least, thereabout, charging left and right 
 Smashing and crashing ! a wonderful sight ! 
 Regardless of fences and right of way, 
 It reeled thro' the garden of Deacon Gray, 
 Tipped O'ver his smoke house and six swarms of bees 
 But, not to be daunted by things like these, 
 It ran over a cow and a Jersey calf- 
 Split Thompkinses chicken coop half in half; 
 And a Sabbatharian wash spread out. 
 Plucked up by the wheels was wound about 
 Till sheets, pillow cases and shirts galore. 
 Were flaunted on Sunday as ne'er before. 
 Then, into the street through the picket fences 
 It frightened church-goers out of their senses, 
 With its flying sails and destructive spirit, 
 It splashed and spattered every one near it, 
 A flying splinter hit good Elder Spratt, 
 And he turned heels up, in his new silk hat. 
 While sweet sister Prudence, more scared that hurt 
 Caught a swat in the face from a mud soaked skirt. 
 
 30 
 
Then it followed the road on out of the city, 
 Just missed running over a tramp, more's the pity- 
 It killed two sheep and upset Jones's surry, 
 Helping him out in somewhat of a hurry, 
 And did a whole lot that I need not mention ; 
 Acting in short like the de'ils own invention. 
 
 'Til it struck an oak stump, 
 
 With a thud and a bump, 
 
 And into a lake it went, with a jump. 
 
 Some have made a shrewd guess, 
 There's a hole, bottomless, 
 
 Where it sank far out from the shore ; 
 But, be that as it may. 
 It is planted to stay, 
 
 For it never was seen any more. 
 
 They say Greene and his wife 
 Are still happy in life. 
 
 And consider the old way the best 
 But they're "rigging" him still 
 On the "Black Demon's" spill 
 
 And the neiehbors can tell vou the rest. 
 
 31 
 
T. Je ^itt TalmagE 
 
 Talmage is dead ! The world may hear no more 
 The rhythmic eloquence his voice could wield 
 Portraying thoughts, drawn from that magic well. 
 Of God-given intellect, to move men's hearts. 
 
 This generation saw none mightier than he, 
 To hurl a Gospel truth against the foe. 
 His ardent soul, linked to a matchless mind, 
 Explored each avenue that led to God. 
 
 He rent the veil, revealing to men's eyes 
 The marvelous Beauty-land we see in dreams 
 And courage lent to many a doubting heart, 
 To' feel assured of God's unfailing love. 
 
 No creed he knew. His was to preach the Word. 
 Vain theories he left for smaller minds. 
 He soared above them all, believing God, 
 And from His work, deep inspiration drew. 
 
 In flower and tree, and depth of ocean buie, 
 
 And constellary lights of heaven's dome. 
 
 His eye could trace the beautiful and true; 
 
 His genius mount the heights whence angels come. 
 
 32 
 
■Jmiiressicus from '-Cub's Tornis 
 
 O, master minstrel with thy magic art, 
 What harnion}^ 3'oiir measures beat, 
 
 In thrilHng notes which reach the heart. 
 With sweetest melody replete. 
 
 In tlie story of ''The Bells" 
 
 Ix)ucl and high, or softl}' ringing 
 
 I can mark the changing swells. 
 
 And can hear them in your singing- 
 
 ] can feel their x'cry Ideating, 
 
 y\ll the melody repeating, 
 
 In the song you sang so well, 
 
 'Til my very heart in rhyme 
 
 Beats their time— 
 
 'Til they thrill me and they fill me 
 
 With their chime. 
 
 O, sweetest singer of a sad refrain. 
 
 Fresh from the wells of human thought, 
 The measures of thy subtle strain 
 
 Deep impress on my feelings wrought, 
 In thy dream about "The Raven," 
 With its grim and dismal setting, 
 That strange tale is still engraven 
 On my mind, be3^ond forgetting— 
 How he ]ierched above your door, 
 With tliat message. "Nevermore—" 
 Many a time within my fancy, 
 This odd bit of necromancy, 
 Whispering- of the lost Lenore, 
 
 33 
 
With its words of mystic sadness, 
 Like a shadow fraught with madness- 
 Still to plead, and to implore, 
 Tells me that each vain tomorrow, 
 Half of jo)^ and half of sorrow. 
 To m}^ heart shall ne'er restore. 
 Save in dreams my broken idol,-- 
 Broken here for evermore. 
 
 34 
 
Hoiie of Tamai'rcrui 
 
 O, Sweet To-morrow, on thy breast 
 
 Our burdens we can lay 
 
 That press too hard today, 
 And gain a night of precious rest. 
 
 To-morrow ! What a wealth of weal- 
 When hopes triumphant rise— 
 What victories to my eyes 
 
 Can fair to-morrow still reveal. 
 
 What balm there is to human hearts 
 
 In that one word to-morrow. 
 How oft it heals the cruel smarts 
 
 Our fears today would borrow. 
 
 O, blissful Hope! We still may wistful wait 
 To pluck our joys within tomorrow's gate. 
 
 ^^\ 
 
 35 
 
Spring Hill 
 
 On the brow of a prairie knoll 
 There stood and is standing still 
 
 The school house dear, known far and near 
 To the wise ones as "Old Spring Hill." 
 
 And my memory often wanders 
 
 To that spot where long ago 
 I had more joy as a barefoot boy 
 
 Than my manhood e'er can know. 
 
 The girls I knew were angels ; 
 
 I imagined them nought but good, 
 
 And one was fair with auburn hair 
 In the bud of sweet maidenhood. 
 
 She used to wait and walk with me 
 
 And it gave my heart a thrill. 
 For I loved her true as children do 
 
 In the school house at Old Spring Hill. 
 
 All the world was innocent then 
 To my unsuspecting eyes, 
 
 And life was sweet in trust complete 
 That I lost e'er I learned to prize. 
 But over the years of mist I see 
 One spot that is sacred still, 
 Where love was pure and will endure 
 Forever at Old Spring Hill. 
 
 37 
 
The girl of my childish fancy 
 To Heaven was borne away, 
 
 With youth's clean page unsoiled by age 
 
 And untarnished by sin's decay. 
 
 But memory hangs like a halo 
 
 Where I may wander at will 
 
 Adown the glen with her as then 
 
 In that paradise— Spring Hill. 
 
 38 
 
&nt ^Hlmm -J U^arlt) L,truE 
 
 A great joy my heart has entered 
 Since you gave the kiss of love; 
 
 In you all my life has centered 
 As my faith to you shall prove. 
 
 You are fairest of all earth's creatures 
 
 And your smiles are all to me; 
 Heaven's light shines in your features- 
 May its blessings rest on thee. 
 
 O, thou object of my affection, 
 
 More than all the power above 
 Thrills my heart at recollection 
 Of one whom 1 dearly love. 
 
 You have entered my life forever 
 
 Your love Ihave cherished with care, 
 
 From my heart you shall go, ah, never 
 You are planted forever there. 
 
 How sweet is the thought, my darling 
 That we never more may part. 
 
 How sweet is the love, my darling 
 Of one faithful trusting heart. 
 
 Or, if distance divides us, my darling 
 And my heart shall sorrowful be. 
 
 It will bound with joy, my darling 
 At thought of again seeing thee. 
 
 39 
 
Or e'en if chilled by death's cold wave, 
 You should join that choir above 
 
 I will write in tears upon your grave 
 "One whom I dearly love." 
 
 40 
 
(^A Ballad on Working and Shirking.) 
 
 '[ he man who keeps honestly working awa}' 
 
 Sort of steady and slow 
 Saving up something from every week's pay 
 Tho' his clothes are tattered— be that as it may— 
 
 He'll be somebody first thing you know. 
 
 11 is hat may be faded, but under the rim 
 
 Is a brain that's all right, 
 And envy of others ahead in the swim 
 Casts never a shadow of gloom over him; 
 
 But he buckles right into the fight. 
 
 His vest may be minus, but under his shirt 
 
 Is a strong-beating heart, 
 'J'hat stoops not to sicken at every small hurt, 
 Nor questions to toil in the grime and the dirt 
 
 If Dame F'ortune assigns him the part. 
 
 Whatever she brings to his hand is well-wrought- 
 
 His employers can see 
 How his work engrosses the best of his thought 
 And they find he's the very man they had sought, 
 
 And will give him a "raise" presently. 
 
 I'ut here is another of different mien- 
 Hearty fellow, well met :— 
 His desire is to keep his hands white and clean 
 Nor cares if his burden on others shall lean 
 You might call him a "living regret." 
 
 41 
 
lie never gets into a place that will fit— 
 
 For it's always too small. 
 But himself is the only one that sees it 
 And when he goes after a better, gets "nit"— 
 
 Then he faints and does nothing at all, 
 
 L' envoi 
 
 Prince I have found them on many a field 
 Fighting life's battle as on they go. 
 
 Reaping the harvest their actions yield- 
 Each with his burden of weal or woe. 
 
 42 
 
The L,QUPr's Soltloqui) 
 
 O, butternut tree, with spreading boughs 
 
 Close by my window sill, 
 I note thy leaflets peeping forth, 
 
 This sunny day, and still. 
 
 I have watched thy naked branches, tossed, 
 
 By winter's snowy blast. 
 When my heart, as barren and restless 
 
 Made life too bitter to last. 
 
 And the moaning wind in thy branches 
 Found echo within my breast ; 
 
 Filled with a tide of misgivings— 
 With hope and fear distressed. 
 
 But the dreary days as they come and go 
 
 Bring little of cheer to me ; 
 So I envy thy hopes in the bursting buds, 
 
 O, beautiful butternut tree. 
 
 Yet, firm as thy roots are emplanted 
 
 In the bosom of the earth. 
 Are grown my affections around the heart 
 
 That to my love gave birth. 
 
 But since my love unrequited is, 
 
 Let it die and crumble away, 
 Like a fire-touched oak of the forest 
 
 That succumbs to a slow decay. 
 
 43 
 
Adown the glen in a bosky dell 
 
 When the evening shades are falling, 
 
 I hear the sounds of a distant bell, 
 And the voice of the farmer calling. 
 
 Co, boss! CO, boss! They come up the lane 
 From the depths of the dusky dingle — 
 
 Star and Pansy, and Spot and Jane, 
 And Bess with her bell a jingle. 
 
 Anon I hear from the farmyard rise, 
 
 " Hist! so there, and stop yer switchin' ! 
 
 Come up here Billy, an' mind these flies. 
 An' stop this rarin' an' pitchin! 
 
 Sich tarnal cows I never did see. 
 There goes her foot in the bucket." 
 
 Whack! "I'll lam ye to kick onto me. 
 You'll regret that you undertuck it.' 
 
"So there, Jane, you had better stand still! " 
 
 Comes to me over the paling. 
 Say, maw," I hear in a treble ?hrill, 
 
 "Paw just gave Pansy a whaling." 
 
 " Come, Johnny! its time you was in bed. 
 An' wash your feet you young Paddy? 
 
 Tom! what ye doin' out in the shed? 
 You oughter be helpin' yer daddy." 
 
 Whay! Git along there, you ugly thing. 
 You're alius bound to be hookin' — 
 
 " Sary, fetch some water from the spring! 
 Gin we do our mornin' cookin'." 
 
 ** Well, mother, I guess the chores are done — 
 
 O, no, I forgot the chickens — 
 I must be up two hours before sun; 
 
 I tell ye farmin's the dickens." 
 
V\\t Saul 
 
 Mysterious origin of the soul ! 
 'I he inner self that grows into our lives 
 To make us higher than the other beasts; 
 For beasts we are, save for the Divine spark 
 That, breathed from the Creator, blends with life- 
 And 3^et a life within itself complete. 
 A guardian angel chained unto a beast 
 To make him more God-like while here he lives 
 And bid him know there is a God in Heaven. 
 Purel}^ it pleads within the carnate heart 
 And is not stifled, nay, nor stained by sin; 
 For, being Divine, it cannot be defiled. 
 Though all the heart be rotted out with sin, 
 When Death unfolds its pinions, back it flies 
 To flim who breathed it into sinful man, 
 To live a part of God forever more. 
 Men vainl}^ try tO' solve its weal or woe. 
 But God in wisdom gives us not to know. 
 
 r^=^ 
 
 46 
 
-Jii iUt Night 
 
 In the night, by the moonbeams bright 
 
 As I stroll for an hour alone, 
 I forget the strife of day 
 When evening fancies play, 
 And where cooling winds are blown 
 In the night. 
 
 In the night, with cigar alight, 
 I wander for a happy hour ; 
 And my spirits rapturous rise 
 Neath the star bespangled skies. 
 And I feel their soothing power 
 In the night. 
 
 In the night, absent-minded quite. 
 
 Where I'm walking I very little reck 
 And the clothes line in our yard, 
 Stops me rather quick and hard, 
 When I get it in the neck 
 In the night. 
 
 47 
 
Staunch and strong on its sills of oak, 
 
 Where the tall elm-trees their shadows throw 
 The dear old homestead is standing there, 
 
 Firm as it was in the long ago. 
 
 And the gravel walk is fringed with flowers 
 Just as in childhood I saw them grow. 
 
I saw the wrens on its ivied wall 
 
 Flit in and out as they used to do, 
 And the chimney swallows still were seen 
 
 Darting about in the azure blue. 
 And even the tree where I carved my name 
 
 Bore that impress the long years through. 
 
 1 wandered down by the orchard well 
 Where lady-slipper and blue-bell met, 
 
 And the morning sun made silver beads 
 
 Where the dew drops clung to each leaflet wet. 
 
 And the robin sang from the pippin bough 
 As in days I can ne'er forget. 
 
 The brook where speckled trout used to leap, 
 
 Inviting tO' try with a hook my skill 
 How sadly shrunken by passing years— 
 
 I find it only a little rill, 
 But the same sweet song it sang to- the child 
 
 To the man it is singing still. 
 
 The well was there but the wind-swept leaves 
 Had choked it up as the years went by, 
 
 Like the heart of man, I said, alas, 
 
 When the fountains of youth run dry, * 
 
 And the hope and trust that our childhood knew 
 Are forsaken and left to die. 
 
 Sadly I strolled 'round the dear old place. 
 
 Lingering o'er each familiar scene ; 
 Tired of the city and life's turmoil 
 
 I longed for the old time joys serene. 
 That divided lay from my wistful heart 
 
 By the years that had rolled between. 
 
 49 
 
rioters of gucuini] 
 
 When the toil of day is ended 
 
 And the sunset shadows fall, 
 Casting restless picture.-, blended 
 
 On my humble cot Lag e wall, 
 
 Comes a troop of merry Fancies 
 
 At the peaceful close of day, 
 And with sportive songs and dances 
 
 'Round my chair they ceaseless pliiy. 
 
 And like homing doves descending 
 
 Come the Muses, flitting fast ; 
 I can feel them o'er me bending. 
 
 Hear them whisper as they pass. 
 
 And my heart is full to bursting 
 
 With the thoughts I would portray ; 
 
 But the words my lips are thirsting 
 Still elude me day by day. 
 
 I can see the fields Elysian 
 
 Where eternal blisses reign, 
 But they vanish like a vision, 
 
 And my written thoughts are vain. 
 
 But the voices still pursue me 
 
 When the evenings 'round me twine, 
 
 And their thonghts go thrilling through me 
 Still the'r language is not mine. 
 
 5° 
 
Auti ^hc 4s (Sane 
 
 ( In memory cf my Alother. ) 
 
 And she is gone ; the one I loved, revered ; 
 
 Who bade me Hve, and soothed my every woe ; 
 At middle age, before life's leaf had seared. 
 
 She wandered forth as one full loth to go. 
 
 Her blest Redeemer held her by the hand, 
 
 And she was cheered by faith she long had known, 
 
 And feared no ill to enter that strange land, 
 For He was near, she need not go alone. 
 
 Her latest looks and prayers but feebly said, 
 
 Spoke worlds of love she held toO' dear tO' leave ; 
 
 Still, bade she all who lingered 'round her bed, 
 To bravely bear, and not too sorely grieve. 
 
 Her spirit passed. O, God ; I would not now 
 Think on that scene of anguish, all too' deep; 
 
 Or call to mind that dear, but death-cold brow, 
 As last they saw her lie in dreamless sleep. 
 
 Hide from my sight the garments of the tomb ! 
 
 Let me forget the darkness and decay ! 
 Let me forget all but the flowers that bloom, 
 
 In mem'ry green, she planted by the wa}^ 
 
 SI 
 
Sgmpattrg For gail 
 
 My ma she dresses fit to kill, 
 And sisters dress some too, 
 
 But poor old dad he foots the bills; 
 'Tis all that he can do, 
 
 And every night he sits and smokes, 
 Like he was kind o' blue. 
 
 He never dresses up at night 
 Nor acts the least bit spiT' 
 
 When all the rest are gay and bright, 
 I've often v^ondered why 
 
 He'd rather sit alone and act 
 Like he's about to cry. 
 
 I ast him once what made him so; 
 
 He only shook his head, 
 A sayin,' "Sometime I would know." 
 
 And then he went to bed 
 A mutterin' 'bout some bills tO' pay— 
 
 I guess that's what he said. 
 
 I heard a neighbor t'other day 
 
 Commentin' on my dad, 
 A-wondrin' ma could be so gay, 
 
 When pa was always sad ; 
 And how he worked jist like a slave. 
 
 So ma could dress and gad. 
 
 52 
 
I guess I've got it figgered out, 
 
 About my daddy's ills, 
 These stylish things I see about, 
 
 And fancy frips and frills ; 
 They keep him tired about to death, 
 
 A payin' of the bills. 
 
 TItb S:|jarraui HausB 
 
 O, chirping sparrow, basest tramp of all 
 Building your nest wherever chance decrees, 
 Living a tuneless life of silly ease, 
 But marked by the Creator when you fall. 
 What wonder you were chosen as the most 
 
 Abject, insipid thing for an example 
 To show how nothing in His plan is lost. 
 
 In you the writer found a worthy sample. 
 So mayhap He will not despise the deed 
 Should I put up this box, where you can breed. 
 
 S3 
 
The HWnn ^IJha ^Xins n GEuius 
 
 A Genius sat down on a log, in glee 
 By the side of the river's brink, 
 
 To exult o'er the happy thought that he 
 Had been born on purpose to think. 
 
 54- 
 
He thought and thought and stroked his hair, 
 And was lost to surroundings quite, 
 
 But the lierce old bull that was grazing there 
 Was "onto his nibs" all right. 
 
 In calmest composure the Genius sat, 
 With a far away look on his face, 
 
 Giving ponderous problems grave combat 
 Unaware of his dangerous place. 
 
 He rummaged the loft of his intellect 
 The how of the whichness to hnd ; 
 
 For he deemed his mission ^vas to direct 
 The uplifting of all mankind. 
 
 And he formed a plan and tucked it awa}^ 
 
 In a pigeon-hole of his thought ; 
 And gloated to think how the world some day 
 
 Should envy the work he had wrought. , 
 
 lUit his i)lan did not carry. Sim])ly this,— 
 
 His deductions left out the bull, 
 And his calculations went all amiss 
 
 Just as though he were any fool. 
 
 i''or the angry beast took a lift at him 
 And his theories great and small, 
 
 And in the dark river "doused his glim" 
 And that was the end of it all. 
 
 55 
 
0ur 0uin 
 
 The fondest words our love can frame 
 Should fall to those around our hearth, 
 For there are none in all the earth 
 Can ever be to us the same. 
 
 Peace and good will should center here— 
 I.ove rule the home with gentle sway ; 
 The harsh words left imsaicl each day 
 W^ill banish many a bitter tear. 
 
 So let the best that we can give 
 Pjc lavished on our own- 
 Dear hearts, who make it joy to live 
 When other friends have flown. 
 
 For fascinating strangers may beguile 
 
 But our dear own, they love us all the while. 
 
 S6 
 
^ Sinner's Sclilnqug 
 
 I do not care for church, Hke some, 
 Who never miss a chance to go, 
 
 I somehow ruther stay to hum 
 
 An' sit around an' watch things grow. 
 
 I s'pose folks think I'm wicked, too, 
 
 Cause when the rest to church have gone 
 
 1 sometimes hnd odd bits to do 
 
 A putterin' round the barn and lawn. 
 
 1 never hev but this one day 
 
 To rest and do jist as I please, 
 An' so I kind o' like to stay 
 
 Among my flocks an' flowers an' bees. 
 
 There's joy and sunshine in my heart 
 
 Within these bounds where long I've trod; 
 
 More than the sermons can impart 
 That tell about the wrath of God. 
 
 I uster like the church quite well 
 Till Elder Sackcloth cum along, 
 
 A preachin' from his texts on "Hell" 
 Which set me sort of goin' wrong. 
 
 Somehow the sermons w'ant jist right— 
 They kind o' filled me up with gloom, 
 
 Instid of making things more bright 
 They pinted to an awful doom. 
 
 57 
 
I couldn't Stan' it to go there 
 A feelin' I's about the worst, 
 
 Nor that I'd cHmb the Golden Stah" 
 An' see some other soul accurst 
 
 It pained me jist the same to learn 
 Though I were of the saintly few~ 
 
 That other souls in wrath must burn 
 To prove that God is just and true. 
 
 So I'll be happ_y while I can, 
 A hopin' of the best for all 
 
 An' trustin' His good-will to man 
 Who even marks the sparrow's fall. 
 
 5^ 
 
^ Spaiird ^lonuince 
 
 In a novel she was reading, 
 
 Drooping low her pretty head; 
 
 From behind, her lover stealing. 
 Slyly "rubbered" while she read. 
 
 And he watched her crimson blushes 
 That were playing hide and seek, 
 
 When the hero to his sweetheart 
 Burning words of love did speak. 
 
 How he knelt to tell the story 
 And implore her tO' be his, 
 
 When her rich old irate daddy 
 Bade him go about his biz. 
 
 O ! the heart break of the heroine 
 When the pretty play was spoiled, 
 
 And the beau her pa selected. 
 Was a villian to be foiled. 
 
 How he conquered all the forces 
 That the fates could hold in store ! 
 
 Just to see her love-light kindle 
 When he knelt to her once more. 
 
 "O how lovely," sighed the maiden 
 As she laid her book aside, 
 
 "O to be so warmly courted 
 By a hero true and tried." 
 
 59 
 
"He must win me by devotion 
 Be my slave, and handsome be, 
 
 Tall and princely in his bearing 
 With no thought aside from me." 
 
 So she murmured, happy dreaming 
 While her lover ran away— 
 
 That was fifteen years ago sir. 
 And she's single yet they say. 
 
 
 60 
 
5e mt minn totsE TOalT %g 
 
 I weahs mah hair pahted in de middle. 
 All you wooly-head coons, get away! 
 
 I don't 'sociate wid plain-top niggahs, 
 Sence de ole man gib me a raise in pay. 
 
 Cho. 
 
 don't yon see dem patent-ledder boots ? 
 And ketch onto de red cravat ! 
 
 1 weahs mah obercoat on mah arm, 
 An' I carries a high silk hat. 
 
 Wen I santers into church a Sunday mornin', 
 De ladies all forget about der prayers. 
 
 An' de low-down, cotton-pickin' niggahs, 
 
 Dey whispers roun' "Jes see him put on airs." 
 
 In society Ise jes de proppah figgah. 
 
 Wen de cake-walks an' pahties am in bloom, 
 
 An' shore dey couldn't get along without me, 
 'Cause I's de finest chromo in de room. 
 
 De ladies come smilin', an' a smirkin', 
 An jealous coons go sneakin' out de doah, 
 An' I takes mah pick ob de whole sweet bunch, 
 'Cause I aint a cheap niggah any more. 
 
 6i 
 
grar &U gohii 
 
 Now, Farmer John, a likely lad 
 
 Of twenty years and two. 
 Went wooing with a fair coquette 
 
 Whose eyes were heavenly blue; 
 And' though she smiled on other beaux, 
 
 His heart to her was true. 
 Cho. 
 
 Dear Old John; but his heart was in its place; 
 
 Just a little slow to be sure, 
 But always in the race. 
 
 He is not much for beauty, 
 And his blood— it is not blue, 
 
 B/iit none can compare to dear old John, 
 With his heart so true. 
 
 She married with a selfish man, 
 
 For sake of wealth and pride, 
 But soon she felt to her regret. 
 
 She better far had died ; 
 For he was recreant and false. 
 
 And she an unloved bride. 
 
 Her old friend, John, as time went on, 
 
 In grief bemoaned his fate. 
 And though the years had made him rich, 
 
 He never took a mate; 
 For something ever told his heart 
 
 To still hope on and wait. 
 
 62 
 
Neglect and poverty, at length, 
 Had claimed her as their own, 
 
 When husband, pride and wealth had gone, 
 And erstwhile friends had flown. 
 
 O, then she thought of one true heart 
 That mourned for her alone. 
 
 He searched her out and dried her tears- 
 "Forgive me, John" she cried, 
 
 "How can you ask of one so false 
 To now become your bride?" 
 
 But dear old John, he caught right on 
 An,d wouldn't be turned aside. 
 
 ^ mist (Old Wink 
 
 ( A Fable. ) 
 
 A sly old mink with a wink and a blink 
 Near a tempting chicken sat down to think ; 
 And he did not tread 'neath the hanging bait 
 For he feared some danger might lay in wait, 
 It was so unnatural for men to bring 
 And place for his good such an easy thing 
 As a fresh-killed chicken upon a stake 
 Where it would be easy for him to take. 
 So he sniffed the air and circled with care 
 And never a leaf did he rustle there 
 For he thought mayhap, there's a lurking trap 
 That unwise footsteps might spring with a snap. 
 Ah, he was a wise old mink, I should think 
 And when he got home he took pen and ink 
 And wrote for his children a maxim true, 
 "Don't touch what your enemies offer to you." 
 
 63 
 
Htlg Hnns^ %a 
 
 I's jes a gwine back to my ole honey, 
 
 Cause she aint gwine to 'buse me any more, 
 She wrote dat I needn't earn de money, 
 Ef I'd love her like I did before. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Well, Ha! Ha! He! He! What do yon think? 
 
 Den I'll have nuffin to do- 
 She cooks th' vittles, she earns de chink. 
 
 While I's de High-Cock-a-doodle-do. 
 
 My clo's theys a gettin' mighty tattered 
 An' my lan'lady dnns me fer de dough 
 
 An' my frens dey's gettin' sort o' scattered 
 So I's gwine back to you, my honey Jo. 
 
 You banged my head and you tol' me to "git," 
 When de yallar gal kissed me on de sly, 
 
 But now dat you says yous sorry for hit, 
 I couldn't turn you down if I should try. 
 
 So honey my Jo, I's comin' back to you. 
 Where deres plenty for to eat an' to wear 
 
 I'll forgive you honey like I ought to do 
 For I haven't such a "cinch" any where. 
 
 64 
 
discouraging Traspects 
 
 Wen de days grow shorter an' de air am chill, 
 An' de hail comes peltin' on de pane. 
 
 Den ole brer rabbit am layin' mighty still 
 For he drudder wear his furs dan go plain. 
 
 De possum am hidin' in de tall gum-tree, 
 Darkey gwine to cotch him if he can ; 
 
 Raccoon am a snoozin' safe as he can be. 
 An' he likes it better dan de fry in' pan. 
 
 Corn cake it am plenty, but it's sorter dry, 
 Wen T'anksgivin' day's a comin' on, 
 
 Turkeys dey am lubly, but dey roos' too high 
 An' de w'ite man am a watchin' wid a gun. 
 
 De chicken might do, but he cry too shrill 
 An' de fedders get scattered on de way, 
 An' de ole watch dog, he will nebber keep still. 
 An' here it am a most T'anksgivin' day. 
 
 6s 
 
h ^.tlhcilB ^tari) 
 
 6' 
 
 When the dew on the grass is falling 
 And the man in the moon is in sight 
 
 I hear a wee voice that is calling, 
 
 "Turn in here an' tiss me dood night." 
 
 "Tum tiss me and tell me a story." 
 
 O, yon rogue I will tell you a tale 
 Of a man who went out in a dory 
 
 And captured a monstrous old whale. 
 
 Now, a whale is as big as this house, 
 
 And he lives away down in the sea, 
 Now just keep as still as a mouse 
 
 And ril tell you how that can be. 
 
 The sea is as big as our yard, 
 
 Or a little bit larger, perhaps; 
 And the old whale's tail is so hard 
 
 He can knock a big boat all to scraps. 
 
 This man went out in a boat one day, 
 When along came the biggest old whale; 
 
 And there the boat was ! Right in the way, 
 Where he wiggled and waggled his tail ! 
 
 And he flapped the man out into the sea, 
 
 But I guess he was sorry then, 
 For the man just swallowed him, slick as could be 
 
 And then swam back to the shore again. 
 
 66 
 
^'Iai)ing (Srantlma 
 
 Baby Teresa is Grandma now, 
 
 As she sits in the great arm-chair, 
 And over her book with a sidelong look 
 
 She speaks to her children there; 
 "Now don't 'oo 'tillens make any noise 
 
 Or else I shall send you to bed, 
 For dood dirls and boys don't make any noise,' 
 
 In her sweet baby voice she said. 
 
 The china doll with the yellow hair 
 
 At the soldier-boy stole a look, 
 And they both kept still as good children will 
 
 When Grandma is reading a book. 
 But the sailor boy was so taken back 
 
 By the sternness oi Grandma's way 
 That he stubbed his toe and over did go. 
 
 And flat on the floor he lay. 
 
 The cow with a wobbly head looked round 
 
 At the spectacles Grandma wore, 
 And with mute surprise in her dreamy eyes 
 
 She wheeled herself out oi the door. 
 And dark Diana over there 
 
 In the corner felt so' blue, 
 That she didn't speak for more than a week 
 
 Which I think was a shame, don't vou? 
 
 67 
 
^0 
 
The pickaninny with goo-goo eyes 
 
 Crawled under the trundle bed. 
 He was 'fraid of the spook, I guess, in the book 
 
 That Grandma had sometimes read. 
 And what a sad time for them all, 
 
 When they had tO' keep still as mice. 
 I think don't you, it makes children blue? 
 
 And it isn't the least bit nice. 
 
 69 
 
^U ill ^nuQCEnt Vln^ 
 
 Little Tommy Brown 
 Of meddlesome renown, 
 
 Went fooling with a gun one day, 
 Foir he wished to know 
 If the thing would go, 
 
 And 'twas all in innocent play. 
 
 He first tried the lock 
 To see if 'twould cock, 
 
 And he found that it worked quite well. 
 Then he tried to see 
 What inside might be, 
 
 And the rest I dislike tO' tell. 
 
 I'll not tell the rest- 
 You've already guessed ; 
 
 Soi take heed little boys I say; 
 Don't meddle at all 
 For disasters befall 
 
 When it looks like innocent play. 
 
 70 
 
The yttlc ^aj) mh^ gied 
 
 His little dumb watch I found toda}', 
 And the chain was red with rust; 
 And the battered drum he used to play 
 Useless and mute in the corner lay, 
 Neglected and white with dust. 
 
 And a pair of little shoes are here, 
 
 Worn out at the heel and toe. 
 That covered his feet in a far-off year 
 When he was a baby sweet and dear, 
 In the happy long ago. 
 
 Covered with dust, in the attic dim 
 
 As here they forgotten lie. 
 My heart is full to the very brim 
 And tearful memories follow him 
 
 Through the golden days gone by. 
 
 Baby feet that they used to hold, 
 
 Dimpled feet that here have pressed ; 
 Baby shoes with the clinging mold 
 How they awaken the joys of old. 
 When he romped upon my breast. 
 
 Where are now the wee little feet 
 That down the Valley one day, 
 Wandered forth with our darling sweet 
 To' where this life and the other meet. 
 And followed the Angel awav? 
 
 71 
 
Bitterly weeping I knelt on the floor, 
 
 Bitterly over each trinket I cried, 
 Kissing them over again and o'er. 
 Each precious one that in days of yore 
 Were loved by the boy who died. 
 
 L,ittlE h^ L,tttTe 
 
 Little by little the snowflakes fall; 
 
 Each tiny one almost nothing at all. 
 But soon they unite in a drift so high 
 
 That big locomotives can scarce go by. 
 
 Little by little the rain-drops too 
 
 Gather to form the great ocean so blue ; 
 
 Where mighty war-vessels can safely ride 
 With nothing but water on every side. 
 
 Little by little our acts unite 
 
 To build a character wrong or right, 
 And every small act for each passing day 
 
 Is sealed in the structure forever and aye. 
 
 So let us build of the best at hand 
 
 A tower of strength that will storms withstand ; 
 The foundation of friendship, truth and love 
 
 Well bonded by faith in our God above. 
 
 ya 
 
Timflthg Titus 
 
 When I was little, long ago— 
 About four years of age, or so, 
 There was a patch of woods close by, 
 We children never dared go nigh. 
 For fear of Timothy Titus. 
 
 For we were told by older folk— 
 And I remember 'twas no joke— 
 "A monster dwelt within that wood 
 Who'd bite us if we were not good;" 
 His name was Timothy Titus. 
 
 They told us in a hollow tree 
 This monster lived, and he could see 
 When little boys were naughty and 
 Some day we'd fall into his hands ; 
 This dreadful Timothy Titus. 
 
 If I forgot and played too near 
 That wood, I used to flee in fear 
 When some mean older boy would shout, 
 "Timothy Titus is coming out 
 Look out for Timothy Titus." 
 
 A big boy said to me one day 
 'T don't believe a word they say ; 
 They ain't no Timothy Titus there 
 And if they is what do T care?" 
 
 And he yelled out, "Timothy Titus." 
 
 73 
 

 Then how I would scoot for the house ! 
 
"Timothy, Timothy Titus 
 Come out of the woods and bite us" 
 Then how I would scoot for the house 
 Like a timorous trembhng mouse 
 In fear of Timothy Titus. 
 
 The bravest act I ever tried 
 Was when one day I softly cried, 
 So low I hoped he wouldn't hear, 
 (Besides the house was rather near) 
 "Timothy, Timothy Titus." 
 
 "Timothy, Timothy Titus 
 Come out of the woods and bite us." 
 But Timothy would not come out 
 And at that I began to doubt 
 If there was a Timothy Titus. 
 
 Still I've heard that in every wood, 
 He lives just to make children good, 
 So 'tis best to always do right 
 And save ourselves from the bite 
 And the fright of Timothy Titus. 
 
 75 
 
0itr miidgEt 
 
 Our Midget is the cutest pup 
 
 That ever wagged a tail ; 
 She alwa3's comes cavorting up, 
 
 With many a joyful wail, 
 Coaxing- for a romp and play. 
 When Yuna comes from school each day. 
 
 Then it's "Midget, come here my dearie;" 
 And, "Midget, go chase the ball; 
 
 "And do not fear my dearie. 
 
 The bad boys shan't get you at all ; 
 
 You and I will race and run, 
 
 With no one near to spoil our fun. 
 
 76 
 
"Now jump the hoop, and catch this stick, 
 
 And do not barking stand, 
 But don't you nip so high and quick, 
 
 That time you caught my hand ! 
 Ouch ! I did not think you could, 
 Naughty Midget ! You don't play good ! 
 
 ''Well, Yuna didn't mean to scold; 
 
 Come right here and never mind- 
 Course you had to catch a hold 
 
 Any place that you could find. 
 Come and I will hug you dear, 
 Kiss away your trembling fear. 
 
 "Nicie little doggie mine, 
 
 Let me pat your fright away, 
 
 Till your eyes with pleasure shine, 
 It was only just in play ; 
 
 Besides it didn't bleed a bit. 
 
 And I don't care one cent for it. 
 
 "You didn't mean to bite at all- 
 Come and you may have a bone, 
 
 Then we'll play at chase the ball, 
 
 When your trembling fears are flown, 
 
 And soon we both will joyful be, 
 
 For I love you, and you love me." 
 
 77 
 
gnhnnj? ^lark 
 
 Little Johnny Black had a pain in his back 
 
 So bad that he couldn't go to school; 
 But after it was nine, he took a hook and line 
 
 And fished all day in the pool. 
 Little Johnny Black at eventide came back; 
 
 His father met him at the woodshed door— 
 And the pain that befell, made Little Johnny yell, 
 
 "I ain't goin' to do it any more." 
 Old Johnny Black now laughs to look back 
 
 On the wallopings that youthtime spurned, 
 And the truth he'll tell, for he knows right well 
 
 That he didn't get half he earned. 
 
 Tommo Fislrer 
 
 Tommy fishing in the pool 
 Happily sits blinking; 
 
 How he ran away from school 
 Does not mar his thinking. 
 
 For beneath his jacket he 
 Will wear a pad of cotton, 
 
 So his whipping soon will be 
 Easily forgotten. 
 
 78 
 
TOg yttle L,ad2 
 
 Most five years old ; how fair and sweet, 
 Where babyhood and girlhood meet, 
 Bright blue eyes and golden hair, 
 She is my little Lady Fair. 
 
 Running and playing the whole day long. 
 Filling our house with sunshine and song; 
 She is papa's darling and mamma's pride 
 And we love her more than the world beside. 
 
 At night when she lays her sunny curls 
 On her pillow—sweetest of little girls, 
 She kisses us both a loving good night 
 And the same repeats with morning light. 
 
 Some times the wee feet wander astray. 
 And the little rogue's will usurps its sway, 
 But the tender heart of my Lady Fair, 
 Is soon won back by a smile or tear. 
 
 So may she ever be drawn by love- 
 Have faith in God, who rules above, 
 And shunning vices that are human 
 Grow up a good and useful woman. 
 
 79 
 
Hmnt from thr ^Uar 
 
 Jack comes home from the war tonight, 
 Tune the fiddle and spread a feast, 
 
 Flood the house with a joyous light. 
 To welcome him home from the East. 
 
 Jack is our brother so blithe and gay, 
 Tall and handsome, big and strong, 
 
 How we cried when he went away. 
 And the time has seemed so long. 
 
 How we waited with fear and dread 
 
 News from each battle bravely fought; 
 
 How we searched o'er the list of dead. 
 Fearing to find the name we sought. 
 
 Now he is coming home, Hurray ! 
 
 But the old clock goes so slow ; 
 Fve watched its hands the livelong day 
 
 But he's almost due, I know. 
 
 Tune the fiddle and look your best, 
 Lads and lassies gather round. 
 
 Our hero is speeding to the West 
 Our darling is homeward bound. 
 
 Joy shall reign in the home tonight. 
 Loving eyes shall look proudly on ; 
 
 Love and laughter and tears tonight 
 Shall welcome our brother John. 
 
 80 
 
(Stt ?irar a Hllicssn^z 
 
 O, hyacinth, with fragrant bloom, 
 
 Go b€ar a message to my fair, 
 And breathe your sweetness in her room, 
 
 When Easter sounds are in the air. 
 
 And when she bows her comely head 
 To catch the odor of your breath. 
 
 Whisper the words my heart hath said, 
 '1 will be true to you till death." 
 
 Here is a kiss for each pink cheek, 
 
 And be sure that yoii place them there, 
 
 And more of love than my tongue can speak 
 That I send to my fairest fair. 
 
 She will know that you come from me. 
 And will welcome the sweet surprise, 
 
 Go, bear this message and you shall see 
 The love-light in her mild blue eyes. 
 
 8i 
 
0, TcutiEt' Heart Ttiat iinti) '-lUauEcl 
 
 You placed a flower upon her grave, 
 
 Who sleeps on yonder sunny hill ; 
 
 I hold thee dear in mem'ry still ; 
 Such joy to me thy kindness gave. 
 Tho' you are far, I can't forget— 
 
 Thy gracious act I still revere ; 
 
 That silent sympathetic tear 
 I hold in fond remembrance yet. 
 O, tender heart that pity moved 
 To honor thus the one I loved ; 
 Should you be called ere I, to go, 
 
 I'll seek that spot, or far, or near. 
 Where rests thy noble heart below, 
 
 And do thee homage, tear for tear. 
 
 82 
 
gnstsr HUBlarig 
 
 Christ is risen ! The glad refrain 
 
 Is borne on the wings of song, 
 And our hearts respond to the joyful strain 
 
 Caught up by a countless throng. 
 
 Christ is risen ! Long, long ago 
 
 This message so sweetly true 
 Burst like dawn on His followers low— 
 
 The weeping but faithful iew. 
 
 Christ is risen! How much portent 
 It bore to the sad hearts there— 
 
 This golden message from heaven sent 
 To answer their agonized prayer. 
 
 Christ is risen ! His enemies knew, 
 And they trembled in shame and fear ; 
 
 And even to them, as the faithful few 
 Came His words of love and cheer. 
 
 "Peace on earth ! Toward men good will !" 
 He conquered their hearts by love, 
 
 And the message He gave is potent still 
 In earth and in heaven above. 
 
 83 
 
(Ennstanrg 
 
 Light of my lonely way, my love 
 
 Though all unseen your smile 
 I am waiting here the while 
 Till you return again my love. 
 
 Till you return again ; ah me 
 The time has been so long 
 My hope that was so strong 
 Now droops and pines at thoughts of thee. 
 You said you'd come to claim again 
 
 The love I hold in trust 
 
 God help me bide the time till then 
 In yearning though I must. 
 Still, this my hope to^ share with you at last 
 Some blissful moments, shall atone the past. 
 
 84 
 
0listinatE ^nllg 
 
 I sometimes dream I'm in love with her yet, 
 Just the same as before our hearts grew cold ; 
 
 For a space the bitterness I forget 
 
 When I dare to think of the days of old. 
 
 But when I awake to the cold gray fear 
 That little of love can fall to my part, 
 
 And feel the repugnance of doubtings drear 
 I fain would banish her out of my heart. 
 
 And then I remember with pain and shame 
 The sins of my heart that have made her doubt 
 
 But her bitter words of reproach and blame-- 
 I cannot quite blot their remembrance out. 
 
 They are rooted deep in a fertile mold 
 
 Of self-condemnation mingled with pride-- 
 
 And stronger that bars of iron to hold 
 
 Aloof from the heart that is quick to chide. 
 
 But I have my dreams, which are mine alone. 
 
 Of the way a milder course would have wrought 
 
 If both at the outset had only known. 
 And acted as only true lovers ought. 
 
 So both are to blame and both may regret 
 The obstinate folly that breaks the heart. 
 
 For though time should heal our repinings--yet 
 Our lives have been robbed of the sweeter part. 
 
i 
 The hotise is dark and still. The window quakes 
 With each sad breeze that wails from out the night, 
 Laden with whisperings of sins my life has wrought, 
 To paint their gloomy pictures on my mind. 
 
 Wakeful I lie and think. It will not cease. 
 
 I travel o'er the scenes of many years 
 
 On the wings of conscience that will not down ; 
 
 Years that have borne no^ fruit to bless one heart; 
 
 But, like an evil dream of things half-real, 
 
 The years that should be dead, come back again, 
 
 To tell my sinful heart, "The dream is true." 
 
 The high resolves I knew— where are they now ? 
 Where are the hopes that once beat in my breast? 
 Dead ! Stifled in regret. All the long years 
 I meant to live each better, but the good thought 
 Travelled too far ahead to be o'ertaken. 
 
 My life is empty now. I've ceased to hope; 
 Empty save for remorse that cannot die. 
 I've nought of pleasure in a backward glance. 
 Where all the years lie draped in selfishness, 
 And nothing here remains to make me glad. 
 
 The ones I should call friends, all look askance, 
 
 As if I were a beast to be repulsed. 
 
 Or coldly nod the head and turn away, 
 
 Till human sympathy is dead to me. 
 
 And past and future blend in present woe. 
 
An 01 d Time ** Husking ^eb" 
 
 (^Farmer Jones' s Confession to a Love Episode that Happened 
 Forty Tears Ago.^ 
 
 Seems like young folks now, dear wife 
 Have not half the fun we knew. 
 
 When the husking hees were rife 
 And I was a courtin' you. 
 
 I remember that last bee 
 
 And 1 guess you ain't forgot— 
 
 In the fall of sixty-three 
 
 We were married, was it not? 
 
 You and Jim were thick, you know 
 
 Till I cut him out that night- 
 First I thought I wouldn't go, 
 
 But I changed my mind all right. 
 
 For I couldn't stay away, 
 
 Though I had a grudge at Jim ; 
 So I formed a plan that day 
 To surprise both you and him. 
 
 You was sort of hangin' out— 
 Givin' Jim the inside track- 
 Though I never had a doubt 
 You would like to get me back. 
 
Still your pert, coquettish way 
 Stirred me up to some degree, 
 
 When I heard a neighbor say 
 You was "foolin' Jim and me." 
 
 Yes, they said a city chap- 
 That you met in school you know— 
 
 "Had in you an easy 'snap' 
 
 That was why you let me go." 
 
 Said you'd got the city "airs" 
 
 And no "Ruebens" need apply- 
 That Jim wasn't anywheres. 
 Much less such a "Jake" as I. 
 
 Well, it roused me up a bit, 
 
 Since we'd been "engaged" so long, 
 And, what aggravated it 
 
 They would hint you did me wrong. 
 
 And they sort of pitied me 
 
 Cause I couldn't hold my own; 
 
 When 'twas plain enough to see 
 I was leaving yoti alone. 
 
 But I hankered, just the same 
 For to make it up with you. 
 
 When the proper moment came 
 That would help me so to do. 
 
 For I guessed exactly right 
 
 (Though it was not then so plain) 
 
 That as like as not you might 
 Have a little jealous vein. 
 
Then I thought of Bessie Gray- 
 How she always smiled on me, 
 
 So I called on her that day- 
 Bade her to the huskin' bee. 
 
 You never liked her then, nor now, 
 But she was pretty I'll declare; 
 
 And it pleased me 1 allow 
 
 That I might escort here there. 
 
 She was something of a "catch," 
 Said the neighbors all around— 
 
 Nought she cared though for a "match," 
 As full many a lover found. 
 
 Jim had courted her, you know 
 And it nearly broke his heart 
 
 When she took another beau. 
 And you sort of took Jim's part. 
 
 I somewhat disliked Jim's way 
 Cause he grew so sweet on you. 
 
 And I thought you ought to say 
 A discouraging word or two. 
 
 But your will was pretty strong 
 
 And my own was 'bout the same- 
 Each believed the other wrong. 
 So it was our quarrel came. 
 
 But I thought you would next day 
 Come and make it up again. 
 
 For that always was your way 
 When we quarreled now and then. 
 
But you did not seem to care 
 
 As the Sundays came and went— 
 
 Jim was hangin' on "for fair" 
 While I drooped in ill-content. 
 
 Then I thought of Bessie Gray-- 
 Ah ! The lucky thought for me- 
 
 How she beamed on me that day 
 Talking of the huskin' bee. 
 
 ''Oh the roads are smooth and dry 
 
 What a lovely time to ride" 
 Said she with a little sigh, 
 
 " 'Twill be lovely by your side." 
 
 'T was wishing just today 
 (But of course I should not tell) 
 You would happen 'round this way 
 And I think you're looking well." 
 
 "Oh I dote on husking bees 
 And I would not miss this one 
 
 There will be so much to please-- 
 We shall have a world of fun." 
 
 O, the witchery of her way 
 As captivating glances fell; 
 
 I had never till that day 
 
 Seen her looking half sO' well. 
 
 She advised an early start 
 
 As the drive was rather long, 
 
 So I hastened to depart 
 
 With my pulses beating strong. 
 
 90 
 
I secured the finest trap 
 
 And a pair of dapple bays- 
 Finest ever seen mayhap 
 
 Round that place in many days. 
 
 And I drove back feeling gay, 
 Bessie looked a very queen, 
 
 I was proud of Bessie Gray- 
 Sweetest girl I'd ever seen. 
 
 O, that was a lovely ride 
 
 In the balmy evening air, 
 With sweet Bessie by my side 
 
 Cuddled so confiding there. 
 
 And the moon looked down so calm. 
 And all nature seemed at peace- 
 
 O, it seemed a kind of balm 
 Bidding my dejection cease. 
 
 So 1 "spooned" with Bessie Gray, 
 While the miles went slowly by. 
 
 And her glib speech rolled away 
 I'ill it turned on you and I. 
 
 She had glamoured o'er my mind 
 With such sweet and stunning ways, 
 
 When she spoke of you unkind 
 'Twas almost as good as praise. 
 
 And she dropped a hint or two 
 That Avas pleasing quite, to me- 
 
 She was glad I'd jilted you- 
 That was plain enough to see. 
 
 91 
 
And she spoke so low and sweet, 
 Tender love-looks in her eyes, 
 
 I began to feel quite "beat," 
 Wondering if I'd acted wise. 
 
 I was not in earnest, quite, 
 
 When I said some foolish things ; 
 
 Toying with her hand, so white, 
 Making talk about her rings. 
 
 She was all in earnest though, 
 Ana I feared it was not right, 
 
 To' trifle with her feelings so, 
 
 While I "spooned" with her that night. 
 
 But I felt a new-born pride. 
 And 'twas pleasing quite, to see 
 
 Such a beauty by my side 
 
 Head and ears in love with me. 
 
 When we passed your home that day, 
 
 And you saw us going by, 
 I was feeling proud and gay 
 
 But it gave my heart the lie. 
 
 I was steadfast all the while, 
 As I've told you, dear, before, 
 
 But sweet Bessie's witching smile 
 Seemed to draw me more and more. 
 
 But you know my dear, that I 
 Wasn't a bit in love with Bess, 
 
 Though it gave my heart a try 
 To withstand her loveliness. 
 
It was strange I do declare 
 
 For I'd known her many a y ear- 
 But she never seemed so fair 
 As that day she did appear, 
 
 I had always been afraid 
 
 Of a pretty girl till she 
 Led me on that day and made 
 
 A bold lo'ver out of me. 
 
 Never knew I had the "grit" 
 To brace up to such as she, 
 
 And I wouldn't have had a bit 
 Had she not encouraged me. 
 
 I was feeling "out of sight" 
 
 With our trap and dapple bays, 
 
 When we drove into the light 
 
 Of the farmyard's lanterned place. 
 
 We came later than the rest. 
 Having had so long a ride, 
 
 And the people— how they guessed 
 To see Bessie at my side. 
 
 Jim was standing there by you 
 Feeling rather pleased I guess, 
 
 But yoii seemed a little "blue" 
 
 When you saw me there with Bess. 
 
 Then we mingled with the crowd 
 Where the merry buskers sped 
 
 And above their task was bowed 
 Many an eager bobbing head. 
 
 93 
 
Wondering if V a acted wise. 
 
When the corn in heaps was piled, 
 
 Busy fingers were at play, 
 And the boys in rapture smiled 
 
 When a red ear came their way. 
 
 For you know each garnet ear 
 
 That the lucky husker found, 
 Bade him kiss the lassie near 
 
 And we sometimes passed it round. 
 
 Maids were happy, lads were gay, 
 While the happy moments flew 
 
 Till the "fiddlers" tuned to play, 
 Then our joy no limit knew. 
 
 On the new barn's spacious floor, 
 Fragrant with the scent of hay 
 
 Each, his lovely partner bore 
 Dancing there till break of day. 
 
 But you would not dance a set, 
 
 And I sort of pitied Jim 
 Hanging like a blanket wet, 
 
 Where the lights were rather dim. 
 
 I could see your angry pout, 
 
 W^hile I circled round with Bess, 
 
 Through the changes in and out- 
 
 And your thoughts were plain to guess. 
 
 Then I asked you for a dance 
 And you didn't give cousent ; 
 
 Jim was looking on askance. 
 So away with Bess I went. 
 
 95 
 
O, but you was blue that night, 
 For you thought I did not care 
 
 And I acted happy, quite. 
 
 But poor Jim was in despair. 
 
 You were angry, tooi, at me, 
 But your spite was aimed at Jim, 
 
 It was plain enough to see 
 That you had no use for him. 
 
 So my heart was light and gay. 
 For you were as good as won. 
 
 Jealousy of Bessie Gray- 
 That was how the trick was done. 
 
 And the triumph of the thing 
 
 Joggled up my pride a bit 
 Made me feel a very king, 
 
 From my point of viewing it. 
 
 All the wretched weeks Fd spent 
 Mourning for you still, in vain. 
 
 This sweet hour of triumph meant 
 Recompense for every pain. 
 
 Recompense for every "slight" 
 You had practiced heretofore. 
 
 When I loved with all my might 
 Fearing you had "thrown me o'er.' 
 
 And I guessed you right, my dear, 
 (Though it was not then so plain) 
 
 All your love through jealous fear 
 Roused in that one night of pain. 
 
 96 
 
And when next I met you, Well ! 
 
 You were meek enough and I 
 Was quite ready, truth to tell, 
 
 To make up and pass it b}'. 
 
 So I've always blessed the day 
 W^e attended that last Bee 
 
 For the help of Bessie Gray, 
 Fixed our quarrel up, you see. 
 
 ^lahrrt '^nxns 
 
 O, Robert Burns, fair Scotland's pride, 
 
 Thy songs of vale and hill 
 That bounteous nature rich supplied 
 
 To thy prolific quill- 
 Millions of hearts have felt their power 
 
 And bless thy memory still. 
 
 Thy songs of love will ever live— 
 Thy "Cotter's Saturday Night" 
 
 And "Tam-0-Shanter's Ride" will give 
 A thrill of pure delight. 
 
 And keep our hearts still warm for thee 
 W^ho could such songs indite. 
 
 97 
 
^ealm of the ^nul 
 
 "In sky and earth and sea, strange things there be.' 
 
 Around us though unseen by human eyes 
 
 A world ethereal lies, 
 That is not of the earth whereon we tread. 
 
 Home of the countless dead ! 
 
 Home of the millions freed from earth and sin 
 
 Souls that have entered in, 
 And left the hea,vy burdens, and the woe 
 
 Buried in earth below. 
 
 This earth whereon we crawl— poor sinful worms- 
 
 Our brief alloted terms 
 Is but a speck of dust, a grave, or worse ; 
 
 In God's great Universe. 
 
 The sun, the moon, the boundless realms of space 
 
 What flights may fancy trace, 
 To' link the soul with fairer climes above 
 
 Through God's eternal love. 
 
 But of those realms there is no histor}?- 
 
 They lie in mystery. 
 Still in each heart eternal hope doth reign 
 
 That death will prove our gain. 
 
griuf^'s ^lUctarj) cit TOanila 
 
 Each sailor stood at his post that day, 
 When Dewey's ships came into the bay 
 
 In the dawn of early morning. 
 Silently steering- with lights abaft, 
 All unawares came the deadly craft 
 
 With never a sign of warning. 
 
 "Now what is that on the waves I see?" 
 A Spanish watch cried sleepily, 
 
 "Is it a dream deceives my eyes?" 
 A fleet of ships, as I live!" Boom ! Boom ! 
 Reverberates in the silent gloom. 
 
 To announce the dreadful surprise. 
 
 "The Yankee dogs ! They have passed our guard !" 
 On fair Manila they're steering hard. 
 
 Boom ! Boom ! Let the torpedoes go. 
 Rouse the gunners and signal To Arms ! 
 And sound the terrible war alarms ! 
 
 With Death ! Death to the foreign foe ! 
 
 Too late! Too late! Hear the cannons roar! 
 The Spanish hulks roll up on the shore, 
 
 Dismantled, afire, and guns hushed. 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! from the Yankee lips— 
 Not a man is missing from Dewey's ships 
 
 And the pride of Spain has been crushed. 
 
 99 
 
 TTf-e^ 
 
"Hush ! Dt> not cheer, men !" a sailor said 
 ''See the poor Spaniards dying and dead." 
 
 "Let us go to their aid" cried all. 
 Gently they cared for the fallen foe, 
 And wept like children over the woe 
 
 That was wrought in the Spanish fall. 
 
 ||tru L,awBtl t00 yttkt ^ tofl ^XitU 
 
 I would not now at this far distant time 
 
 Bemoan the fate that our twO' ways divided, 
 Though haply if in youth's more sunny clime 
 I^orbearance each to each our steps had guided 
 The incident that set our ways apart 
 Else had been destiny to link us heart to heart. 
 
 1 would not now that it had different been 
 
 Though error oft the truest love can sever. 
 Each started on a way, though unforseen 
 That separated our two hearts forever. 
 
 So if one sigh within my heart doth dwell 
 'Tis that you loved too little, I too well. 
 
TIte Factnrg SlauB 
 
 Weary she works in the dusty shop 
 As the dreary days come and go, 
 
 With Httle chance for a restful stop 
 As she battles with want and woe. 
 
 So its "Work away, no time for play 
 
 And a bare existence shall be your pay." 
 
 Daily she toils like a bonded slave 
 Till her eyes grow haggard and dim. 
 
 Nor recks her master the task he gave 
 For a master is over him. 
 
 Can remorseful dart ne'er touch the heart 
 
 Of employers, playing so mean a part ? 
 
 Sickened with toil she is striving still 
 For the pittance her work will give 
 
 And bravely goes on with a resolute will, 
 That her little loved ones may live. 
 
 "What matter," thinks he, "is this to me 
 
 When I by her toil will the richer be." 
 
 What matter to him? O, baneful thought! 
 
 Let his guardian angel weep ! 
 Beware the woes by avarice bought 
 
 When conscience is put to sleep. 
 Beware of the woes for deadly foes 
 Thrive in the shadow such infamv throws. 
 
Out in the heat of the noonday sun 
 
 Went Farmer Brown with a jug and gun, 
 
 For all the morning he'd watched the crows 
 
 Plucking his corn from the furrowed rows. 
 
 So, sitting dcwm 'neath a chestnut tree 
 
 Where, half secreted, he still could see. 
 
 He swore a good Baptist oath, "Gol Durn," 
 
 'Til kill the critters when they return. 
 
 Fve stood their doin's long as I can 
 
 They light right oiitO' my dummy man, 
 
 An' nothin' skeers 'em, but 'fore Fm through 
 
 Crows Avill be skurcer by quite a few." 
 
 But the cautious crows went circling 'round 
 
And never came nigh that patch of ground, 
 Where Farmer Brown 'neath the chestnut tree 
 Peered through his whiskers expectantly. 
 He poured at times from the earthen jug 
 A yellowish something into a mug 
 Which he " iowet^l" 'twaint any harm to take 
 A little drop for the stomach's sake. 
 Besides it will sort of keep me awake 
 And help to^ steady my nerves you know 
 So every shot will bring down a crow." 
 He sat with his back against the tree 
 Watching the sky till he scarce could see, 
 Where the wary crows were circling 'round 
 Too far away from that patch of ground 
 To tempt his wasting a charge of shot, 
 And only frighten them from the lot. 
 But they cawed and cawerl, and flew aw-ay 
 And wouldn't come nigh his corn that day 
 Unless, at the farthest edge perchance, 
 To perch a moment with eye askance 
 Ready to fly at the slightest move 
 Of something hid in the chestnut grove. 
 And Brown cciild not understand this fear 
 For heretofore they would come quite near 
 And he could not make them fly three rods 
 When he tried to^ pelt them off with clods. 
 But now, botheration take it all ! 
 He sat in wrath at their distant call 
 And wondered how crows could be so wise 
 As to always know where danger lies. 
 The balmy zephyrs, that sultry day 
 Blew through his whiskers where he lay 
 Propped up by the friendly chestnut tree, 
 103 
 
Doling the measures of yellow tea. 
 And either the tea or the balmy breeze 
 That softly rustled the chestnut trees 
 Made the air so sweet with restful sound 
 To the tired farmer upon the ground, 
 Whose thoughts went flying tO' other themes 
 
 Not far remote from the land oi dreams. 
 That the lazy caw of the distant rook 
 Mingled somehow with the gurgling brook. 
 As he sat there nodding and blinking 
 And anon from the brown jug drinking— 
 He gazed on the growing corn a-row 
 1C4 
 
And there oii the nearest hill-A CROW ! 
 Trembhng he reached for the old shot gun 
 And aimed it just as he should have done . 
 And touched the trigger, but strange to- tell 
 No mangled crow in the furrow fell. 
 Nor even deigned he tO' wing his flight 
 Which same was a most uncommon sight 
 Another strange thing— the old shotgun 
 Seemed not to work as it should have done. 
 He was not even sure it exploded— 
 Though he could swear he had it loaded— 
 At any rate the cheeky old crow 
 Pecked on and didn't appear to know. 
 He tried it over again and again, 
 But still his efforts were futile; when, 
 To make the matter still more trying 
 Other crows came flying and crying 
 Lighting in flocks by their dusky mate 
 And the tender corn they ate and ate , 
 In sheer contempt of his presence there ; 
 Till their ghoulish orgies filled the air, 
 With discordant notes which boded ill 
 To him, bereft of his power to kill. 
 But in righteous wrath rose Farmer Brown 
 He tried with his gun to club them down, 
 But, whenever a crow he seemed to kill 
 A dozen arose its place to fill, 
 Flapping their wings in his whiskered face ; 
 He fought like a giant in deep disgrace- 
 Called to his wife and the hired man- 
 Smiting the crows as he fought and ran 
 Till all exhausted he seemed to sink 
 All in a heap by the brooklet's brink. 
 105 
 
Then one old crow more bold than the rest, 
 Hopjped up and perched on his heaving breast, 
 And pecked at his nose with wings upraised 
 As in helpless fear the farmer gazed 
 Subdued and breathless there on the ground, 
 ^^'hile the jolly crows stood cawing "round 
 Each one ready to pluck out his eyes 
 And none to answer his feeble cries. 
 
 The}- seemed to mock his wc^ful plight 
 And, what was there about his sight 1 
 He rubbed his eyes in mute surprise 
 And would you belie%-e such a transformation 
 Could happen to anjthing imder creation? 
 
 \\'hat do you suppose ? Those terrible crows 
 By seme dark practice of legerdmain 
 Hatched in some evil demoniac brain- 
 Like human things, with sable wings 
 \\'ere standing erect and stalking around 
 Grinning and pointing at him on the ground, 
 
 With their bony claws ; and fiendish caws 
 From a thousand great protruding beaks 
 ^^'ere shrilling around in threatening shrieks. 
 
 And filling the air they gathered there 
 To pluck his flesh in their fiendish glee. 
 While like a palsied coward lay he. 
 
 Then, suddenly the scene had shifted 
 The farmer felt that he was lifted 
 And borne up. up in the air so high 
 That clouds below him went sailing by. 
 Till nothing of earth he could see 
 And the crows were his company. 
 
 ic6 
 
With huge wings flapping the air 
 
 They bore him leagues and leagues away 
 Into the land of "Heart's Despair" 
 
 Where demons hide from the light of day. 
 Away to a lonely place- 
 
 A grotto deep by a dark morass 
 They took him where no e)-e could trace 
 The flight they winged o'er the mountain pass. 
 At last they had him safe, he knew 
 
 In a gruesome den where demons dwell 
 And all but the dampness like cHnging dew 
 Made him think of the regions of hell. 
 And those awful things 
 With their shady wings 
 Now enfoUHng their forms like a shroud 
 Came thundering in 
 Like visions of sin 
 Shot out of an angry cloud. 
 Their feet on the stones 
 Were of fleshless bones 
 And the clatter was dreadful to hear, 
 As they filled the place 
 And each hideous face 
 Leered up with a fiendish sneer. 
 
 Then silence, when all had gathered 'round 
 Deep as a dream of death. No sound 
 But heavy breathings in the air 
 To break the awful stilhiess there. 
 
 107 
 

 A blast terrific! What was that? 
 
 ] Je woke up with a start. 
 "Why Cyrus B'rown ! What arc you 
 
 You've nearly broke my heart. 
 
 at? 
 
 At supper time I blew the horn 
 And couldn't make vou hear, 
 
 io8 
 
I've hunted through the woods and corn- 
 And such a storm, O dear. 
 
 You're just as soaked as you can he, 
 How could you sleep right through ? 
 
 And Cyrus, Deacon Brown ! ] see 
 A jug- right here by you! 
 
 I blew this horn right in your ear 
 To wake you from }'our lark. 
 
 And just to think I find you out here 
 TwO' hours after dark." 
 
 109 
 
SamEuilrerB 
 
 Somewhere up in the reahii of hght, 
 Beyond the reach of earthly sight, 
 
 Where sweetest of mysteries He; 
 Abides a land of beauty rare 
 That gently woos the spirit there, 
 
 When the shades of earth pass by. 
 
 To us the beauties of that land 
 Are sealed. We cannot understand 
 
 Till over its rim we wander ; 
 Leaving this tenement of clay 
 To' awake in a brighter day 
 
 Awaiting somewhere up yonder. 
 
 The saddest day and darkest night 
 Of earthly pain can not affright 
 
 The soul whose trust is up there ; 
 Though with faltering limbs he may stand 
 On the brink of the Unknown land, 
 
 He feels there is joy, somewhere. 
 
 Loved ones gone to that mystic shore, 
 There we shall be with them once nKire 
 
 Beyond the reach of sorrow. 
 And the broken threads that are here 
 Shall be golden memories, dear, 
 
 Some where in a sweet tomorrow. 
 
Somewhere hearts shall be pure and true 
 In love as chaste as the mountain clew, 
 
 Beyond this world of sinning. 
 And the goal we missed upon earth 
 Mayhap shall contain more worth 
 
 Somewhere by the winning. 
 
 When Johnny dons his cycle suit 
 
 And waves his hand before he starts, 
 
 We stretch our necks to see him scoot. 
 And try tO' still our thumping- hearts. 
 
 A moment's pause! We hold our breath, 
 And watch him poising for the dive. 
 
 Where fools within his den, beard death- 
 Wondering if he'll come out alive. 
 
 Ho'W pale our cheeks ! How still we keep, 
 Suppose he should happen to swerve? 
 
 How would he land if he missed the sweep 
 Of that treacherous pig-tail curve? 
 
 Then, all we see is a streak of light 
 
 Shoot down and curl up with a swoop— 
 
 And we breathe again when he lands all right, 
 For Johnny has Looped-de-Loop. 
 
^ Telle nf ^ufrlicitg 
 
 HoAv oft we see a little thing 
 
 Rend happy hearts asunder, 
 And petty family bickering 
 
 Develop full-grown thunder; 
 The entering wedge of discord start 
 
 In rifts worth little mention, 
 To split at last the home apart 
 
 In wranp-ling- and dissention. 
 
 There was a worthy couple who 
 
 In wedded bliss had traveled. 
 Till oiie unlucky trait or two 
 
 The marriage knot unravelled. 
 She got religion, so she thought, 
 
 And tried to bring him to^ it 
 But soon with wrathful words they fought 
 
 Because he still would "Pooh !" it. 
 
 He earned by toil an honest meed. 
 
 For earthly needs sufficient, 
 But little cared for any creed. 
 
 While she grew more proficient 
 In all that points the heavenly way, 
 
 And she could pray for sinners 
 While he trudged home from work each day 
 
 To cook the children's dinners. 
 
She worked for God. He toiled for bread. 
 
 And oft was sorely guessing, 
 While she the Gospel meetings led— 
 
 His many sins confessing. 
 She lectured him his soul to save, 
 
 With warnings of disaster; 
 He spurned the counsel that she gave 
 
 And went his way the faster. 
 
 She called him many an ugly name 
 When argument seemed idle. 
 
 Her righteous wrath burned like a flame 
 And nought her tongue could bridle. 
 
 Till he, poor sinner, in distress,-- 
 His love grew cold and colder, 
 
 And what he did's an easy guess- 
 Gave her the frigid shoulder. 
 
 He began dreaming of old da}'S 
 
 And wishing they had tarried ; 
 And thought of one with kindly ways 
 
 He knew before he married. 
 He thought of oue who held him dear. 
 
 Ere he was bound in wedlock, 
 And for the other cast a sneer 
 
 Who held him in a deadlock. 
 
 He thought of her whom kindness moved 
 
 To grant his smallest wishes; 
 Then of the one, alas, unloved 
 
 Who made him wash the dishes ! 
 . E'en while he cooked the children's fare 
 
 "3 
 
And munched his part in sadness, 
 That other form would hover there 
 A vision of lost gladness. 
 
 But trouble runs its course at last ; 
 
 Their' s ended in due season, 
 And now lies buried in the past, 
 
 We may believe in reason. 
 For soon his erstwhile saintly wife 
 
 Eloped with Deacon Skinner- 
 He wed the vision of his life 
 
 And still remains a sinner. 
 
 There is no moral here, I guess, 
 
 Unless the happy sequel. 
 Shows how too' much self-righteousness 
 
 Sometimes divides things ecjual. 
 
 114 
 
The &U Trj^stiug Tlar^ 
 
 I know of a sweet sequesterctl nook 
 
 Where the wintergreen used to grow, 
 And Hning the mossy banks of the brook 
 
 Witli its laughter soft and low- 
 Sweet ferns caressed by the gentle breeze 
 Their subtle perfume throw. 
 
 More thickly and brighter the pansies grew 
 Than the twinkling stars of night, 
 
 Upturning their dreamy eyes of blue 
 To the mellow and gladsome light. 
 
 And the song birds caroled joyously 
 As they winged their busy flight. 
 
 Ah, there on the mo'ssy knoll for hours 
 
 In the sunshine she and I— 
 How often we sat amid the flowers 
 
 Where the babbling brook went b}^ 
 And happily chatted of future days, 
 
 Where no shadows seemed to lie. 
 
 She talked of fern and stream and wold, 
 
 But I thought her form more fair- 
 She admired the buttercups of gold, 
 
 And I the gold of her hair. 
 And the delicate blue of the pans}- 
 W^ith her eyes could not compare. 
 
O, sweet was the blossoming heather, 
 And the songs of bird and bee, 
 
 And sweet was the summer weather 
 In Nature's high reveh-y. 
 
 And tlie sound of her merr)- laughter 
 Was sweeter by far Uy me. 
 
 But summer's a season only 
 
 And the flowers will droop and die, 
 And hearts will grow sad and lonely 
 
 When love in the grave doth lie. 
 For we read not aright our future 
 
 In those happy da}s gone by. 
 
 Now when I visit the trysting place 
 The songs of the birds and rill 
 
 Awaken memories of her sweet face 
 And a voice forever still ; 
 
 And I fain would rest beside her 
 'Neath the myrtle on the hill. 
 
 ii6 
 
^ Frui Trsttiuanials 
 
 HOME MELODIES. 
 A pretty volume of poems has come to our desk entitled " Home Melodies," 
 for fireside perusal, written by E. W. Van Slyke, of Binghamton, N. Y. In 
 reading this book we are impressed with the idea that the author is healthy and 
 happy and has a clear conscience. There is nothing cynical, morbid or critical 
 about his book. He loved the joys of childhood so dearly that the joy has never 
 been effaced, and liis references are both humorous and realistic. He is a lover of 
 home and country and his lines breathe of patriotism and love of home. Indeed 
 the thoughts throughout the book are of a very high and poetical nature. We 
 take great pleasure in commending this book to our readers. — The Farmer's Advo- 
 cate. 
 
 WINS RENOWN AS A POET. 
 Supervisor E. W. Van Slyke, who now lives in Lestershire, N. Y., and who 
 was quite well known throughout Allegany county as a contracting builder prior to 
 1891, has issued a book of original poems that is attracting much favorable com- 
 ment bv the press and the public, especially in Binghamton and vicinity, where he 
 is prominent in business and politics. This book comes as a h.}ppy surprise to his 
 many friends and has been written during the leisure moments of his unusually 
 busy life. The work is carefully prepared and brilliantly illustrated with pen drawings 
 made under his personal supervision. The poems are humorous, pathetic, senti- 
 mental and songs of childhood, and cannot fail to reach a responsive cord in every 
 breast. — Welhinlle Reporter. 
 
 WHOLESOME SENTIMENT. 
 Home Melodies, a modest little book of hymns, by E. W. Van Slyke, ex- 
 presses with the facility of rhyme wholesome sentiment for the home; the familiar 
 scenes, the old friends, with here and there a touch of humor, as in " Fisherman's 
 Luck," "Swapping and Backing Out," "Some Snap Shots," "Them 'Ere 
 Boys," etc. The volume is prettily bound and is published by E. W. Van Slyke 
 of Binghamton, N. Y. — Albany Argus. 
 
 THEODORE ROOSEVELT, JR., 
 Wishes to thank Mr. E. W. Van Slyke for his book of poems. He appreciates 
 this kind thought and also the good wishes for a speedy recovery. — fVhite House, 
 Feb. 2g, jgo2. 
 
 A U. S. CONGRESSMAN'S THANKS. 
 Mr. E. W. Van Slyke: 
 
 My Dear Sir. — Please accept my hearty thanks for a copy of " Home Melo- 
 dies." It is indeed an attractive and entertaining volume and shows great thought 
 on your part, and a deep appreciation of human nature. Your delineations of the 
 fisherman's disappointments bring memories of my youthful days, when I too, with 
 pin and angleworm — the best tackle my pecuniary resources would permit, stood 
 beneath the " green boughs a' swishing." I am sure that all who are so fortunate 
 as to secure a copy will feel amply repaid for its perusal. — Geo. W. Ray . 
 A MASTER PIECE, 
 We have received a neatly printed and bound book of poems entitled " Home 
 Melodies," composed by our Supervisor, E. W. Van Slyke of Lestershire, N. Y. 
 This book is already becoming very popular and highly appreciated, and is receiving 
 many kind words from the public and press. Some literary people even claim that 
 it is a master piece and equal to the best ever produced. — Union Neivs. 
 
 117 
 
A PROFESSOR'S OPINION. 
 " Home Melodies," by our fellow townsman and pioneer of Lestershire, is a 
 book which very favorably impressed me. The writer, in a style distinctively his 
 own, has written many short and thoroughly interesting poems just suited for fire- 
 side reading, which, while natural and lifelike in conception, have often a touch 
 of the humorous. "Tom Creek" shows a liberal appreciation of the events 
 common to childhood, and its bearing on mature years in moments of reflection, — 
 E, T, Gra-ves, Principal Leitershire Academy. 
 
 A NEAT VOLUME. 
 The " Globe " extends thanks for a copy of " Home Melodies," by E. W. 
 Van Slyke. Mr. Van Slyke is a prominent resident of Lestershire, and Super- 
 visor for the town of Union. His contributions to the press have attracted much 
 attention, a poem appearing in the " Globe " two weeks ago. Mr. Van Slyke' s 
 work deals with home life and his poems bear the fragrance of the apple blossoms 
 and the clover. — Utica Saturday Globe. 
 
 From every side E. 'W, Van Slyke is receiving great praise for the richness of 
 his book of poems entitled "Home Melodies." The more one studies Mr. Van 
 Slyke's poetical gems the stronger grows the love for the homely verses that are 
 worthy to enrich the best of libraries. What author has more fittingly dedicated 
 his work than has Mr. V^an Slyke.? Here is the dedication: 
 
 " To you, my townsmen, whom daily in my walks I meet 
 
 In business intercourse or greetings on the street — ■ 
 
 In social pleasures or within the banquet hall, 
 
 Or when we weep together o'er some loved one's pall — 
 
 To you whose long-familiar faces make more dear 
 
 Than any spot on earth our Lestershire, 
 
 In thankfulness and love for friends I've found so true 
 
 I dedicate, with fond regards, this book to you." 
 It will be seen that Mr. Van Slyke rings true, not only for all his friends but 
 for his home town. Well may Lestershire feel elated for having such a gifted son, 
 and Broome county for possessing true literary genius as one of her Supervisors. — 
 The Sunday Star. 
 
 We have received a volume entitled " Home Melodies," the first published col- 
 lection of poems from the pen of Elmer W. Van Slyke of Lestershire, N. Y., 
 who formerly resided for a number of years in and near Hamilton, where he has 
 many warm friends. Readers of this paper will recall numerous poems published 
 heretofore in these columns from the pen of Mr. Van Slyke, which are included 
 in this volume. The reader follows willingly as the poet's memory turns back- 
 ward to boyhood days, and old associations, and the joy the poet feels in living 
 pulses through each vivid picture. He is a lover of nature and patriotism; love of 
 home and family ties, and a bright hopeful view of the perplexities of life, and 
 human sorrows, breathe forth from the little book, until one is delighted and up- 
 lifted by its reading. — The Hamiltonian. 
 
 LETTER FROM A MINISTER. 
 In looking over " Home Melodies " the first thing that impressed me was the 
 splendid photograph of the author. One is impressed with the bright, clean and 
 true picture, vvhich would make one think there are other attractions further on. 
 Nor is one disappointed in this, for I have found all through the book that which 
 was interesting to me and which I think will be to others. "Fisherman's Luck" 
 
 ii8 
 
can hardly fail to send us back over our own efforts to secure some of the finny 
 tribe, with a vividness that will be surprising, and almost at my time of life makes 
 me wish to take the tackle and start. "Them 'Ere Boys" is so true to nature 
 I could not resist reading it over and over. "Songs My Sweetheart Sang" is 
 worth the price of the -book. It awakens memories that cannot die. But I 
 could hardly help thinking as I read "My Den Around the Corner" that the 
 author might possibly know more of cards than is proper for a member of the M. 
 E. Church. — y, M, Crandall, Pastor of Lestcrsh'ne Baptist Church. 
 
 That Mr. Van Slyke is a poetical genius of no small merit has been conceded 
 by all who have had the pleasure of looking over the advance sheets of his book. 
 He has not aspired to long and classical poetry. He has written poems that he 
 thought would please the great mass of people, a book that can be picked up in 
 leisure moments; in short, a book for fireside perusal, as is stated in the subject 
 title. Mr. Van Slyke is to be congratulated upon his success and the Herald pre- 
 dicts for his " Home Melodies " a large sale. — Binghamton Evening Herald. 
 
 Much to the delight of the many friends of Supervisor E. W. Van Slyke his 
 volume of poems is being exceptionally well received, both by the reading public 
 and the literary critics. This is not surprising to those who have devoted a little 
 time to the careful reading of his works, fur they cover a wide range of topics, and 
 every poem, even the shortest, rings with a depth of feeling and hearty good cheer. 
 Every topic, whether sentimental, humorous or juvenile is treated in a manner 
 that is thoroughly satisfying and praiseworthy. Some of his child poems would 
 have graced the pen of our national favorite, Eugene Field, or James Whitcomb 
 Riley, as many of their readers have attested. Lestershire, as well as Mr. Van 
 Slyke's many friends, are to be congratulated upon possessing in him a true genius, 
 and one who is bound to win renown in the field of literature. — Binghamton 
 Evening Leader. 
 
 A new star in the galaxy of American poets is E. W. Van Slyke of Lestershire, 
 N. Y., and his poems are becoming very popular with lovers of good literature. 
 His style of writing is simple, direct, and highly captivating, and his quiet good 
 humor, judiciously distributed, keeps the reader in a pleasant frame of mind through- 
 out, in anticipation of what is coming next. The wonder is, that during his ex- 
 tremely busy life he has found time to write so much. But the quality is inherent 
 in him, and his writings are purely a work of love on his part. — Allegany County 
 Republican. 
 
 The author feels a deep appreciation for the many other pleasant notices his 
 book has received from various newspapers in all parts of the country, and especially 
 from those near his home, which space forbids to use here. The "Lestershire 
 Record," "Montrose Democrat," " Elmira Telegram," "Whitney's Foint 
 Reporter," and dozens of others, as well as hundreds of personal letters bear testi- 
 mony to the merit of " Home Melodies," as a book for the home. 
 
 " Home Melodies " or "Wayside Poems" will be sent to any address in the 
 United States upon receipt of $l.oo. 
 
 It the two volumes are ordered together to one address they will be sent neatly 
 packed in a fancy box upon receipt of ^2.00. The bo,\ is a gem of beauty and 
 suitable to place in a book case, keeping the books together in tidy form. No 
 more attractive article for a present to a friend. Address should be written plainly, 
 and send all orders to 
 
 E. W. VAN SLYKE, 
 
 Binghamton, N, Y. 
 
 119 
 
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