'f^^MJV ■f? J i;x>^;' *';t>^ ? ■ .7i. ... "^ "» " ./ ^-*U.o< oV ^: tf ' ' • • * •* ' ^^ '^0' -^ov* :^^<>'« ■^'■-o^ ^leaiHttdiS AN OLD PRAIRIE HEN. '/iOm <9 oiJ'Ajuui^^xA. >^yi Plow or pen, when idle, rust, — • Life is short and shallow. Many people buy to waste. Others lack for tallow. Labor does not always win Comfort, wool or rugs, l>ut tender vines and leaves ar« eat By the shiftless 'tater bugs. n. H. FRARY, Printer, 138 S. Water Street, 1874. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by the author, in the oifice of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. DEDICATED TO MOTHER O'LEARY, Whose lamp lighted the funereal pyre of Chicago, and waked the dead hopes of thou- sands through purgatory to the milky-way of human kindness, born of no creed but the God-like one which " makes the whole world kin." INDEX. PAGE. Pen Skeletons of the Brain 3 Ode to the Bells 7 Night 9 My Patch-work Quilt 11 Thanksgiving in 1800 and 1873 18 Love is Liberty and abideth with Slavery 21 To the first Baby Boy ; Greeting 24 The Chief of '49 26 To Mrs. L 29 Get For'ard Jane 32 The Moth and the Rust 36 Dog-Day s 41 From Cause to Effect 46 My Humming-Birds' Nest 49 Gracie and Junie 53 Tweedle-de-Dum and Tweedle-de-Dee 56 The National Dish 60 Pride, Poverty, People , 62 On the Death of a Sister 65 Alone 68 Why, What and Whisky 70 Silver Hair 76 The Old Brown House 79 What you know, according to Society, you must Muzzled Know ' 82 Index. PAGE. The Dreams that Fade 86 A Modern Pharisee 88 Lines Snogested on hearing of Lincoln's Assassi- nation , 93 Woman" s Sphere 90 On the Death of an Old Lady 98 Haunts and Habitants of the Forest ... 101 Lines to a Beautiful Boy 104 Time Leads the Years 106 The Waning Summer 108 Deacon Abinadab's opinion on Female Sufferage. 110 War, and its Heroes 117 Thoughts Glejin'd in the Stubble 120 Human Wants and Human Hunters 123 How Old? ....126 To my Sister 128 The Shrines, the Golden Calf and the Worshipers. 130 Let Me Sleep 134 Ode to the Beautiful Waters of Oconomowoc 137 Bone of Contention 139 Facts and Fancies 153 Life's Mysteries 156 To the Parents of a Young Man who accidentally shot himself 157 From Stubble to Market 159 Postscript 164 L:ist but not Least 168 SALUTATORY The publication of this collection was not pionipted by conceit in its merits, but by a financial crisis, wliicli compels us to use every talent — mental and physical — to win bread. The world owes it to no one — in our estimation — who is not willing- to work for it (if able). In no city but Chicago would we offer these effu- sions; for within her limits individuals (with one talent) can find the way open to success — even to com- peting with those who possess five. Her philanthro- py, patronage and enterprise are broad, deep, powerfal. Beggared by fire, redeemed by the bounty of the world, she is queen over more loyal hearts than any other city of the Union. In such a field — where thousands have felt the need of charity — one can offer their wares, believing it is honorable to strive, even though you are mentally or physically weak. Thus guided by faith, we offer this book, written for pastime in idler hours and bettei- days. If found worthy of criticism, we shall not avoid it ; if fairly jjfiven, it is to a writer the stepping-stime to success and will be the only favor asked by THE AUTHOR. PEN SKELETONS OF THE BRAIN. y^' OULD 1 invoke, by prayer or thought divme. Some favored bard, in this or ancient time, To drop his mantle o'er me, with the power, I might win fame, in this my natal hour. It might seem vain, should I attempt the prize — But then the bait before these longing eyes Inspires my muse to step ati easy measure, And try my talent for this golden treasure. All cannot win, however much their pains, For still the many show some lack of brains . The mind, like mother earth, is full of seeds ; Too rapid growth bears ever rankest weeds. The rarest blossom is the century plant — Thoughts of a lesser growth would pass for rant. Judged by this standard, few would ever brave. Or launch their frail bark on the crested wave. For the old classics, with their ancient lore, Would strand them quickly on some treacherous shore . O'er-ride their logic with their graver wit. And send them down to Hades in a fit. Skeletons of the Brain. But Greek and Latin are not now our need — We have less brains and more of dolts to feed. Thus, modern writers have out-crop'd the grass, And spread their foolscap greenness near the glass. Daring the classic eye of every fellow Whose wine of wisdom is both rare and mellow. Gold tempts the diamond pen t)f thought to write for glory — Many for bread do rack their brains to write a story. No gleam of truth must lurk beneath the fiction. With no grammatical mistake in point of diction. Just thirty pages must the story cover, Debarred acceptance if there's any over. Could thoughts but flow as easy as this ink, What pearls of wisdom would my pen here link. But when 1 write, and scratch to write again. I feel by faith I never was ordained To scatter mustard-seed in earthly garden, Or win by literature not e'en a "Dolly Varden. " T is then I feel I'm doomed to loose my dinner, While on the anxious-seat for bread, a miserable sinner. 1 know one-half the world are scribbling delusions. While truth is struggling for the right amid the dire confvisjop, Skeletons of the Brain. 5 But what's the odds, if all the world is happy as a lark, No matter if the preachers groan, and all the growlers bark. Fashions and follies rule the hour — logic s a bore ; The time 's too fast to stop and read the sage s lore. The Pilgrim Fathers did not have so much to read : Their heirs begin to look as though they d gone to seed. Why are the heads of young and old getting so bald ? Ah ! at the sight, when I look around, I grow appalled. Does wisdom on our steps attend ? or we progress? What makes the Anglo-Saxon race grow less and less? The poor, they hunt for daily bread — their greatest need. Are satistied if they are fed, and give no heed To all the styles that flaunt them by on dress parade, Who never think, as they whirl by, who sets the grade. All plan their life as though not born to die, Nor how the poor man with his si>ade will measure where they lie. How few in life do stop to heed , there is for those who revel, One place — where rich and poor alike must rest on common level. Skeletons of the Brain, Contamiuation in the touch o^ fingers white to serf, But his brown hands the last to smooth above them mother earth . How wise it is, distinctions here reach not beyond to God, Where alienated souls in life are one beneath the socJ. ODE to THE BELLS. r HE bells 1 The bells ! ^^' How their music floats O'er the storm, And the soft summer airj; Tolling the grief of dying and dead — Calling the Christian to prayer, Chiming God's praise, On each Sabbath morn ; Ringing to work in the morning — Calling the Godly And Godless alike, Cheerfully, never in scorning. Echoing ever, The joy and the pain. Marriage bells gleefully ringing ; Joining the chorus. When warriors come — Of glory and victory singing, 8 Ode to the Belli. "Who can withstand the charm Of your chimes. List not the tone for yoiir story ^ From the fair-haired child; J ust learning of life, To the old man aged and hoary ? Who can forget The wail on the air. Blended with sin and with sorrow. Pealed by her bells, As Chicago went down To her death and despair, on the morrow. Ring on forever, the weal and the woe. The matins for life without number Well for us all 't is not given to know, When or where we must slumber. NIGHT. IGHT folds her mantle o er the world, The balmy air grows sweet, While tired nature seeks repose — Rest for her weary feet. They ve pressed the heather since the dawn Of morning's early sun ; Are glad to note old Sol's decline — Their daily duties done. Life has no richer boon than night, To weary mortals given ; For sleep, the great restorer, brings To them an earthly Heaven. The fevered blood, cooled by the dews, Pulsates its course more slowly ; While folded in the arms of sleep. In quiet posture lowly. Some tossing on their couch of pain, When sultry suns do simmer — Count the slow hours and weary wait. To see the first star glimpier, Night. H ow cold they look, so far away, And yet their soft light stealing Among the feathery clouds above, Do harmonize the feeling. I watch your glow, these stilly nights, The restless world forgetting, — Ah ! you out-rival in your shine. The diamond in its setting. How still the air — hush'd every breath - Of wanton breezes playing. It seems as if the breath of prayer Around the world were straying. How beautiful is life — how sweet Her nights for peaceful slumber, When all forget, in quiet rest. Their sorrows here to number ; Far from the haunts of vice and sin. These clover-scented meadows. Bring to my soul a hushed repose, " Mid night" s cool evening shadows MY PATCHWORK QUILT. HE old-fashioned ''Quilt, " had a long life-lease. Bequeathed by the maker, to daughter or neice. The "Rising Sun," in pink, graced the best chamber- bed. While the "Double Irish-Chain" covered nightly two heads, ' That, like lion and lamb, lay peaceful together, With never a fear that one or the other, Had seen an "Affinity,'" or been sheepishly told That either, by mistake, were in the wrong fold. The Almanac hung on the wall by the Clock, To note the moon s changes — with anecdote stocked. The Family Bible, and Webster, not bridged, A little "Black-Strap," and a "Tee-total Pledge," Were the full of life needed, for stomach and soul. In these old-fashioned days for the Godly, I 'm told. Theharvest-moou came when the summer was spent, But to young, or old, winter brought no discontent, For no worm at the root caused tlieir roses to wilt. As they blended life's colors in a "Patchwork Quilt." 12 My Patchwork Quilt. If their faces grew homely by toil, or the sun, They ignored the fact when their days work waS done, And, offering a prayer for blessings here sent, Loved and worked for each other in perfect content. All the "Olives" that came, by their Bible foretold, Each one found a welcome within the home fold. With a fair show of girls, the rest of them boys. Swelled a good baker s dozen, to sweeten their joys. With ApiDles and Cider, and the boys making stilts. Brought the need, every year of a "Patchwork Quilt."' The wife spun and knit all the family socks, And the girls wove the cloth for dresses and smocks, The buzz of the spinning-wheel, and hum of the bee, With the "Katy-Did " notes in the old elm tree. Were the only sounds that disturbed the still air, And peace and content seemed to dwell everywhere. For newspaper then gave nightly no shocks, (^f the rise or the fall in cerals or stocks. And the "Old Pilgrim felt, on the "rock'' he had built, W^ould never come harm to his "Patchwork" or "Quilt." Mp Patchicork Quilt. 13 The corn-house well filled ; in his Stocking- Bank, money ; Plenty of rye. and hives filled with honey. Warmth in his heart towards God and the poor, Giving to all who sought alms at his door. Content to live by the sweat of his labors, Loving his own wife better than his neighbors'. How smart he looked, as to " meeting " he went, And the tone of his voice, harmoniously blent. For, true to lifes principles, he felt no guilt, And his dreams were untroubled, neath the ''Patch- work Quilt." PART SECOND OF THE NEW VERSION, AND THE '^OLD, OLD STORY.* ^ HE Past and the Present no comparison know — The men live to fault-find — the women for show, And the next best thing, as a matter of course. Is a Civil Suit to get a Divorce. For Man, years ago, did print this fable : That Woman was mentally weak — not able To win by her brain, neither dime or a collar — Had no need of a purse, and seldom a dollar ; Contented should live, in the house Jack Built, And merrily sing, with no Patchwork Quilt. 14 My Patchxoork Quilt. if a couple get mairied, their lioney-inoon life Is soured, too oft, with another man' s wife. Just read in the papers, made up by a male, Of the gossip and slang, on poor woman frail- — How he howls about dress, her ties, and her hair, Her bustle and hoops drive them all to despair. Racking his brain, and wasting his taper. To growl, when her bustle makes sale for his paper . He forgets, when he swells in linen so nice, His father wore home-spun, and a cotton shirt — thrice. Comparing notes on the twain, the price of his tiles, Compels her to rejuvenate her old styles. While his games with a cue, cards, women and wines. Swell the drafts on his banker — not the family he dines. Her allowance — a third — for supplies and the crib, His— two-thirds — for society, dog, horse and quid. No wonder she sighs (like Maud Muller), when told. Her charms they have faded, her face growing old, As she ponders the words, still thoughts lie deep. Cooing sweet lullabies to baby asleep. No wonder she sighs for old-fashioned ways — One shirt for three Sundays and one for week days — For a man who is willing to work for his bread, Who would smile at the advent of each baby-head. What cares the mother for diamonds and puffs, And all of the shams which society stuffs? My Patchioork Quilt. 15 Facing- the flattered, with compliments neat. Plenty of dress, with too little to eat ; Plenty of show, and plenty of shame, Everything mix'd. and no one to blame. Woman's life is made up of patches and piece, A mixture of dress, of scrubbing and grease, With threads of fault-finding, strung in together, The wear and the tear, 'underpinned with sole leather ; A smattering of music, of Dutch and of French, Then next in the kitchen, working just like a wench. Smoothing the linen of husband' s shirt-front, Who, abroad, "smiles blandly" — at home, says J •'wont ' Answer the demands you make on my purse, Yourself and your brats are a bane and a curse, If life is a burden to woman, what then? With one way to earn money, only lawful to men ; And that, too, because they are selfish in lust, Daring not for a moment each other to trust : Coveting mostly ; their Bibles not read — But a " sheep' s-eye " at his, puts a hole in some head. Who growls the most if the babies are many, And wishes to God they had less or not any ? 16 My Patchwork Quilt. Who has tempted the woman, since Adam's first birth, And scattered the plague-spots that darken the earth ? What becomes of the babies '? Who answers the cry ? Is it always the mother? and never great I ? Who buys with gold the price of a name, And leaves to his victim a lite-time of shame '• Who supports all the wrong? betrays all that's right? I ask you these questions, like a Christian, to-night ! When you rail about women, you should not be loth To admit, there are many betrayed by man's troth. While ranking the masses together, I can Show women outrivalling, in courage, the men. While you think it her fate to sew and to tuck, He who faces a cannon does not always show pluck. MORAL. In truth, there is virtue to do and to dare, Tlie right, in our youth, while blossoms are fair, '• For they who belie a good name, are worse Than the thief, who purloins your money or purse.' 'What if " Patchwork ■' to-day is much out of date ? To mend many morals may not be too late. The color of kindness to laborers in deed, Would piece out a friendship for some fr^ture iieet^, My Patchwork Quilt. 17 While the '' Double Irish Chain" of love for the cook. Would lessen desire from our pantry to hook. And the blocks of contentment, window-sashed all together, Would keep us good-natured in all kinds of weather . The "Autograph Piece," sent in by a friend, Would remind us of kindness, and help us to lend. And the "Log Cabin" style, of pioneer life, Should refresh old memories, unvexed by their strife. While the "Pure White," outlining the orange and blue, A reminder to ever be faitliful and true. The " Basket," a lesson of frugality in store. Turning, empty-handed, no one from our door. And the " Star " of our pride, in the room overhead, Would be a haven of rest to some weary one led. Then the milk of human-kindness would never be spilt, If we pieced good- will together like my •' Patchwork Quilt." THANKSGIVING IN 1800 AND 1878. ^EW England ! New England ! o\ ^ How bright with good cheer. Are thy homes, when the day of thy pride- Thanksgiving ! is here. There are great turkey gobblers. And pumpkin-pies, big, With a coffee-brown glow On a nicely stuffed pig ; Chicken pies, the size Of the largest tin jjans — With oysters, and turtle soup, x\nd plenty of clams ; Cakes, cheese and cookies, With tarts, I delcare, And six kind of pies, To make the meal square. Nuts from the tropics, The choicest of wines — Not forgetting the cider When New England dines , Thanksgiving in 1800 and 1873. All kinds of preserves, Which I came near forgettin*;. With jams, and with jellies, On the table are setting. Every kind of a vegetable Raised on the farm, Makes life here pleasant. And the Thanksgiving cliarm Is sweetened by knowing You 've laid up a store. And thankful you come To pray, and adore, The wife, with her jewels And laces so fine, With rare old china, From off which you dine ; Quaint old silver. Solid and pure, Made, like the Pilgrims, To we;ir and endure. Great hospitable hearths. Whose fires, ever bright, Shed its glow for the rich And the poor just alike, With the warmest corner. For the dearest one kept. And the old easy-chair. Where grandmother slept. 20 Thanksgiving in 1800 and 1873. The patriarch's word Was his bond in a trade, For he never tried His debts to evade. Such was life in New England, Not fifty years since ; Comparing notes with them, It makes me here wince. For our Thanksgiving days Are quite shoddy grown, And I fear that our anthems, Though lofty in tone, Pealed by the organs On the soft air, ' ,"' Reach not to God Like the breath of their prayer. LOVE IS LIBERTY AND ABIDETH WITH SLAVERY. fOVE came with life to nature" s first born. To abide here — a joy forever. And nothing can change, tlio' wide we may range, Or the wealth of a pure love sever. Tho' the world may flout, the skeptic may doubt. It still lives for saint and for sinner. And, because it is strong, will overcome wrong. Victorious at last as the winner. It dawns for the mother, like breath of the morn. When the child her Maker has given Lies asleep on her arm, unconscious of harm, This mother-love never is riven. No matter what changes life brings to the pair. Nor how wide apart they may wander. She cannot forget the soft silken hair. Or how he daily grew stronger. In weal or in woe, as the years tlide apace, The lullaby sung o er the cradle. Has a charm for the twain, that lulls all pain. To stifle which nothing is able. 22 Love is Liberty and Ahideth with Slavery. Who ever forgot, disgraced or in crime, Forsaken by father or brother, Tho all were estrangd, and CA^erything changed. He still had his God and his mother. Love came with the song the Pilgrims first sung, In spite of a monarch controling, Hym'd to the storm, by freedom's first-born, When the wild waves and billows were rolling, Toss'd on the breast of Old Ocean's white crest, Like children they wept for each other, Tender to feel, but fired with a zeal. Tyranny never could smother. To these hearts brave, o'er their life on the wave. Came visions of hope ever stealing. That on foreign strand, they once more would stand, God's love nevermore here concealing. This love proved so strong, that might had to yield, And the minions of monarch's now slumber, Unshrived by a priest, where death did release, Though doubling the Pilgrims in number. Love of country endures the changes of time. Will bask in the smile of no other. That was nursed a free-born in tempest and storm, With Liberty's God for its mother. No sublimer truths has history taught Than is \Yritten on wave, rock or ages, And the pen is not made or diamond tipped yet. That can write all the whys on mans pages. Lone is Ijiherty w/id Abideth with tilavery. '33 Love has spared the slave from death and the grave. From wild beast, when stealthily hiding To prove the truths taught, to them in their youth. That God and His love was abiding. No trial could shake, so firm was their trust. Their belief that this nation would sever The riveted bands, corroding their hands, And leave them untrammel'd forever. Though their Bethlehem Star had not glimmer d yet. Their patience could bide its probation, The dawn of the morn, the refuge from storm. Was Lincoln and his great Proclamation ! That came like a whirlwind, sweeping away Old claims, grown rusty for ages. Now doomed to despair, lost on the free air. With no life but in old musty pages. Avaunt, then, ye doubters of a love that gave birth To a nation's repentance in sorrow. A faith newly born is never forlorn, ' With God and the love-lighted morrow. To those who rail of love and its dearth, And think we all hate here each other. I will point them to God, the faith of the Slaves, The Pilgrims, and love of a Mother, TO THE FIRST BABY-BOY— GREETING. [OY to the dearest, Happy and blest With thy sweet baby-boy, Asleep on thy breast. No dearer love Has God ever given — Mother's warm breast Is baby's own Heaven. How your hearts throb With joy at his birth. Closer the bond That unites you on earth. How you clasp The bewildering elf, No idle dream — He belongs to yourself. Nay, dear mother, The love- work is thine. To train thy boy Ji'or 3, l^olier sjirjiie. To the First Baby-Boy — Greeting. '-^5 God, in bis love. Has lent, not given : These little angels Are wanderers from Heaven i May the bright dreams You weave for the boy^ In the far future Be free from alloy; Now to your hopes Tie is fair and as bright, As the glow of the sun On a sweet summer niglit. THE CHIEF OF *49. His Covenant — How Kept. The wail of the winds in the Rocky Mountain pines only answer. WHE brave and the fair pass out in the wold* I To meet on this earth again never ; And the years glide on, like a dream that is told. While time, it abideth forever. Who can reck of the way, the weal or the woe. Of those by one fireside tended : To us popr mortals not given to knoM^ What fate in our lives will be blended. The paths looked fair our feet might tread. We saw not the grey of the morning ; Moving on each day, by some new fancy led. That was ever the wayside adorning. But the clouds gathered fast, though seeming to creep. The homestead with shadows was shaded ; And the brown heads pillowed on one loving breast. To all but their fond mother faded . No hopes, fond mother, were dearer than thine. That went out with children's to-morrow ; Yet thy loving eye saw not the tall, dreary pines That wailed forth thy heart's greatest sorrow. The Chief of '49. 27 Thou was not to know that fate had decreed, On Sierra s highest lone mountain ; Thy heart for the eldest born ever should bleed, Whose fevered 4ips failed at the fountain . Fame for the hero who led this brave band, To work out his pathway to glory. Is echoed for Fremont, all over the land, But to you, what a sorrowful story. He only is brave who shares with the tried His bread with his comrade in danger ; List ! the wail of the pines, on that lone mountain side Whisper : Fremont was alien and stranger. Thy brave boy died, with the gun by his side. That drew blood from the fleet deer bounding : And that desolate band gathered round to divide, E'er that lonely shot's echo had sounded. One piece for himself he kept from the spoil. On that last day of hardship and sorrow ; His path was beset with danger and toil, And food might not come with the morrow. God and the stars only know when he slept, Uncaress'd by a wife or a mother ; But the few who survived that disastrous trip. Say, to them, he was more^ than a brother. Fremont may be brave, where fame points ahead. To win by his daring some honor ; But what says the world, to the dying and dead, Qe left in distress, by dishonor, ^8 The Chief 0/ 49. The promises made were sacred, not kept, Bold mountaineers scorned his endeavor ; Had he stuck to those brave men, They would not have slept In those wild mountain passes forever. Their desertion and death, without food or guide, Was glossed by a plausible story ; For the duty most plain, was ignored to gain. And win by new ventures more glory. Fame is the great prize that lures many on, Oft chills all the better emotion ; But the Giver of all, who the world spat upon, Was the type of a higher devotion. Thus thy boy who braved the tempest and cold, Half starving, divided his dinner ; Showed a braver heart than his chieftain so bold, And proved himself less of a sinner. That fond mother's hair, so silvered by time, Nearly spun her earthly probation ; The truth long concealed, the fate of her son, Overwhelm ning its sad revelation. Despair at his lieart, through danger and storm, For weeks in those mountains so hoary ; He cheered on his comrades, way-worn and forlorn. Such deeds pave the pathway to glory. Lovingly inscribed to the mother whose eldest son died of starvation in the Rocky Mountains, with eleven other brave naen, abaqdoned to their fate, in 1849, by John C Fremont, TO MRS. L. jHILE drinking my tea to-nigt, by myself. And nibbling away at a fritter. My husband walked in w-ith a long, knowing phiz. And passed, without comment, a letter. How happens? it is torn? I asked with a frown. While my face wore the look of a lighter. "Oh," answered my spouse, "I read not a word: Only peeped at the name of the writer." "Curiosity, of course," 1 replied, with a sigh, '' Was a legacy left only to women, While never a son, since Adam was born, Has stumbled like Eve. in their sinning. 1 would not venture a moral to point. But tjuietly kept my tea drinking, Yet nevertheless, Mrs. L.. I confess My brain grew crazy with thinking. How we poor mortals are tempted and tos^iM On lifes heaving sea of commotion. While we dream other Innks ave more trail than our own. Though perchance you| think it my notiou, 30 To Mrs. L. If it is, I shall lay the charj^-e at your door, Nor admit it might be the fritters. For a very weak brain is made weaker, you know. By an old black bottle of bitters. Now, doctors 1 know, much given to drugs, No matter what country or clime. When they get nonplussed, depend on the nus, And make the weak stronger with wine. Some days I feel like Sampson — so strong — I annoy my friends with my visits ; Then again at the window, my long, doleful face Is suggestive of doctors and physics. Thus your long, loving letter, white-winged as the dove. Came down on my vision to-night', And the smile on my face, o'er the heart grew apace, For your loves and your dreams are so bright. May they ever be thus, no shadow or care To darken the years as they glide, Then life's brightest page, in the grey of old age. Rich harvest will bear, far and wide. Forgotten the days, full of anguish and pain ? Dear friend, I never forget. Too many dark clouds have shadow'd life's path, They live in my rnemory yet, To Mm. 1j. 3I If all the dark days are remembered, why not The bright and silver-lined hours ; A bright, smiling face to a sick, famished heart. Is as sweet as the breath of spring flowers. Despair, like a pall, oft shadows the room Where the sick moan the long hours away, How little we think of the few idle words. Causing pain no skill can allay. Your face, photographed by the camera of mind, Gleams out mid the bustle and strife, And I dream in the sun of the good work you done When you taught me a new love of life. GET FOR'ARD, .tANE ! *' Say, Sis, I believe I never did tell About my trip into Cairo ? If you 've got time to listen, all well. As the weather outside is to zero. "Outward bound'' for Egypt, you know, "buying corn,' A cold and bad night for travel, 1 stepped into the depot, feeling forlorn. For a wheat spec had dwindled my gavel. " Here, flat on the floor, I saw a queer siglit — Of old shawls made into bundles ; And I stood for a moment, confused by the light, To look, while my moustache I fondled. 1 concluded some hovel had spilled a whole nest — Counted thirteen, all told, of the brats ; They slept very sound on the hard floor, at rest — How I roared when I looked at their hats I *' A little old woman, with nut-brown face, Wore a bonnet, the size of our scuttle. Devoid of a flower or a bit of stray lace, And beside her an old junk bottle. Ge I Fo ?•* ard, Jane! 33 The dad of the crowd, his face deeply hid In a plug, wiih hair like a bur ; Beside him, asleep, was a kuee-patclied kid, Holding string that was 'tached to a cur. **The train-bell sounded— ''All aboard!" cried the boss. Great God ! how their Xoah Ark tumbled, As, waked by the roar of incoming train. The whistle, and wheels as they rumbled. The old man gathered his kids ; the dame Her bags of lunch and the bottle. ** Get for'ard there, Jane !" the old man cried, ** See ! the engineers hand 's on the throttle I" *' * I vow I' said daddy, 'Jonathan Greeu Does pester me more 'n the whole lot I' liut the face in the coal-scuttle could not be seen. As down in the seats they all sot. I knew she was worried, tho" dressed not in silk, By the way she cuddled her twins ; And the old junk-bottle, full of sweet milk. ' I swear ' I had quoted it gin, "Jonathan Green was found in the rear "with the crowd, Bumping around after new-fangled notions. "^You allers was snoopin',' said his sire, aloud, As he collared his pedals to motion. 2 3-i Get For'ardj Jane I Tlien out came the luncli-bag, tied with tow.strinrjs, Running over with corn-bread and bacon, \\\i\\ links of Dutch sausage for each little thing, Although you may think mc mistaken, *'I became quite enamored with the little brown fi\ce- Not rough, but kind ways of the pair, And I said to myself, as I staid my slow pace, Love in life makes a poor meal square. I questioned : ' Dear sir, what caused you to move, With so many small lambs in your flock '?" Ah, Sis, I forgot liis swallow-tail coat '. His neck in an old-fashioned stock. " He replied to my query : — * tlis Karliney state Had not any schools — only cotton ; With these little chaps, came family fate To leave institution so rotten. His soul for his country was hungered — no love In the South — "t was full of disorder ; He was looking for land for his squabs and his dove. Where the flag lioared still — o'er the border.' '' I forgot I was soured by losses, I declare ; The cloud passed away and the mist. For those quaint old poeple had babies so fair, That I did not shun e'en a kiss. Get For'avd, Jane I '>") TliLis tliey came with the flock, as they 'reckoned' it best, Before any more were born, And there, with our faces toward Egypt w^e met, He to raise, and I to buy — corn. THE MOTH AND THE RUST f OR, Do we Win if we Buy. We buy and we build, but enter not in, No matter how fine we may model ; Adrift on the tide of life's ocean wide. In spite of sail, anchor or paddle. Fame j;litters for some — the star of their dream, High over man's steeples so tall ; Ah ! he wakes to find the moth and the rust Is creeping — has crei)t over all ! Some buy the Avorld's friendship with gold and its dross. Some cater with dinners and wine ; So long as it lasts, they have many friends, Who ever are ready to dine. Let misfortune overtake such a man in the race, Do his friends come then at his call ? Ah ! no ; they have gone ; the moth and the rust Is creeping — has crept over all ! Others delve and toil with muscle to win, To keep naked want from their door, And yet never find one-half what they seek, In all the world s great, goodly store. Tlie Moth and the Hust. 87 It may be no fault of the muscles that strive, But the shops where the devil has stall, Has tempted too ofc ; there Llie moth and the rust Is creeping — has crei>t over all ! The sailor, far out from the shore, on the main, Sings merrily his sea-songs loud, ^ever minding the wiud, though a tempest it blow, Or a watery grave and no shroud. His life on the wave, so careless and free. In mizzen-mast, listener for call, Ah ! he sees not below : the moth and the rust Is creeping — has crept over all I Those adventurous spirits that dared the wild shores Of Afric and cold Polar seas ! We have waited so long for tidings from them, Only rumors come back on the breeze. Far from civilized haunts, deep mysteries to solve. Not so far but God did them call, Where, the wild ivy-vines, the moth and the rust Is creeping — has crept over all ! i Many think, on life's wave it is better to drift With the current, if one would succeed ; I prefer a stout oar, with a strong self-will To back, wlijen I find there is used. 38 The Moth and the Rant. From tlie follies of fashion that wreck fondest hopes, Cer the homes of thousands spreads her pall, If you dare not say no, the moth and the rust Will be creeping— will cover you all ! Others draw nice distinctions, think it quite impolite To refuse to take wine with a friend ; Such have business enough, in a few short years Their habits and morals to mend. * The little word no, is buckler and shield, A penhant for low inast or tall ; I flaunt it toward fashion, where moth with the rust Is creex^ing — has crept over all ! The fair and the frail, whose life on the pave. Is shrouded in darkness and night, On a fond mother's breast, were pillowed to rest, And of home were the love and the light. If God had no love for sinners like these, Their chances for Heaven would be sma?l. For the scorn of the world, full of moth and the rust, Is creeping — has crept o'er them all ! 4 The Doctor, from pill-bags, will dose you with drugs ; If you dare ask the name, as a lesson Jle will give you a shrug, a look of the eye, And—the ''Secret of our great Profession."' The Moth and tJie Rust. 30 But the old woman's "yarbs" v>'itli the bottled white pills, Knocked the cock'd-hats of 'pathy so tall ; Thus new revelations, through the moth and the rust, Like trichince, is creeping o'er all ! The Preacher, in striving God's will here to teach, By moulding doxology to creeds, Is getting all mixed, mid the brambles and vines, And can't find his fruits for the weeds. Schooled on the broad prairies of these Western wilds, 1 am stifled where Pharisees bawl ; O'er tlie Hell of their faith : the moth and the rust Is creeping — will creep over all ! Thoughts ever divine, were stamp' d on the brain, When nature's great problem was born ; And the creeds of man's faith are melting away, In the God-love that yet will adorn. The serpent — his slime, sloth, moth and the rust, For ages, on terrestial ball. Have been at their work, until it has seemed They were creeping — had crept over all ! But the great human truths struggle on and on, Toward a light that is dawning for them ; For you can't stop the growth of reason in a soul. If you feed it with bigotry of men. 40 The JUoih and the Rust This trust, newly born, long a slumbering germ, Has led nie these thoughts to recall : That with light, truth and virtue, the moth and the rust. The' creeping, could not cover it all I Though the mammon we worship, you may think will endure, But time yet will show this a fable ; For an unsold soul, unalloyed with gold. In the world, shall yet turn the table.' Truth steps to the tune— grand march of the age, And gold must with Puseyism fall, *' Let there be Light," for the moth and the rust, Is creeping — will creep over all I Then condemn not the toiler on sea or on land — From saints who ^\ith sinners may meet; You can still buy and build, but God in good time Will ''sift all the chaff from the wheat." With love, broad aud deep as the boundless sea, Gou's charitas mantle will fall O'er the human race (where no moth with the rust Will be creeping) — to cover them all ! DOG-DAYS. ^ HE dog-days were heavy No breeze in the town Old Sol's Auoiist rays Would melt a man down The office was dusty, Insurance ran low, And I thought that a change Would rest me, "you know. ' So, with wife, dog and babies, And gun, at my back, With hamper well-fill d. For the country I packed On hand just in time, At the ring of the bell, With a longing desire The fresh hay to smell. Every nerve unstrung By the bustle and din, And months of hard labor My dollar to win. I dare not look back, After drinkin,;;- my malt, Lest, like Lots wife, I turn To a '' pillar of salt." 42 l)og-Days. The fields looked greener Than ever before, As I left far behind Each debtor and bore. And the staff of life, Piled in heaps 'neath the sun, ^Made me feel the pleasures Of life just begun. For I knew the chickens Hid in the stubble ; I could bag them in plenty. Without any trouble. Home, wife and babies Are nice, in their wa.y, And a man 's lost without them, I ■ m f lank here to say. But the real gist of life, If you want to have fun, Is a good dog, trained To a breech-loading gun. Leaving wife and babies To frolic together, I strap" d on my game-bag. To brave wind and weather. Feeling more sure Of the game I could win, Than the one you call " I3os-ton, " Where you put up the tin . Dog-Days. And tlie liasli tastes better — I admit bore the ti nth, Than it does after dealing The jack or the deuce. Game, won "by a shot At billiards or cards, Makes the brain unsteady, And a man's life bard. But a bead on a bird Steadies brain, nerve and muscle, And helps to win, manfully, In life's earnest tussle. A dapper young lad. With news from the hunt. Proceeds to the back door, Not daring the front. And bowing the compliments Of donor, says : " Here Are chickens provided,'' To m.ake you good cheer. '' Bah !"' saj's one, "I m tired of the sight of these birds. *' How they stink ! ' responded The cook, of a third. •' Neighbor P may like them, I want none to-day, Please hand them in As you pass by lier way." 44 Dog- Day a. The youngster replied : *' Her cook lias left town, Her house all torn up, Unfluled her gown. Some leggar, along On this road I may meet, "With neither a shilling, Or chiclicn to eat." Another small lown. Where the quality meet, Whose mornings are slow, And eveninj^s are fleet, With nothing to do, But growl and to play, Because they feed low, At live dollars a day. To these starvlings, came chickens Packed nicely in ice. Whose landlord "smiled blandly," They opened so nice. But this "Heathen Chinee," The gift was so great, Expressed his disgust, At the cost of the freight. Six dollars to pay, With sixty to win ; Of birds, with extras. Whose price was a sin, Dog-Dayn. 45 Makes the soul of this sinner. Offer this prayer : Thxit the orphans be fed By these kind liuiiters" care. And the gift, as an incense, ^J'o God will be sweet, For feeding the fatherless, Yea, giving them meat, And the dainty bit spurned, At the back-door of wealth. Will yield for the homeless, The rich blood of health- ily moral is this : When you hunt for pleasuio. Send no game to those Whose overflown measure. Makes the gift seem stale, And cause you to think, The birds sent in friendship, Have an unpleasant stink- For dog-days are dusty And musty, you know; And people, like flies. Will buzz and will blow. Should I tell all I know, And where I have been, It might make a fuss For this *'Old Pkajrie He»." FROM CAUSE TO EFFECT. fATURE has hiddeii her truths in the deep, ^ ^ 'Neath the soil, the eddies and whirl ; And since we were born for mutual help, We should strive to learn of the world. Yield not to misfortune, but surmount them like nieu. Good debts become bad if not call'd, ''Most things have two handles," the wise way the best Is to ring at the door of front hall. For benefits are apt to grow old betinics, But injuries are classed with long livers ; Thus we never know "till we pump the well dry," How much water we need for these fevers. Family quarrels, "you know," and religious disputes. Unfortunately, know no restraint : 1 1 is hard to decide what physic to give ; Stirring bile oft hurts the comjjlaint. " Carnal sins proceed from fullness of food/' And drunkenness makes man here a brute ; To please worldly fools you must dance like a clown. Dress like them, in a ring-speckled suit ; From Cause to Effect. 47 To swell ill prosperity, you have to keep pace With the times — more often to steal ; If you feed all the "big-bufjs" that flatter you most, You must bag up a good lot of m«a], '* Public men should have public minds, "" or the world Will learn, when they pay the tlrst cost. The tax list is raised to preserve private things. Or the greenbacks that went with the Boss. Mr. Smoothface will say^ you ar« " Gaged '^ to the l)lace — ^*Ask yourself" if the question be true ; For it may prove that he lias an** axe to grind," Those who have not will smell out your due. Some, under adversity, shrink like thin pork. Not killed in the '^full of the moon.''' And without any pot to boil their lean stuff. The high-toned would style them a loon- Money is the ^'servant of some,"' but the master of more — An e-gg from which viee here is hatched ; If yon have no conscience, but can flourish a pen. Soon your way to society can scratchy Bat dare to be good, whatever surround, Yon will find there 's a bane to enjoyment, W?ule the nabob, who swells in the piirple he stole, Will bid 3^on seek further employment. 48 Fvom Cause to Effect. ** Courtiers like jugglers," confederate with knaves, To impose on and steal from the fools,; They need a few months of State prison diet, And trade lessons with good honest tools. Thus I envy no one whose sumptuous styles. Around them they loftily fold, For sleep to the weary is sweeter hy far^ If their conscience has never been sold. But I chei'ish the buds of pity for all,. May they bloom to beauty here yet, As I by the wayside gather thoughts with the rose. Developed by storms and the wet. MY HUMMING-BIRD S NEST (Lovingly inscribed to mj pets — Angie,Ha.ruy. GsACiEand Bubdie.) ci^MID the woods, where I have scrambled, &X The prettiest trophy of my rambles Was a little nest. The owl may tell, And I may own it now as well. I admit I stole it — from the tree, And I confess it here — to thee . But then, it was so cunning ! my And hung suspended— oh ! so high ! I thought — ah ! could I only climb, This pretty nest would soon be mine. Thus, in my great desire to win, I forgot to covet was a sin . While the humming-bird, the wee'st nestling, Ne'er thought rude hands would be molesting Her tiny cradle, neatly made. And hid so high, 'mid leaf and shade. She, on her mission quite intent — And I, absorbed by charm it lent To idle hour. It was so funny— To watch her weesome ways so bonny. oO My Humming-Bird s JYest. And thus I saw her dailj', coming On bufsy wing, while often sunning Among my flowers, scarce touching feet, While sipping flowers ever sweet. I noticed, too, she came and went With cobwebs, pickd from off the fence ; Where 'er the spider spun with care, She gathered every bit was there. I was bewildered — the little thief — Her actions, sure, were past belief; What could she want with silken threads, That thus she gathered spider webs ? She came and went, on pinions still, Working for love —her own free will — And I intent with eye to see, Traced her at last to locust tree. She brought such bits of bark and featli?r- With cobwebs wove them all together — No baby-crib was half so neat As the one she wove with bill and feet. On tiny twig it was deftly hung, By June's soft breezes gently swung ; From cotton-tree she picked the moss, To make the inside white and soft. My lluinmifig-Bird/s Nest, 51 For seven days I watched her work, While I around the tree did lurk, To peep behind the leafy screen, AVhen I saw two eggs just 'like white beans. Dear little builder, it is not fair To take your nest, so cunning — rare — For you will miss your summer pleasure ! But I ! ah, I ! shall have your treasure. In darker days my heart may tune To memories of a by-gone June. Then once again, the morning hours, With the cool, soft air, the flagrant tlowers, W^ill backward turn the llight of time. And I shall see the wild woodbine ; The sunny porch, the easy-chair. The pleasant life so free from care ; The loves and fiiendships, warm and kind, Forever kept in heart and mind. These will, at sight of thee, unfold, And gleam like diamonds set in gold. The little children of my neighbors. The interchange of friendly favors ; Neglected toys, by barn and path. The frolics wild, and merry laugh ; The cookie-jar, where stray feet came, xVnd for each one, and "Buddie" claim' d ; My Humming- Bird's JSfest. The daily lunch I never missed, Not hnlf so much as morning kiss. Those summer joys are stiings of pearl, That bind about my busy world ; And oft to me, in silent hours. Come these little friends — the birds and flowers. GKACIE AND JUNIE.' {Sleeping.) ^LEEPING, to wake on the morrow, cf Where the mornings are cloudless and bright ; Will thy souls, on pinions unfettered, Float outward and onward to\\ard light. Light for the mind, earth clouded, Eeason, long trammel d Ly fear ; Now mid the glow of new splendor, Feels the soul's "Title is clear." Sees, as the earth slowly fadeth. How weak was the faith and the trust, In doubting the gloiious Giver Of life could be ever unjust. Sleeping, like buds of the forest, Deep "neath the mother-earth hid, To waken to bloom and new beauties, When the germ-life shall lift the soft lid. u4 " Gracie and Junic. At the call of the moulder, whose labor Is ever so still and j) 'ofound, No ear evei" catches the echoes, Tho' floating eternity round. J5ut the sonl and the bud hear the music, Symphonied by presence unseen ; Feeling touch of the fingers that guideth, Where ''living Avaters " make the pastures so green. Sleeping, these buds of your bosnm, Waiting the crown that adorns The brow of the pure, and to waken Where their souls will be pierced by no thorns. Tho' blighted the hopes earth cherished. Yet God in his love has fortold, Tlie "Promise is to you and your children," And of such "is the Heavenly fold.'" ]May their spirits still smile o"er the shadows. Till tenderest memories impart ; " Thy wi'l, not ours, Oh, Father !' To sooth the despair of thy heart. One came in the June of the summer, When roses were budding to life. To brighten the ways that were thorny, Where trials were rankest and rife. " Grade and Janie.'' The other, dear Gracie, the darling I First olive that grew on the tree ; How brief the sweet joy of her presence ; Now the mound and the low-bending knee Their sheep is as sweet as the roses We cull when the summers are warm ; Then mourn not these buds of your household, Safe sheltered from blight or the storm. "TWEEDLE-DEE-DUM AND TWEEDLE-DEE- DEE." HERE was an old woman in Danbury town Who wore a linsey-wolsey govvn, Bat what befel her, soon yon "11 see, For that belongs to " tweedle-dee-dee." Her husband, boring for a well. Thought he 'd bored right — oh, don't tell ; There came up such a smell and scum, But that belongs to •' tweedla-dee-dam." The hole it poured for days and months, And they were forced to run the pumps, While this old couple began to see. They were on the road to "tweedle-dee-dee." They barreled all the greasy ile That under their old farm did bile ; It was a nasty sight to some. But they felt kinder " tweedle-dee-dum. " The old man found that he was rich, And kakalated what 't would fetch ; It turned out sich an iley sea. Soon to sail them off to'ard "tweedle-dee-dee.' ** Tweedle-dee-dee and Tweedle-dee-dum.'' 57 The faster that the ile did pour. The big<;er grew their golden store ; Until the neighbors, looking griim, Said, these old fools are " tweedle-dee-dum." They now decided to drop their linsey, As times with them were not so flimsey ; While friendships grew apace, to be, To this queer couple, ''tweedle-dee-dee." Although their hands were old and rusty, And their idees a leetle musty, They felt too grand to stay to hum, Contented still with " tweedle-dee-dum." So they bought paste diamonds for their finger, And dainty styles did round them linger ; While I, like Zaccheus, elimbed a tree, To listen how people would "tweedle-dee-dee." The old man in a white waist- coat. With a lavender necktie round his throat. Looked black as bacon cured with rum, Loving drinks tha^ belong to " tweedle-dee-dum." But the old lady, aired her styles quite frisky, And drank wine now. instead of whisky ; While young and old, of high degree. Drank a health to them and 'Hweedle-dee-dee." 58 ." Tweedle-dee-dee and Ticeedle-dec-diom." His greenbacks gave him " title clear." And Colonel now lie did appear ; While pride and arrogance gave their thumb, Forgetting they ever were '* tweedle-dee-dum," Thus fashion does ignore the rough, One only now need have the stuff. That makes life here a silver sea, While your boat rocks lightly o"er ''tweedle-dee-dee." Gold paves the way to marble halls. Doth wit and wisdom both cntln-all ; And none will ask if you did come, By tweedle-dee-dee or '■ tweedle-dee-dum." Thus, with spanking span of prancing greys, When you whirl by, the world will praise ; And churches will tune their pipes to key. To fleece you, too, with " tweedle-dee-dee." 31 OB ALE. A monied power is shocking, sure. For a free country to endure ; Yet many rise by it from scum, And vote for all their '• tweedle-dee-dum/' Give us but brains to rule the hour, Unbought by gold to wield the power. And uncorrupted we shall be, Twixt tweedle-dee-dum and *' tweedle dee-dee." •• Twecdle-dee-dee and Ticeedle-da-dum.'^ Then \vc shall grow and spread our sails, To succor, all toss d here by gales From foreign shores ; driven here, you see, Twixt '• tweedle-dee-dum " and "tweedle-dec-dee.' Then free and fair our prayers can rise. To the good Father in the skies ; And He no longer will be dumb, But hear once more our " 2'e Beum.'^ Dare you admit, from stile to bog, I 've traced the lines, niarked the snob, And shown the difference, or given the key, Twixt '' tweedle-dee-dum " and " tweedle-dee-dee?" THE NATIONAL DISH. {Pork and Beans.) LEAR the way for Yankee nation, While we pay them herer»bIation, For we do desire and wish, To sing a song of their national dish. Young or old, it matters never, Sages wise, with dandies clever, Ladies line, and babies weaned. Love the Yankee's pork and beans. Noting always dime and fraction. Mustering into rank for action. If they buy a big codfish. To save enough for national dish. By the wayside ever camping, Over plains and mountains tramping When night comes, the Yankee seen, Jolly o er his pork and beans. I have heard the story strange, When Alexis here did range, In New York, expressed the wish. To dluB upon our national dish.. The National Disk. ♦>! But, old Gotham thought the sonuy Of a monarch acted funny ; Guess amalgamation is so thick, Tliey did not know wliich one to piok. But Chicago lias no noodles ; In a bargain, sharp as Toodles ; AYhen the Duke came to her city, Found her Boniface cute and witty. Having Yankee pride in dish. Gave Alexis what he wished ; Graced his board and had no squeams, With the nations' pork and beans. Here 's three cheers for Chicago, Never under an embargo ; Never snobby, crying tish, Not ashamed of Yankee dish. In her scliemes, smart and plucky, In her friendships, true and lucky ; Long may she reign, like royal queens, To feed humanity with pork and beans. Beans should, in this country ever. Royal be to the Yankee clever ; For they made him strong to pull, And hold his own 'gainst Johnny Bull. The fi e and drum have piped the stoi y. That covered Yankeedom with glory ; Sung ho>v Freedom, in her teens. Was saved by granther's pluck and beans. PRIDE— POVERT Y— PEOPLE . ^^il^ PRIDE — poverty — homeless — hungry — If Chill'd by despah- ; Nothing to eat, nothing to do, nothing to wear ; Friendless — hopeless — waiting — Ever depressed. Nobody knows the cry that is strangled, Daily suppressed. What if the mournful eye looks the crowd over, Hungry for broad ? Passed on the wayside in storm or in sunshine, Nothing is said. Silks, satins and velvets, sweeinng by. Mock at your woe . Nobody cares, hurrying by. Whither you go. Wliat, tho' you 've manfully struggled ! Are totally wrecked ? Better have saved your money And lost your neck. Gold, at the end, would have bought A monument liigh, Wliere piety, fashion, folly and vice, Would hnve stop'd to sigh. Pr ide — Po verty — People . 03 Gold-banded your deeds would have been, High on the scroll ; How foolish to save your misirable self And lose your gold ; Now you have neither a home, Money, or friend ; Nobody cares to know you — why ? You 've nothing- to lend. Ha ! what is worse, you want to borrow. Have become a bore. They who knew you in days gone by. Wish to know you no more. Introductions were lively when You gave credit ; Now all of them stare, struck with a panic If you ask debit. Thus moves life's friendships ever along. In gay career, Always readyto divide your profits. And share your cheer ; Chancing to lose the diamond From off your finger. The "dear five hundred" friends Forget to linger. Poor, miserable, cuss'd. You know that labor. In these degenerate days, goes Most by favor . 64 Pride — Po verfg — Peop le . Competing now, with the "world at large, You see and feel, To be successful you, too, Must learn to steal. What if your mother spoil' d Y our stock in trade, When this injunction on Your soul she laid ? — That "honesty was the Lest policy !" Modern lamps Have thrown new lights on this old fable ; 'Tis now the stamps. To get them honest, came and went With Salem wUches ; To hold them now. in spite of fate, You must watch your breeches. Your legs will Aveaken, with no dimes To buy your mush ; While arr( gance and purple pride, Will your spirits crush. Hem'd rourd by evils, born of loss, For such is fate ; You now, with cap in hand. Can humbly wait ; For they who rank by gold Above your level, Will forget to give their finger-tips To the shiftless devil. ON THE DEATH OF A RISTEH. LD memories ! — how they cluster ! — cliii< Around our throbbing brain, Filling our hearts with love and light Of bygone joys and pain. The homestead ! — passed to other hands, The stranger s foot dotli press The old familiar walks and rooms, Where mother came to bless And greet us kindly when returned From wandering afar ; She was the lodestone drawing each — Our morn and evening star. Of all her children, none remain — Scattered we all abide ; Some of us dwellers on this sphere, The rest sleep far and wide. The pet of all her household band, So full of wild unrest, is sleeping now where flowers bloom Above heu pulseless breast. The dear old father, bowed by years And sorrows of the hour. Will miss her most, lor of us all. She was his ''passion flower. fiO On the Death of a Sister^ Dear little sister ! how she clung To Life ! how sweet it seemed ; Sweeter and dearer — day by day — As fainter hope-life gleamed. Your sweet, pale face ! I see it still By the window — the cottage brown — Where you wafted me a good-bye kiss From brother's home in town. The greatest wish of your sad heart I think will be fulfilled ; You now, perchance, may know it. dear, Though you lie cold and still. A fearful dread, that all your friends '' Would soon forget you" quite ; You spoke of one that "seemed forgot," And thought it "was not right." How much you felt the kindness all That soothed life's last sad hours, Plow sunny was your sick-room made With gifts of fruit and flowers. For all these friends that clustered round, Begging for just one peep Within your room, you always had A smile, both sad and sweet. It was all the gift you had to give, They seemed to feel the smile, On the Death of a ^Sister. 07 Upon your sad and weary face, Grew dearer all the while, liow we shall miss you, as the days Of each succeeding year Recall some pleasure, joy or pain, VV e shared together here . We did not know our hearts, or feel They were so intertwined ; Our clouds in life were often dark, Yours always "silver-lined."' With kindly words, friends came to soothe The grief your death has brought. Remembering all the winning ways Your lips and actions taught. It is sweet to know remembrance kind Follows your bygone days, And nought is cherished, Angle, dear. Of any naughty ways. In the farm-house, home but lately ouis, Where " er we turn w^e see Some dainty thing, wrought by your hands, That remind us still of thee. Can we forget ? nay, sister dear ! Life may have wealth of days, But memory ever will be true. To all your winsome ways. ALONE, ^i LONE ! amid the ebbing of life's tide, '^iV The swiftly moving years That bear us toward a fairer clime, Undim'd by earthly tears. Alone ! we have but memories of to-day, The joj^s anc] sorrows of a checker'd life, How near they seem at this fair Christmas time, Unvexed by turmoil of past earthly strife . How many hearts, like oceans' Melancholy tone. When storm-toss' d by the wave of trouble. Sigh and moan : Oh, God ! how hard is life. Unloved — alone ! Alone ! we move along nor heed the throng. The light or joyous glee, The changing shadows, clouds or sun That glimmer on life's sea. The blight of earth has darkened all the years, Unchecked our tears do fall. (iVI Alone ! VVliere the tall grass doth grow, the liower! We see the grave, and pall ; Bowed here by sorrows, low bending. At the throne. With earthly prayer ascending In mournful tone, "Oh, God ! Thy will, not ours !" To take or leave us still. Unloved, alone. WHY, WHAT AKD WPIISKY. O RIGHT a wrong becoir.es a sage In past, or even present age ; I may not claim the first by years, Or win at best by smiles or tears ; But still I may a moral point. And show som^ things qnite out of joint ; For the past and present in review Claim many things both old and new, And I am sure, on calm reflection. In one thing we've not made progression. Although in science we rank fair. Braving all danger to do and dare ; Searching the seas for hidden store To graft upon our present lore ; Around the world to clasp our hands And bind its weal with iron bands ; To scale the highest mountain peak Is now a fashion quite elite ; To train fleet coursers for the main That wear out muscle and the brain. Wh(/, W/uit and Whisky. 71 lliiiidreds of feet, nay, less or more. We delve and dig-, for hidden ore O'er pathless plains with steam and hre, On iron wiieels that have no tire ; Housed from the siorm like meteor Hashing Our tie»y steeds are ever dashiug ; From Iceland seas to southern bowers You 11 find tliese country men of ours ; Great northern air-divers class d with loons bailing clouds and billows by steam and balloans But it matters not how or when or where We walk or ride or delve or dare You must admit the times are frisky And modern taste caters to whisky In miner's camp it braces muscle Beating the toiler in the tussel ; it wins new laurels on the staare Too flippant makes the tongue of sage ; All the church anthems do not rise For we scent them dirfting down th^ aisle. By blood red bloom some note and think The clergy have to much of drink. Since it s become a daily passion For young and old to follow fashion. None dare refuse the friend who treats, It s not polite in hall or street. WIty, What and Whisky. 'I'lius the Avay-side lilled with idlers all^ Who every gro^-shop give a call; 111 fact you cannot ride or dine liut you smell vintage of the wine, And, just as sure as you are born, (Jonsumes our cerals and the corn. And thousands now, that daily beg, Their substance drifts to vat and keg. Thus runs the world at large to-day. While the serpent creeps his stealthy way From hovels low to ladies' bower, Seeking new victims for his power. This moral degradation sure Has seemed to reach beyond a cure. A hopeful ^riend cries " reef your sail !" But still we drift, before the gale, On toward a sliore where rifted rock Will every nerve and muscle shock. Where human will and past endeavor. Must ruined lie — aye, wrecked forever. For mankind here, whisky atloat Is seldom held by anchor-rope. And no greater curse in any age. Has history written on its page. Than licensed law to liquor sell, Which drags its victims down to hell ; And there the devil waits his crew, According to theology true. Why, What and WhUky. By luarbie lialls, wneic jiuslice wait;-, Sometimes I stop, to estimate The balance weight llia,t weij^hh the sin Twixt light champagne and lieiy gin. It slowly moves — I note and scratch The dillerencc — tiowseis badly patclied, Next Ml'. (Jasliier, cassimer'd line, Where oft tlie Judge and the jury dine. Something- has slipped, the drop is beatcj He '11 rise by golden scales to deacon. Where lofty walls and softeu'd light, Do guard the darkness from the light ; The steeples liigh, the sacred lanes, iloly of Holies ! where the tiame. Not of hell-tires, but of incense burning, Will he — ah ! there from sin be turning. Will crucify his wicked brother, Who could not law or justice smother, Because he did not steal, "tis true. Enough to buy the bench and pew. Grave, stubborn facts are hard to beat, They dog our footsteps in the street, Where all the Pharisee s cry shame. But give no water in his name. Who came by Christian creed and cross, To save these sinful souls earth lost. 74 Why, WJiat and WhuJcy. If sin does smoulder in the urn, Where costly incense daily burn, And piety, befogg'd with crime, Does with the saints and judges dine, V/ hy hiiild yonr jails to Pimply catch The man whose seat is always patched ? Just dress him up in clothes more fine, And publish that he has resigned. The righteous law, the Clinstian creed, To do by others as our needs Dem.ind that they should do by us, Who share with them the bane and curse. The gold-bought law on which you revel. Has vanqrished right to shame the devil. Where halls of justice are a sham, Not worth the price of " Tinker's dam." The Church needs scourge of Christ again, To purify their lofty fanes. For all bedecked with jewels rare, Can find a seat to offer prayer. But honest homespun finds no stall, To serve his God neath frescoed wall. Thus many drift to licensed hall, While you bemoan their crime and fall, Like the old w^oman's standing joke, "V\ hen on the hill the geaiing broke, Wliy, Wh.at and Whiskey. 75 Said — "she trusted God, but more the leather, As long as that did hold together. " Thus your creeds and laws do at seeiii to hold. And if I dare to make so bold, To say the times are surely twitching, This female out to mend your b»-eeching, With grit and plucic — aye, faith in prayer, As through your dens she guides the mare. SILVER HAIR. ^|EAUTTFUL hair, frosty and white, 'J Silvered by time. Shedding a halo of love o'er a face Almost divine. Lines of deep care show that the years Which glidded so fast Have left their impress of sorrow and pain E'er lon^ to pass. Linked to our life by memories fair, Lovin We little thought that Sabbath morn, E'er summer" s sun should set, Your smiling faces would grow sad, Your cheeks with tears be wet ; One vacant chair beside your hearth. An aching in your heart — A mother's love^naught can suuply — '•Lite has no counterpart." Looking far back to days by-gone Forward to present times, 1 trace tne wandering of hei' feet, From Last to Western climes ; iSew Lngland woo'd the western world. She found her prairies fair ; Her children came fioiii far and witle, With will to do and dare. A pioneer, when hope was young In the wild and distant west, With the bold spirits of those days She bravely shared the risk ; Time sped away the whispering winds Around her cabin bower, Soon changed to busy hum of life Man's onward march and power. 100 071 the Death of an Old Lady, Mourn not ! the withered hands are still, Close clasped above her breast ; Her aged form, wearied by years, Has peacefully sunk to rest : Bhe's gone : and left a void within Your hearts and home of earth, But far beyond your vision's ken Her spirit has new birth. Her three score -years had long been spun In woof and web of life, Her toils are o'er, each duty done As daughter, mother, wife. Her golden harvest, ripe old age Was beautiful and bright, From the glow of its fair summer-time To the winter of its night , Her life to all was rich in love And blessings every hour, If rightly cherished still in life She has not lost the power To cheer you by remembrance sweet Of joys but lately riven, Low bending with the angels now She Tfatches — waits — in heaven. HAUNTS AND HABITANTS OF THE FOREST '^HE hunter travels the forest path To chase the buck and the doe, The eagle soars the clouds above To bathe in the morning glow. The black-bird sings in the hazel brush While stealing corn in the fallow, Ha ! little cares he for the scare-crow high, The trick is so very shallow. The partridge hides on a leafless tree — If the hunter whistle under, He will find that the bird has never stirred, (Which is a natural wonder ;) The quail is, ah, a deceitful bird, "More wet'' forever is singing. But now when the fowler comes with the game It's "owls" not quails they are bringing. The duck she Hoats the placid lake, Or hides in the marshes dirty. From "canvass-back" to "blue- wing teal' Their ways are ever Hirty, 102 HaunU and HahitanU of tJie Forest. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, The fleetest wild-wood runner ; To bag this lively chap "you know" Take's the eye of a practiced gunner. The whip-poor-will sings at the twilight houi Her song has a cadence mellow, I think sometimes her wild-wood spouse T s a lazy kind of a fellow ; Just as the stars begin to peep I listen to hear her folly. Gossiping how he whip'd-poor-will In a tone most melancholy. The king-fisher soars, then swoops below, "With his keen eye on a shiner, Caters for himself in a high-flown way; Pray tell, is there anything finer? The wood-pecker, hear him ! at the old tree Pecking the holes, never slowly. Soon we shall find that sturdy old oak Laid on the forest path lowly. The oriole sits on her swinging nest Through the longest days of summer, And watches the robin digging for worms Low, down among the clover. Haunts and Habitants of the Forest. )0o The snow-bird, blitlisoiue, happy and gay, No matter the season, how dreary ; In sun-shine or snow, ever lively "you know. Pray, why ? who can answer the queary ? Men, and birds, and squirrels are alike In their ways, their wants and their notions, Shifting and changing, never at rest, Faithless in love and devotion. Women, like whip-poor-wills, gossip and tell, Pluming like ducks all summer, Freity and jealous — scolding their spouse Who work for their bread like a drummer. The prairie-hen seeks the harvest field For the food that is dropped for the sparrow, Where the hand of God has scattered life's seed From hill-side to sod till'd by harrow. With the birds, all should sing a roun-de-lay While the plow-man is turning the fallow ; And the song would lighten the day of toil As we watch the food grow for the morrow. LINES TO A BEATTTTFUL BOY. I HAVE been this bright morn down to the beach Lifted the anchor that laywithin reach ; Dragging the row-boat close to the dock Where it set lil^e a duck and gracefnlly rocked. T lifted my pet over her side And floated him off on the waters to ride ; "Out and in, the length of the chain," He drifted away afloat on the main, Looking so funny, so little, so brave. Delighted to think he could ride on the wave. I fell to dreaming as T lGol