>Miii 
 
Book . g: 14-5 £ r 
 
 CopyrightN" L3./0 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
(TracKerlings anb 
 (Tarameb 
 
 (T. IH. teazle]? 
 
 TCaugb at tl)e pat^o^ anb cr^ at t!)e ioKes. 
 "2>o as It pUasetb* for folks are folks, 
 '!^n6 laughter Is belter t^ait sorrow aii6 
 
 tears— 
 "C^ere are sorrows enougl) as we number 
 
 t^e ^^ats» 
 
mo 
 
 COPYRIGHTED 1910 
 BYC.H.BEAZLEY. 
 
 ©CI. A 256818 
 
patient deader 
 
 ^^ ^%^^^ ^^ print this book we don't know. Per- 
 ^jT^ haps the moving cause is the remark, or the 
 reason thereof, of our best friend when the 
 fact of the incurring of the cost was mentioned 
 
 **ZK fool anh l)ls monei? soon parts/* 
 
 ^ We can but hope the reader will be more charit- 
 able in viewing his own case after he has paid the price 
 for this volume. Life is serious at best. We don't 
 mean to be overly so herein. Simply what we see 
 with a homespun dress is our aim. 
 ^ The rhymes are but the lights and shadows that 
 have filled the heart of a GEORGIA CRACKER, 
 sights he has seen, heard or dreamed, thoughts he 
 has thought or others have told him, partly the product 
 of the trials of a country newspaper, and if the pencil 
 draw not the rainbow colors of his dreams, or catch 
 the true note of the bees in the cotton blossoms, he 
 has only to regret that his pen has proven too halting 
 to instill the nectar of the cane into his creations, or 
 coin the mellow notes of the possum hunter's horn 
 into music. They are but the Crackerlings and Cara- 
 mels that have jingled out of our many hours, and 
 caused perhaps many dollars for better employment, 
 to fail to jingle into our empty pockets. 
 
 Truly, 
 
 CHAS. H. BEAZLEY 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Memories and Musings 11 
 
 Colonel Boozer (Prose) 43 
 
 Lottie's Scrap Book (Juvenile) 53 
 
 St. Valentine Romance (Prose and Verse) 83 
 
 Roses and Regrets 87 
 
 Cypress Leaves and Orange Blossoms (Prose) 108 
 
 Devotional 113 
 
 Confederate 136 
 
 Speck Abe and Miss Primrose (Prose) 142 
 
 Coon Skins (Negro) 147 
 
 Jaggedy Jingles 163 
 
 He Lied Like a Gentleman (Prose) 134 
 
 MEMORIES AND MUSINGS. 
 
 Dum Vivimus Vivamus 13 
 
 Speed On 14 
 
 Pleading of the Bell 15 
 
 The Boarding House Stairs 17 
 
 Put Yourself in My Place 19 
 
 The Sorrows Are There 21 
 
 Georgia 22 
 
 When Grandpa Sang His Himes 22 
 
 But the Roses Were Red 23 
 
 The Vale of To-Be 25 
 
 If Grouchy Comes 26 
 
 The War Wolf 26 
 
 Washington at Valley Forge 27 
 
 A Lesson Learned 28 
 
 As the Long Years Flow 30 
 
 The Plowman 31 
 
 'Tis Perhaps an Angel Singing 32 
 
 5 
 
CONTENTS-Continued. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Town 33 
 
 Who is the Slave 34 
 
 Lives 34 
 
 Pride 35 
 
 The Lord of the Fields 36 
 
 Pictures by Contrast 37 
 
 When Melba Sings 37 
 
 Rue and Roses 38 
 
 Shadows and Sunshine 39 
 
 A Lesson of Rest 40 
 
 Resurgens 40 
 
 Colonel Boozer 43 
 
 LOTTIE'S SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 Lottie's Scrap Book 53 
 
 Lines to a Little Girl 55 
 
 In Lottie's Swing 55 
 
 Where is Heaven, Mr. Postman 56 
 
 When School Gits Outen Me 57 
 
 Advice to Lottie 59 
 
 Try to Better Ev'ry Page 60 
 
 Castle Building 60 
 
 When Lottie Goes to School 62 
 
 The Old Rag Man 63 
 
 Playing Train 64 
 
 Caution, Little Maid 65 
 
 When Lottie Laughs 66 
 
 The Doll's Complaint 67 
 
 Frost Will Fall 68 
 
 As Lottie Learns to Spell 69 
 
 Scattered Roses 70 
 
 Riding Straddle 70 
 
 Sleepy Town 71 
 
 Bribing Santa Claus 72 
 
 Butterflies 73 
 
 6 
 
CONTENTS-Continued. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To Candy Towns 74 
 
 Routes to Pleasureland 75 
 
 Round Trips to Slumber Town 76 
 
 Baby Buster Brown 76 
 
 Isn't Dod a-Dittin Mad 78 
 
 Lullaby 78 
 
 Leola 79 
 
 Pictures in the Coals 80 
 
 Ain't Nothin' Bothered Dad 81 
 
 'Bout Eighty Years Ago 82 
 
 St. Valentine Romance 83 
 
 ROSES AND REGRETS. 
 
 Waiting 89 
 
 When the Wind is in the Cane 91 
 
 Mid the Meadow Blooms with Her 93 
 
 Mid the Lillies of Lee 94 
 
 Norma 95 
 
 If You Were I 98 
 
 The Cupola Top 98 
 
 My Queen, My Dream 100 
 
 When You Are Near 101 
 
 Ad Finem 101 
 
 For You 102 
 
 Chord of a Song Unsung 103 
 
 The Maid with the Ring 104 
 
 A Bouquet 1{)5 
 
 In Georgia, Dear 105 
 
 But to Forget 107 
 
 Cypress Wreaths and Orange Blossoms 108 
 
 DEVOTIONAL. 
 
 My Mother's Prayers 115 
 
 What Men May Say 116 
 
 From the Beaten Track 117 
 
 7 
 
CONTENTS-Continued. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Repentance 118 
 
 The Old Meetin' House 118 
 
 Wasted Moments 120 
 
 Faith 121 
 
 Mother's Bible 121 
 
 Old Faiths 123 
 
 Who so Bears a Faithful Heart 124 
 
 In a Stuffy, Rented Pew 124 
 
 Whence and Where 125 
 
 Creeds and Deeds 126 
 
 The Best We Can 127 
 
 As Ye Sow, Ye Will Reap 129 
 
 If We Lend a Helping Hand 130 
 
 Contentment 131 
 
 Cui Bono 133 
 
 He Lied Like a Gentleman 134 
 
 CONFEDERATE. 
 
 The Lost Cause 136 
 
 The Dead of the Gray 137 
 
 Mannassas 139 
 
 Private Johnson's War Record 140 
 
 That Uniform of Gray 141 
 
 \-^ 
 
 COON SKINS. 
 
 Lawd, Drive Dat Hant Away 149 
 
 Did Yu Call Hit Stealin', Den 149 
 
 When De Sun Gits Hung 152 
 
 Did Yu Lef Yo Pappy Well 153 
 
 Better Keep he Furrer 154 
 
 Magination's Mighty Healin' 155 
 
 Different Fokes Has Different Notions 156 
 
 8 
 
CONTENTS-Continued. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Take Me Back, Yu Knows Mer Ways 157 
 
 De Lord Knows How 158 
 
 A Moses Wanted 159 
 
 Aunt Dinah and the Auto 161 
 
 JAGGEDY JINGLES. 
 
 My Daddy Was a Gentleman 165 
 
 The Teacher's Prophecy 165 
 
 Dedication 168 
 
 My Short Handled Fice 168 
 
 The World Ain't as Bad as It Usen to Be 169 
 
 Farmin' Don't Pay 171 
 
 Devil Simon 172 
 
 Cuckoo Shall Not Crow To-night 173 
 
 Spring of Wisdom 175 
 
 The Loafer 176 
 
 Malinda's Togs 177 
 
 Romance of Jim Jones ^ 178 
 
 Point of View 179 
 
 My Slab Sided Hound 180 
 
 Them Old Time Feelin's 180 
 
 Sweet Marjorie and Bumble Bee 181 
 
 You Killed My Possum Dorg 182 
 
 I Done Like Rich Fokes Do 185 
 
 Christmas in Lee 185 
 
 Smiling Man 186 
 
 'Taint No Use to Try 187 
 
 Pompous Boaster 189 
 
 In the Glass 190 
 
 It Always Cured the Cold 190 
 
 Tillie 192 
 
 Leedle Igey 193 
 
iWemoriesi mh iHusiingsi 
 
 Dum Yivimus Vivamus. 
 
DUM VIVIMUS VIVAMUS. 
 
 Let us cease to hunt for trouble, 
 
 Life at best is full of care 
 Dusty paths are lined with daisies 
 If we only saw them there. 
 
 Let us stroll along the hedges 
 Wliere the black-eyed Susans spring, 
 
 If the bees are never angered 
 We may never feel the sting. 
 
 Many simple joys we smother, 
 Slighted cares are soonest gone, 
 
 If we never crush the roses 
 We may never feel the thorn. 
 
 Wintry winds and bleak December 
 Prove as bright as dewy June, 
 
 Dreary earth is set to music 
 If we only catch the tune. 
 
 For a song will smother sorrow. 
 And a smile will stifle sighs. 
 
 Often when the clouds are darkest, 
 There's a rainbow in the skies. 
 
 Even when the rain is falling. 
 Even when our trials grow. 
 
 Many cares are cast and shattered 
 If we only see the bow. 
 
 And I'll never sigh for fleeting 
 Days that dance away and hold 
 
 Petty trials, if the sunseet 
 Swim in seas of ruby gold. 
 
 And if music, fun and frolic 
 
 Steal away a dozen years, 
 Better far a day of pleasure 
 
 Than a century of tears. 
 
 13 
 
If the wine of life be drunken 
 If the chalice soon I drain. 
 
 If I pluck the fleeting roses 
 That can never bloom again — 
 
 If my span of life be darkened 
 E'er the tufning of the noon, 
 
 If my neighbor's days be many 
 He at last must follow soon. 
 
 He may hoard his days as jewels 
 I may scatter mine as chaff, 
 
 He may guard the golden vintage 
 I the beaker quickly quaff. 
 
 Still the scenes are quickly shifted, 
 And the happiest of men 
 
 Plucks more roses in a season 
 Than the miser plucks in ten. 
 
 SPEED ON. 
 
 Speed on, thou steed of staunchest steel 
 
 Bring friend to friend, join hearts again. 
 The plowman standing in his field 
 
 But looks— and— says, the morning train! 
 Far more art thou — a living thing — 
 
 (I pause and gaze) a human brain — 
 I see speed by — the flying wing 
 
 Is slow, art thou the morning train? 
 What art thou but the hands, the brain. 
 
 The brains of men, the busy hands. 
 The sheaves of thought — the golden grain — 
 
 Of mind that forged thy bolts and bands. 
 The genius of a thousand years 
 
 Hath tried — and failed— and tried again 
 And failed — and tried — and lo! appears 
 
 What plowmen call the morning train. 
 Speed on thou steed of staunchest steel 
 
 Bring friend to friend, tear hearts in twain. 
 
 14 
 
The plowman stands within his field 
 And dreams thou art the morning train. 
 
 Speed madly on thou minds of men — 
 To-day where winter locks in snow 
 
 The frozen earth — speed on — and then — 
 The next — where summer roses glow. 
 
 Through hill and dale, through fertile plain 
 Speed on thou flying morning train. 
 
 THE PLEADING OF THE BELL. 
 
 When my fancy wanders backward — 
 
 Through the vista of the years, 
 There are many happy moments. 
 
 There are roses mid the tears 
 'Mid the old red hills and valleys, 
 
 Where Ogeechee's waters start — 
 Where my childhood days were summer 
 
 And a song was in my heart. 
 
 How I long once more to wander, 
 
 Where my boyish feet have gone 
 With the cows toward the pasture, 
 
 'Mid the dews of early morn. 
 Just to gather woodland blossoms 
 
 Just to climb the swaying trees — 
 Just to set the kite to soaring 
 
 See it dancing on the breeze. 
 
 Just to taste the icy waters 
 
 Of the spring beneath the hill — 
 Where the mossy rocks are lying, 
 
 Just to build the flutter mill. 
 Just to wade along the shallows 
 
 Just to truant be at school, 
 Just to make the hick-ry whistle 
 
 Just to swim the deepest pool. 
 
 How I long to watch the arrow 
 As it whistles from the bow, 
 15 
 
How I long to chase the rabbits 
 'Wlhen the fields are deep in snow. 
 
 Just to be as fully happy 
 As the barefoot boy again, 
 
 Just to watch the apples ripen 
 Mid the sun and summer rain. 
 
 Just to turn the dial backward — 
 
 Just again to be a child, 
 Just to see the happy faces 
 
 Just to gather berries wild 
 Just to play with schoolboy comrades 
 
 Just to carry book and slate, 
 For a blue-eyed little maiden 
 
 Just to linger at the gate. 
 
 They are gone the years have vanished. 
 
 But the bell rings out the same — 
 Calling books to tardy children 
 
 From the noisy marble game. 
 Mingled joy and sorrow trooping 
 
 While the speeding moments call 
 To a half-remembered lesson. 
 
 From the half-completed ball. 
 
 But a sadness comes around me 
 
 Over all — a dreamy spell — 
 Now — its ringing — sadly — s-1-o-w-l-y 
 
 There are sorrows in the bell. 
 And it seems to clamor loudly 
 
 To the scattered ones — from home, 
 To the weary broken toiler 
 
 Turn away from care and come. 
 
 Rolling on along the valleys 
 
 Mid the hills the pleadings sweep. 
 
 Sobbing — ^sighing — ^mid the flowers 
 Where the dead are lost in sleep. 
 
 And I wonder if my comrades 
 Feel the sadness just as well, 
 
 16 
 
If a thousand mem'ries cluster 
 Round the swinging of the bell. 
 
 How it pleads, and begs and urges, 
 
 Come within the narrow way — 
 Be a man — a man of honor — 
 
 As I pause, I hear it say. — 
 Still— we fall, so frail and human- 
 
 But perhaps the angels tell 
 How a soul was brought to heaven 
 
 Through the pleading of the bell. 
 
 THE BOARDING HOUSE STAIRS. 
 
 There's a dozen blushing widows 
 
 And a score of pretty girls. 
 There are cheeks to shame the roses 
 
 There are heaps of pretty curls. 
 There are hammocks, seats and sofas 
 
 And the house is full of chairs. 
 But they do a lot of courting. 
 On 
 the 
 
 hash 
 
 house 
 stairs. 
 
 There are forty steady boarders 
 
 Who are boarding by the year. 
 There are twenty dandy drummers 
 
 Spending cv'ry Sunday here. 
 Though the eggs are nearly voters 
 
 And the butter growing hairs. 
 Yet this boarding house is splendid 
 With 
 its 
 
 well 
 filled 
 
 stairs. 
 
 17 
 
At the top a pretty maiden 
 
 Sits beside a coffee man, 
 On the next a pretty widow 
 Blushes red behind a fan. 
 As the drummer from Chicago 
 Softly whispers and declares. 
 She's the bell of all the beauties 
 On 
 
 the 
 
 hash 
 
 house 
 stairs. 
 
 And a dimpled little beauty 
 
 Just a little lower down. 
 Sits a rlanning for the future 
 With a kid from over town 
 How to live on twenty dollars. 
 
 They are free from future cares, 
 And the world seems bright and rosy 
 On 
 
 these 
 hash 
 
 house 
 
 stairs. 
 
 There they are when supper's over, 
 
 And the boarder at the door 
 Slyly sits and reads his paper 
 
 Peeping now his glasses o'er. 
 For a pretty little maiden 
 
 Just the cutest slipper wears, 
 Neath the cutest little ankle 
 And 
 he 
 
 sits 
 
 and 
 
 stares. 
 
 18 
 
PUT YOURSEIiF IV MY PLACE. 
 
 It is true that the courts should be honored, 
 And the law take its course, as they say. 
 
 But the law, it was made for a human. 
 And the brute must be hunted to bay. 
 
 Do we weep when the tiger is slaughtered; 
 
 De we grieve when the serpent is dead? 
 Spare the tear for the fiend as he dangles. 
 
 What is lost when the bullet has sped? 
 
 There are times when the law should be honored. 
 There are passions that mock at the law, 
 
 Could you bind the black fiend by a precept? 
 Can you bridle the tempest with straw? 
 
 How I think of the home in the clearing, 
 In the shade of the clambering vines, 
 
 Where the bees in the cotton were droning. 
 And the winds half asleep in the pines. 
 
 Where the mockingbird sang to the starlight 
 Through the night when my labors were o'er. 
 
 And the moonlight fell fretted with shadows 
 Through the roses that shadowed the door; 
 
 And the wife that had brightened the cabin, 
 While I sang as I plowed in the farm, 
 
 How I kissed her in leaving one morning 
 Never thinking or dreaming of harm. 
 
 And the baby at play on the pallet 
 In the yard' neath the shade of the trees 
 
 Pleaded, "Papa," bing tandy to baby — 
 An' a dolly, and marbles'es, pese." 
 
 Then I hitched up the mule to the wagon. 
 Started off through the field to the town, 
 
 While a measure of corn she was feeding 
 To the chickens that fluttered around. 
 
 There are tigers that wait in the jungle; 
 There are brutes seeking honor and life; 
 
 19 
 
Hiddened deep in the growth of the sorghum 
 Lay a demon in wait for my wife. 
 
 But, I whistled and sang, as I travelled, 
 Till a horse that was covered with foam 
 
 Clattered up, and the neighbor that rode him, 
 Shouted, "Bill, you are needed at home." 
 
 Turn about and put speed in the going 
 
 Says the law, it's a life for a life; 
 But the law may delay in the doing, 
 
 Seek the brute that has murdered your wife. 
 
 But a shriek, and I do not remember 
 
 Any more or the way that we went 
 Till the baby cried, "Papa, where tandy?" 
 
 Then I wakened and over her bent. 
 
 On her throat were the prints of his fingers. 
 There was blood on the ground at her side. 
 There were rents in her dress from the struggle — 
 "To the rope with the demon," I cried. 
 
 By the noon there were hounds on the trackage. 
 And the neighbors were ready to ride. 
 
 'Seek the brute, While he lives there is danger, 
 You've a hundred true men at your side." 
 
 Then they searched all the woods and the thickets 
 Through the whole of the night and the day, 
 
 In a swamp at the break of the morning 
 Stood the hounds with the quarry at bay. 
 
 It Is true that the courts should be honored. 
 But the home comes ahead of the law; 
 
 At the best, sir, the courts they are tardy 
 And the lawyers may fashion a flaw; 
 
 But the limb and the halter are certain, 
 
 And the rifle is sure with its ball; 
 Your daughter is safe from his clutches, 
 
 My wife, sir, is murdered, that's all. 
 
 20 
 
You may talk of the law and its doings. 
 Blighted homes all the law can efface, 
 
 Only pause for a moment in judging. 
 Only tu.nk you were filling my place. 
 
 THE SORROW^S ARE THERE. 
 
 I am roaming again where the moments were squandered 
 And the book thrown aside for the marbles and ball, 
 
 By the brook where the feet of the truant have wandered 
 For the years only deeper have lettered them all. 
 
 And the scenes rise again as the present is fading 
 Of the spring in the valley, the streamlet and pool, 
 
 Where a barefooted boy mid the willows is wading 
 Coming late to the lesson, forgetting the school. 
 
 Once again in the forests the chestnuts are falling 
 
 From the spine-guarded doors of the half-opened burr, 
 And the dove to her mate from the shadows is calling 
 
 From the scant builded nest they had fashioned for her. 
 Down the long dusty road where the summer heat quivered 
 
 Through the path in the forest, where centuries threw, 
 Dreamy shadows across, as they rustled and shivered 
 
 To the breeze — on the ridge where the chinquapins grew. 
 Once again at the dam where the water is speeding 
 
 Past the mill — past the wheel that is mossy and high. 
 At the pool in the shadows where comrades are pleading 
 
 For a swim as the streamlet is murmuring by. 
 In the hick'ry nut trees once again I am swinging 
 
 As the nuts patter down to the leaf littered mould. 
 While the heart is a-Maying, the mockingbird singing 
 
 In the woods that the autumn has painted with gold. 
 I am dreaming again, they are fading and shifting. 
 
 And the shadows of sorrow are coming apace 
 On the stream of the years are my memories drifting 
 
 And the dreamer is dreaming, a dream of a face. 
 In her cheeks all the roses of passion were sleeping, 
 
 To her face all the lilies of purity came; 
 
 2X 
 
Over all are the grasses and violets creeping; 
 In the moss-covered marble is lettered a name, 
 
 I am drifting in dreams as the preccnt has faded, 
 And the scenes of my boyhood are glowing and fair. 
 
 But the roses are mingled with cypress and shaded 
 With the shadows of death — for the sorrows are there. 
 
 GEORGIA. 
 
 They may talk of the Rhine and the Danube, 
 
 Of the land where the sun shimmers through — 
 Through the gold and the green of the orange 
 
 And the violets bend to the dew. 
 There are songs for the sunset of Venice, 
 
 But its golden, the sunset at home; 
 And I'd rather go begging in Georgia 
 
 Than to wield the proud sceptre at Rome. 
 They may write of the beautiful country — 
 
 Sunny Spain with its music and dance. 
 Of the queen of the seas, Merrie England 
 
 Of the vine-covered acres of France, 
 Of the snow-mantled beauties of Russia 
 
 Gleaming cold as the pitiless stars. 
 But I'd rather be happy in Georgia 
 
 Than to quake 'neath the crown of the Czars. 
 
 Spread the fame of the isles of the ocean, 
 
 Of the lands where the nightingales sing. 
 Where the breeze sweeping on is enamored 
 
 Of the spices and roses of spring. 
 Of the land of the tea and the dragon, 
 
 'Neath the shade of the ponderous wall 
 You may roam, but the hills and the valleys 
 
 Of our Georgia are better than all. 
 
 WHEN GRANDPA SANG HIS HIMES. 
 
 There are times when recollection 
 Snatches visions from the past, 
 
 When its pictures take the colors 
 That are much too bright to last. 
 
 22 
 
When the voices of the present 
 Mingle with the olden times; 
 
 When my grandma knit the stockings 
 While my grandpa sang his "himes." 
 
 There are scenes where mem'ry gathers 
 
 From the past its stolen sweets, 
 When I'd rob my grandma's closet 
 
 With its jam and jelly treats; 
 When I'd linger in the garden 
 
 Where the grapes in clusters hung, 
 And from many bending branches 
 
 Red and ruddy apples swung, 
 While the berries, fruits and flowers 
 
 Lent a color to the scene 
 As I roamed my grandpa's garden 
 
 Mid the red old hills of Greene. 
 
 When the woods were gilt by Autumn, 
 
 When the chestnuts ripe and brown 
 From their thorny burrs were waiting 
 
 Mid the leaves to patter down; 
 Then I thought their pitty patter 
 
 Sweeter than the silver chimes, 
 And my heart was light at evening 
 
 When my grandpa sang his himes. 
 
 They are changed, the dear old places; 
 
 There are tears to dim my eyes 
 For the roses red are blooming 
 
 Where my grandma sleeping lies. 
 But it seems her soul in heaven 
 
 Beckons on to sunny climes 
 Where he'll join the angel voices 
 
 As they sing his good old himes. 
 
 BUT THE ROSES WERE RED. 
 
 There are visions that rise in my moments of leisure, 
 When the tree of my dreams with its fruitage is ripe, 
 
 23 
 
Wlien the mind flies away on its pinions of pleasure 
 
 In the ringlets that rise from my smoke-mottled pipe. 
 When the cares of the evening have faded and vanished, 
 
 And the sparks struggle upward from cinder and coal, 
 When the sighs, and the tears, and the doubtings are ban- 
 ished 
 
 And the gardens of dreams in the pictures enroll. 
 There are roses of pleasure in phantasy spreading 
 
 To the kiss of the breeze from their crimson domain, 
 While the blue from the skies on the violet shedding 
 
 In its heart is enfolded and treasured again. 
 There are hopes that with passing of childhood declining. 
 
 Faded out as a dream of the night that was gone. 
 Glowing real as the ghost of a star that is shining 
 
 Though the star it was quenched at eternity's dawn. 
 There are foes that were friends as the thorns of the roses 
 
 Deeper strike to the heart than the thorn from the thorn; 
 There are friends that were foes and the picture discloses 
 
 All the love I have lost, all the love I have won; 
 And the sting of the thorn, and the glow of the blossom 
 
 Are the chaff and the grain of a life, but a soul — 
 Dimly seen in a dream, as the roses embosom — 
 
 Mimic stars in the dew — ^as the smoke from the bowl. 
 Of my pipe curling up brings the Houris to measure 
 
 Dancing days that are done, to the strain of a star 
 Flying on, ever on — through the mazes of pleasure. 
 
 With the shade in the dewdrop, the substance afar. 
 When the Peri hath gathered the grain 'mid the roses. 
 
 Scanty dole of the years, when the summer hath fled — 
 Shall I cry as the gate of my paradise closes, 
 
 "I have planted the thorns, but the roses were red. 
 Still the bee from the blossom hath hastened to cherish 
 
 Dewy dow'ries of nectar the roses have paid. 
 While the nightingale sighed that the roses must perish 
 
 Pleading sweet that the stars in their bosoms be stayed. 
 When the cheeks of the roses are faded and dying. 
 
 When the toil-broken hive of their nectar is fed, 
 
 34 
 
Will tlie bird chide the breezes, the breezes replying, 
 To its sighs answer softly, "the boses were bed." 
 
 When the snow wraps the bloom and the petals are flying 
 
 In the arms of the tempest; for summer is fleet, 
 Shall the bee chide the breezes? The breezes replying. 
 
 Answer softly, "Ye chose, and the nectar was sweet." 
 But the wraiths fade apace, for the light it is dying, 
 
 And the pipe is a type of a life it is plain. 
 But a model to shattter, it's useless the sighing 
 
 For the strength or tobacco to start it again, 
 But a choice and away for the years they are fleet. 
 
 Though the eoses be bed and the nectab be sweet. 
 
 THE VALE OF TO-BE. 
 
 How the vale of to-be in our phantasy gleams 
 
 From the crest of the hill of to-day, 
 There is balm for our sorrows and gold for our dreams 
 
 And the roses bend over the way. 
 There are songs that are sweeter than those that are sung 
 
 And the waters sing on to the sea; 
 There are harps that are sweeter than hands ever strung 
 
 In the phantasy land of To Be. 
 
 There is freedom from tears, 
 
 There is rest as the years 
 As a May-time of happiness flee. 
 
 Press along as we may 
 
 Still the hill of to-day 
 Is our task e'er the vale of To Be. 
 
 There are hearts that are sad, but are still pressing on 
 
 For the light that is ever before; 
 There are thorns we must tread, there are griefs to be 
 borne. 
 
 There are feet that are weary and sore. 
 
 Though we sink by the way 
 Let us dream of the day 
 When the heart of its burden is free; 
 
 2^ 
 
Of its doubt and its gloom 
 And the roses in bloom 
 In the deeps of the land of To Be. 
 
 IF GROUCHY COMES. 
 
 The red charge speeds — A world awaits — 
 
 The cast of war, the turn of chance 
 To break or bind the chains of States. 
 
 He swept the field with anxious glance 
 And strained his ear if winds might tell 
 
 Of tread of troops and roll of drums. 
 If Grouchy cames, then all is well; 
 
 The fight is won if Grouchy comes. 
 
 The charge flies on amid the rain 
 
 Of iron hail that sweeps the field. 
 They charge, recoil — they form again — 
 
 The guard that dies, lut scorns to yield. 
 Those guns that dared a world, they sway, 
 
 The long lines bend with steel to steel — 
 A world hangs poised — To horse away. 
 
 Speed Grouchy, speed — They give — They reel. 
 
 If but thy flags were here unfurled 
 
 To turn the scale — if Grouchy's drums 
 But tip the beam^ — then round the world 
 
 Those drums shall sound. If Grouchy comes 
 A hand would save. Alas, the crown 
 
 Shall fall and France must bend the knee. 
 Shall wear their chains, shall feel the frown 
 
 Of tyrant kings, because of thee. 
 
 THE WAR WOLF. 
 
 Grim war lord with thy scourge in hand. 
 Aye strike, and kill, and blast and blight. 
 Strew tears abroad. 'Neath iron band. 
 And tyrant rule, chain truth and right, 
 Till lands and seas and worlds shall come 
 To bow. to tremble, Rome, fierce Rome. 
 
Till time grows ripe, and ages call, 
 
 He comes, he comes, the Gaul, the Gaul. 
 
 Aye; fierce war breeds, suck snarl and den. 
 
 For time; and times to rend and tear 
 
 Till cries of pain and shrieks of men, 
 
 And dying groans shall fill the air. 
 
 Yet time shall turn, shall drive thee home, 
 
 Shall say thou wert. Oh Rome, fierce Rome. 
 
 With sword and spear thou shalt be hurled 
 
 In vengeance down, by angered world. 
 
 And seer, and stone, and dusty tome 
 
 Shall say thou wert. Oh Rome, fierce Rome. 
 
 WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE. 
 
 A feeble band — a swarming foe — 
 
 Faint-hearted men and food denied. 
 With bleeding feet amid the snow, 
 
 With bleeding heart he stood and sighed. 
 Then 'round him rose the cry for food, 
 
 For clothes to shield from winter's blast. 
 Yet firm amid the storm he stood, 
 
 Who dares to dare, may win at last. 
 
 Around there lay ten thousand foes, 
 
 Within the serpent sought to slay. 
 Red mutiny itself arose 
 
 And sickness in the camp held sway. 
 Brave sir, to yield were better far, 
 
 Ere yet the hope of life is past — 
 He spake — ^we perish as we are. 
 
 Who dares to dare may win at last. 
 
 He dared to dare, he dared and won, 
 He dared when hope from all had flown. 
 
 He dared, he saw his labor done — 
 The land into a giant grown. 
 
 He dared an ocean's bound the land; 
 He dared his flag the seas hath passed; 
 27 
 
He dared and millions crown the man; 
 He dared to dare, he won at last. 
 
 A LESSON LEARNED. 
 
 When I see the children going 
 
 To the school, there comes to me 
 Just a shade of solemn longing 
 
 For the times that used to be. 
 For of all the happy moments 
 
 There are none that ever will 
 B.ring the pleasures of the frolics 
 
 At the school upon the hill. 
 
 There were houses that were finer, 
 
 And the tasks were hard and long; 
 Where we missed the Latin lesson, 
 
 Where we worked the problem wrong. 
 Where we learned the conjugation 
 
 Of the Latin verb Amo, 
 And when growing still more learned, 
 
 Where we wrote it <t)tXI(o, 
 
 Where the little notes were passing 
 
 'Twixt a little maid and me 
 While the teacher 'round was gazing, 
 
 When we thought he didn't see. 
 But perhaps he was familiar 
 
 With the note and paper ball, 
 And had seen the missives passing 
 
 And his picture on the wall. 
 
 Seen the picture done in crayon 
 
 Of a creature rude and wild. 
 Labeled tHis iS oWeR tEAchER. 
 
 If he did, he only smiled, 
 For it may be in the ages 
 
 That had gone, he'd been to school, 
 And had been a boy for mischief 
 
 And perhaps he knew the rule — 
 
That they speak — the older people — 
 
 For "A boy imll be a boy," 
 And the girls will take the letters 
 
 As the baby grasps the toy. 
 If we'd always learn the lesson, 
 
 He was kind and gentle; still 
 There were days of retribution 
 
 In the school upon the hill. 
 
 And at times the hick'ry hanging 
 
 In its place upon the wall, 
 In his hand was simply taken 
 
 To the fear of one and all. 
 Then the heads were bent in study. 
 
 As we heard a whisper say, 
 Better git yer lessons ready, 
 
 Fer the teacher's mad to-day. 
 
 But when school was out and over. 
 
 There was ball, and marbles, too; 
 There were races to the forest 
 
 Where the nuts in plenty grew, 
 And a swim in muddy waters 
 
 In the pool below the mill. 
 If we'd only learned the lesson 
 
 At the school upon the hill. 
 
 Or perhaps we'd missed the spelling. 
 
 And the others marching out 
 i?111ed the heart with bitter longing 
 
 As we heard the merry shout, 
 While the other boy — a rival — 
 
 Saw her home — a bitter pill — 
 While we heard the hick'ry singing 
 
 In the school upon the hill. 
 
 If forgotten Alpha-Beta, 
 
 If forgotten, most the rest. 
 
 Yet I've learned at least a lesson 
 That perhaps has served me best— 
 29 
 
'Tis to never seek for trouble 
 
 In the things of moment small; 
 Be as blinded as the teacher 
 
 To the boyish paper ball. 
 Not to care what people scribble, 
 
 Where's the harm it all can do? 
 Not to see the ugly picture 
 
 People paint for me to view. 
 If I kicked at every spaniel 
 
 As he barked around my heel 
 J could never tend a duty. 
 
 Never till a fertile field; 
 And it's best to go serenely 
 
 If the voice of duty call; 
 Never see the way I'm painted 
 
 In the pictures on the wall. 
 
 AS THE LONG YEARS FLOW. 
 
 I gazed at the leaves of the years to be; 
 
 I gazed on the book of time. 
 I saw but the braid and the tinselry, 
 But the bees at the bloom and the calm kissed sea. 
 
 And the smiles of a sun kissed clime. 
 Heigho! Heigho! 
 How long the years flow 
 
 As the stream when the sea is nigh. 
 And slow, so slow, 
 Do the long days go; 
 
 Ah, I would that a man were I. 
 I trod in the path of the dream of years, 
 
 I trod in the press of pain; 
 I sought through the veil of the mist of tears, 
 I sought for the bloom that the future wears, 
 
 For the bloom of the book in vain. 
 Alas! Alas! 
 How the swift years pass 
 
 As the stream when the falls are nigh; 
 
 30 
 
So swift, so swift. 
 Mid the years I drift. 
 And alas! that a man am I. 
 
 THE PLOWMAN. 
 
 Here we labor night and morn. 
 Mid the dews and burning sun, 
 Here amid the waving corn, 
 Hopes are high and bread is won. 
 
 In the field, 
 In the growing cotton too — 
 In the paths our fathers trod. 
 Nothing changed and nothing new. 
 True to country, home and God, 
 
 True as steel, 
 Wealth of health and dearth of gold, 
 Clothing worlds, for raiment old. 
 Feeding thousands, hungry, cold 
 
 Struggling still. 
 Garnered grain and winter rain. 
 Fighting hunger, scorning pain 
 Hoping when our hopes are vain 
 
 With iron will. 
 Songs for wrongs when right had failed 
 Heart that hoped when others quailed, 
 Hope that drought had dimmed and paled, 
 
 Of better times. 
 Feeding all and clothing all. 
 Hungry, cold his God may call 
 
 To happy climes. 
 Thus the plowman sings and goes, 
 
 To his work and dreams again, 
 
 Once again, of warmer clothes: — 
 
 Praying God to send the rain, 
 
 Faithful trust. 
 Then at night when fagots blaze. 
 Longs for food his hands have made 
 31 
 
Toiling mid the summer days 
 Hoping still, a heart is laid 
 
 In the dust. 
 When the plowman's work is done. 
 When his soul to rest is gone 
 God will smile at vic'try won 
 
 God is just. 
 
 'TIS PERHAPS AN ANGEL SINGING. 
 
 When the cotton fields are whitest 
 
 When the dews reflect the stars 
 When the moon is shining brightest 
 
 Mid the leaves in silver bars 
 There's a banjo sweetly ringing 
 
 At a little cabin door 
 And a mocking bird is singing 
 
 All the notes of long ago. 
 As they blend I pause and ponder 
 
 Of the "Land Way over there" 
 And the "Home way over yonder " 
 
 That is free from toil and care 
 Is it true, the hope we cherish? 
 
 Is this hope of joy a dream? 
 Is this dream of rest to perish 
 
 Like a leaf upon the stream? 
 Is a life a bloom, a blossom 
 
 But a bloom to fade and go. 
 Is the hope that fills the bosom 
 
 All the truth the ages know. 
 While the banjo's softly ringing 
 
 Starts a tear adown my cheek 
 While the bird is sweetly singing 
 
 Seems as if the angels speak. 
 'Tis perhaps an angel speaking 
 
 If we only knew the song, 
 'Tis perhaps an angel seeking 
 
 For a soul to banish wrong. 
 And a saintly sermon's stealing 
 32 
 
From this lowly cabin door. 
 From an humble darkey kneeling 
 
 To his God when labor's o'er, 
 And perhaps his soul rejoices 
 
 At an angel message heard 
 At the strain of angel voices 
 
 In the singing of the bird. 
 
 THE TOWN. 
 
 A rush, a roar, 
 
 As thousands pour 
 
 Mid hoof beat clang, and furnace glow. 
 
 Foul gilded den, and wizened face, 
 
 Fierce hunt for gold, wild maddened chase 
 
 For fleeting fortune's smile and lo! 
 
 Fresh thousands come when thousands go 
 
 Struck down struck down. 
 
 The Prince, the clown; 
 
 They came, they wrought, they went, a town. 
 
 For Moloch's gold 
 
 Thy shrines are cold. 
 
 Thou town that men have built, behold 
 
 The childish face, the shrunken frame 
 
 The bud of youth that bloomed for shame, 
 
 Thy stately temple bells proclaim 
 
 A God that lives alone in name, 
 
 Struck down, struck down. 
 
 One God to crown. 
 
 One God of gold, of greed, a town. 
 
 Rise great and strong. 
 Sink weak from wrong, 
 Thrive vice these crowded dens among; 
 Thrive thieves, with virtue, love with hate 
 Gold wars with God beside thy gate 
 A glass between, — a feast is spread. 
 Outside a beggar dies for bread. 
 83 
 
A rush, a roar, 
 
 Thy dungeon door. 
 
 On other souls hath clanged before 
 
 Thy gold God fled them, worn they trod 
 
 Thy ways and sought, alone thy God, 
 
 Thy gold, gold, gold 
 
 Young lives were sold 
 
 And youth was lost for gold, gold, gold, 
 
 Like autumn leaves they flutter down 
 
 At Molech's feet, in death, — a town. 
 
 WHO IS THE SLAVE? 
 
 {Written on hack of photograph of Sans 8ouci Palace) 
 
 Sans Souci ^Should a care be found 
 
 Within thy walls? 'Tis said 
 
 That coronets with care are crowned, 
 
 And restless lies the head. 
 
 That men call king to laud or hate, 
 
 To load with kingly cares. 
 
 If high thy fame thy climb is great 
 
 Thy back more burden bears. 
 
 Thou tinselled fool — men call thee king, 
 
 Their slave — though men may bow. 
 
 That smith who makes his anvil ring. 
 
 That churl who guides his plow 
 
 Is freer far than thou canst be-— 
 
 Thou king, men call thee great 
 
 To rule, to sway, command, — but he — 
 
 Is all that props thy state. 
 
 Aye welds thy swords, yea brings tnee bread 
 
 Thou slave, — his cares are on thy head. 
 
 LIVES. 
 
 A bursting bud, a blowing rose 
 
 A shattered bloom that fades away, 
 A dream of spring that comes and goes 
 A shade of night, a fading day, 
 A life we cry. 
 U 
 
A Bky of clouds, a day of rain, 
 A wave of storm, a hopeless wreck, 
 
 A blight of doubt, a groan of pain, 
 A weed, a leaf, a blot, a speck, 
 A groan, a sigh, 
 
 A hope, a fear, a hate, a love, 
 A flame that flares and fades away — 
 
 A soul unchained mid leafy grove — 
 That roams from toil where breezes stray, 
 A spendthrift soul. 
 
 A toil for gain, a strife for greed, 
 A heart for none, a breast of stone, 
 
 Who cares not how his victims bleed 
 (His pound of flesh) nor heed their groan, 
 A miser old. 
 
 A bursting bud, a blooming rose, 
 A gleam of sun, a beam of light, 
 
 A summer morn, a stream that goes. 
 And sings of spring — a ripple bright, 
 A baby sleeps. 
 
 A shattered bloom, a sky of storm, 
 A dream of spring, a shade of night, 
 
 A hope, a fear, despair, a form 
 
 She loved to fall. — So pale and white, 
 A maiden weeps. 
 
 PRIDE. 
 
 My lady's dress is silk and lace 
 And jewels blaze within its fold 
 
 A wealth of gems her fingers grace, 
 And sunbeams gleam on burnished gold. 
 
 She lightly wears the lives of men 
 Not gems, but lives bedeck her hair; 
 
 For want must work, must sink — but then 
 My lady is so wonderous fair. 
 
 35 
 
She lightly wears the lives of men; 
 
 They toil, they die, to feed her pride. 
 They cry for bread, she spruns, but then 
 
 One God will judge them side by side, 
 And toil-crushed hearts may wear His crown, 
 While gems may drag my lady down. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE FIELDS. 
 
 What care have I for gold or fame, 
 
 For wealth or high estate. 
 With greater name is greater blame 
 
 For deeds when men are great. 
 The king must bear the galling yoke — 
 
 A tool, a toy of fate — 
 The king may fear the dagger stroke 
 
 Of those beside his gate. 
 
 The war lord lies within his tent, 
 
 And dreams his laurels gone. 
 His army flies, his columns rent, 
 
 He sees his hopes undone. 
 The rich man hoards the gold and gem, 
 
 And quakes lest thieves might steal — 
 The king hath mourned the diadem 
 
 Where shattered columns reel. 
 
 Who hath the most may lose the most. 
 
 And greater fear hath he. 
 The merchant mourns his ships as lost 
 
 When storms spread o'er the sea; 
 But I — I sleep. While tempests sweep 
 
 Across the stormy seething deep 
 The serf still sings, though vanquished kings 
 
 Shorn of their crowns may bow and weep. 
 
 But give Oh Lord the hands the health, 
 
 But health and hands to toil, 
 I ask not titles great, or wealth. 
 
 I'll win them from the soil. 
 36 
 
When sumbeams pour, when breezes blow, 
 When fields are white as drifted snow, 
 
 When sun and rain have gilt the grain 
 What need the want of gold to know. 
 
 An uncrowned king I guide my plow, 
 
 For want of this e'e'n kings must bow. 
 No laurel wreath shall crown my brow. 
 
 No sculptured shaft tell thousands how 
 The curl, the plowman at his plow 
 
 Hath fed this land that kings may reign. 
 I need no crown to tell them now 
 
 I rule my fields of waving grain, 
 I clothe them all, I give them food. 
 
 A plowman I a pauper rude. 
 
 PICTURES BY CONTRAST. 
 
 Lone in her raiment of scarlet. 
 Branded by all of her name. 
 
 Bound in her fetters of iron, 
 Sold to a life of shame. 
 
 Welcomed in all of the churches, 
 
 Greeted by one and all, 
 Opened the doors of the parlor. 
 
 To one who has caused her fall, 
 
 Lone in her raiment of scarlet. 
 Saddened, and all alone, 
 
 How should the guilt be divided? 
 How should the shame be worn? 
 
 One in the highest of honor, 
 One in the lowness of shame. 
 
 Where is the justice of morals 
 That mark not a man for blame? 
 
 WHEN MELBA SINGS. 
 
 The distant vespers swoon and die, 
 The trembling aspens kiss the breeze, 
 
 37 
 
The bird notes sink into a sigh, 
 
 The homing songs of laden hees, 
 Are blent in one when Melba sings. 
 
 The waves and tempests war and blend 
 As wild and high sweeps on the song» 
 
 The forests creak, and break and rend, 
 And hope and fears are swept along 
 
 In one wild note when Melba sings. 
 
 But soft, now zephyrs woo the rose, 
 And dew drops glitter through her words; 
 
 The rainbow melts to song and flows 
 With mingled moonbeams, mocking birds 
 
 And hushed — Their rival Melba sings. 
 
 RUE ANB ROSES. 
 
 A shade of the roses, a shadow of spring, 
 A wreath of the cypress, the whirr of a wing, 
 A smile for the actor, a smile for the play, 
 The curtain is falling, away and away. 
 
 The tints of the morning, the glare of the day, 
 The glow of the evening, the blooms of the May, 
 The snows of the winter, the smiles of the spring, 
 A tear at the parting — the bouI Is awing. 
 
 A love for the maiden, a love for the lad, 
 A song for the smiling, a hope for the sad, 
 A hand to the fallen, a crown for the brave. 
 The shame or the honor are hid in the grave. 
 
 The wreath of the cypress, the shadows of night, 
 The snows of the winter the roses to blight, 
 The glow of the poppies, the fading of morn. 
 We go and the evening forgets we are gone. 
 
 The rounds of the seasons, the night of the years, 
 The songs of the singers, the sorrow and tears, 
 The dirge of the mourner, the shouts of the gay. 
 Go mingling forever — Its bow and away. 
 
 3S 
 
SHADOWS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 There is always the shade and the shadow, 
 Be the brightness of June in the morn; 
 
 There is always the care and the sorrow 
 In the hearts that the roses adorn, 
 
 And the skies that the clouds nerer darken 
 Are the skies never bright with the bow 
 
 For the land by the cloud over-shadowed 
 Is the land with the roses below. 
 
 There is bloom from the deeps of the summer 
 Mid the June in the vale and the plain, 
 
 There are hearts that are lightest and brightest 
 Like the rose blooming under the rain. 
 
 There are songs for the toil of the reapers. 
 There are hopes mid the sorrows and fears 
 
 When the blooms of the spring have departed, 
 CJome the wealth of the fruits of the years, 
 
 As the child in the man and his duties 
 Leaves the toys that his boyhood engage. 
 
 Still the toys of the days of his childhood 
 Fill the pictures of gold for the 
 
 In the dreams of hli boyhood the painter 
 On the canvas his thousands hath thrilled, 
 
 And his songs may be ringing and singing 
 When the heart of the poet Is etllled. 
 
 There is always the shade and the shadow, 
 Be the brightness of June in the morn, 
 
 There is always the care and the sorrow 
 In the hearts that the roses adorn. 
 
 And the gold is the gold in the mountain, 
 Mid the flames is the gold but the gold. 
 
 While the rain from the clouds is descending, 
 Do the hearts of the roses unfold. 
 
A LESSON OF REST. 
 
 Mr. Banker, quit your counter, 
 
 Come and stroll around with me. 
 Dewy pearls are on the roses 
 
 And the music of the bee 
 Tells the tale of earnest effort, 
 
 Though you struggle hard to climb. 
 Let the bee convey the lesson 
 
 That he rests in winter time. 
 
 What's the use to hoard and treasure, 
 
 Laying by an idle store; 
 With the coin the care is added 
 
 Ev'ry dollar calls for more. 
 Though the wealth of all the islands 
 
 In your lockers you may hold, 
 You can never buy the starlight, 
 
 Never hoard the daisy's gold. 
 
 Mr. Merchant, quit your ledger. 
 
 Cease to bend above your scale; 
 For the mocking bird is singing. 
 
 And the calling of the quail. 
 Floating out along the hedges. 
 
 Where the purple berries swing. 
 Tells a tale of joyous leisure. 
 
 For they find the time to sing. 
 
 RESURGENS. 
 
 (Motto of Atlanta.) 
 A war blocked street, the war wrecked home. 
 
 By day, by night, the siege is laid. 
 The war shell rends the lordly dome, 
 
 The squadrons round about arrayed. 
 
 Then ruin and smoke and darkest days, 
 Her children rise and cry for food. 
 
 Resurgens still her stout heart says, 
 These same fair lands still live. That blood, 
 40 
 
That vainly flowed, and sought to shield; 
 
 And wept within my gloomy halls. 
 Must gather gold from fertile field, 
 
 Must rear again more lordly walls. 
 
 Resurgens, still she presses on. 
 
 How true her dreams, as now in state 
 She sits a queen, when wine and corn 
 
 And gold, lie heaped within her gate. 
 
 Resurgens still, the east and west 
 
 The North, the South have caught the strain; 
 She wept not at her fate but blessed 
 
 Stout hearts, and proudly rose again. 
 
 Resurgens all — the eagle flings 
 
 Dark clouds aside to mount and rise. 
 
 The storm to brave, with weary wings 
 And float at last in bluer skies. 
 
 Resurgens all — to sink beneath, 
 Fierce frowns of fate were weak indeed, 
 
 Each victor wears his laurel wreath, 
 Because of wounds he scorned to heed. 
 
 Resurgens still; to chain the mind 
 No fate can come, if heart and will 
 
 But strive; no fate can break or bind 
 That soul that cries resurgens still. 
 
 41 
 
Colonel 2?oo^er 
 
 Spoken words are shadows merely, 
 Surging thoughts the substance prove; 
 
 Angry words are purchased dearly 
 Bought by sacrifice of lov». 
 
KODAK'S OF COLONEL BOOZSR. 
 
 My childish memories are clustered around a galaxy of 
 Incidents, one of the accidents was Colonel Boozer's friend- 
 ship, because it was accidental that I let him catch me 
 in his plum orchard, where, instead of doing as was his 
 right, and beating me, he told me to help myself and come 
 again. From that time our friendship grew apace, I be- 
 came fond of his mendacious society. Bibulous and bom- 
 bastic to a degree, yet his heart was gold and beat for his 
 fellow men more than the ordinary run of men who are 
 counted better. Especially so, since he usually kept it beat- 
 ing twice as fast by spurring its jaded machinery with 
 what he was pleased to call Spiritus Yini Oallici. Colonel 
 practiced law on a limited scale, from out of his brace of 
 law books, to-wit: a code and form book, since he deemed 
 it beneath his dignity to drudge to put it into his head; 
 ran a little farm by way of gentlemanly exercise and recre- 
 ation, and sold fertilizers, and bought cotton for a profit. 
 His law practice was hardly successful if opposed by 
 another lawyer who would stoop to treat, for Colonel would 
 drink any given quantity and become too mellow to try 
 his case in order. 
 
 However, away from the temptations of the flowing bowl, 
 during the times when he took the pledge, his farm was a 
 model of neatness. Not a tree leaned toward the north, 
 because even thirty years after the war the Colonel was 
 still a rabid secessionist, and still damned a war that could 
 only settle a question and not a principle, and during one 
 of his mellow moods had vowed, and put into execution, to 
 cut down every d — n tree on his farm that leaned to the 
 north. He managed to vote his old horse 16 times "agin" 
 that d — n yankee candidate for president, and lived and 
 died a moss back Democrat, believing that the rights of the 
 people could be best preserved, in a "fair square democracy 
 By God sir" and that Abe Lincoln committed an unpardon- 
 able sin in freeing the niggers. 
 
 His mint bed was free to his neighbors and as long as it 
 lasted, his bottle was public property. 
 
 45 
 
In short, Colonel Boozer prided himself on being a "Gren- 
 tleman of the Old School by God sir," who believed in 
 Jeffersonian Democracy (excusing the niggers voting) nig- 
 ger slavery and good licker. ihis was part of Colonel 
 Boozers general make up. 
 
 COLONEL BOOZER AND THE AIRTHQUAKE. 
 
 The ground reeled and rocked, the earth swayed and 
 trembled, the panes of the windows rattled, and wild-eyed 
 people madly questioned the cause. 
 
 Colonel Boozer was dazed. Was it a new style of seeing 
 snakes. No, for he was in the throes of the latest pledge, 
 and making a heroic effort to "Rattle the spokes in the 
 water wogan by God sir, and run her till she heat a spin- 
 dle rather than touch another drop forever." 
 
 It was the great Charleston earthquake. Around flocked 
 his sons and daughters, and clung to him. Between the 
 pulsings of fevered earth, the light broke into his brain. 
 "By God sir," he shouted, "It's an airthquake." Pray for us 
 Mollie, all I know is Lord make us thankful for what we 
 are about to receive, and that don't fit here — Pray Mollie — 
 Pray — Confound it pray. 
 
 Miss Mollie, good, sweet, pious and modest, sank upon 
 her knees at his command while at the centre table knelt 
 Colonel Boozer. 
 
 Over all the rattle and jar of the rushing something that 
 she knew not the meaning of, rose her clear voice with 
 sweet trust in Divine Providence, soaring upward without 
 a quiver, even when old earth quivered and trembled at 
 the touch of its Maker, and at every telling pause Colonel 
 Boozer solemnly murmured "Amen, Amen, by God sir 
 amen," with never a thought of the impiety of his words. 
 
 Then out from the table rose a little half snicker half 
 sneeze. Bob Lee's risibles were excited in spite of the 
 earthquake, but the Colonel was serious. 
 
 Like a flash of lightning rolled his eyes — like a lion 
 roaring, his voice thundered: "Bob Lee, you little devil, 
 If you don't stop that laughing and let Mollie pray, I'll 
 
 46 
 
take my stick and beat h — 1 out of you, pray on Mollie 
 pray on." The next moment a hearty "amen by God sir" 
 rose in true penitence to the throne — for the words are 
 as naught if the heart is right. 
 
 COLONEL BOOZER HAS HIS TEETH EXTRACTED. 
 
 We are all more or less faddists — Jim Simmons had his 
 fad. A rare fad i* is true, but Jim was a kind of rare fel- 
 low. His fad was to pull teeth. As a boy he filled the 
 door posts with plugs and pulled them out again for exer- 
 cise. His father's hogs often came up tuskless, and the 
 old mare was forced to eat gruel long before the order of 
 nature would have called for her to lay down the nubbin 
 and fodder bundle. 
 
 As manhood approached he invested some of his savings 
 in an ancient pair of "pullikins," and every possible chance, 
 was taken advantage of to convince "niggers" that it was 
 better to have an aching tooth in the pocket than in the 
 head. 
 
 Jim became possessed of a little country store and even 
 here the fad pursued him. The usual whisky barrel at 
 the back of the counter became a source of expense rather 
 than profit, since it usually went to those who had their 
 teeth extracted and needed a treat. The by-word of the 
 country was "Jim pulls em fer nothin', an' throws in a 
 drink." 
 
 Colonel B.oozer's pockets had been empty for a week with 
 nothing in prospect for a week more and whisky was cash. 
 
 Colonel Boozer's "left molar" had been giving him a lot 
 of trouble lately, though they do say that teeth without 
 a single speck on them hardly ever ache. But Colonel 
 Boozer's tooth was the exception, and it went into the 
 Molar museum, that Jim was collecting and Colonel Boozer 
 took a drink as consolation and to "half way mitigate, and 
 alleviate the excruciating pain by God sir." 
 
 Colonel Boozer's teeth were wonders for aching for dur- 
 ing the next week seven fair-looking teeth parted company 
 forever with Colonel Boozer, and as many of Jims drinks 
 
 47 
 
became acquainted with the inside of Colonel Boozer's ana- 
 tomy for be it remembered, 
 "Jim pulled em fer nothin' an' threw in a drink." 
 
 COLONEL BOOZER AND LITTLE ISAAC. 
 
 In his old age there appeared at the home of Colonel 
 Boozer a son, whom he proceeded to name Isaac Emanuel, 
 because he was born to his father in his old age, and as 
 his birth was the cause of his mother's death, Emanuel it 
 should be and signify the sacrifice. 
 
 As he grew, he became the sole idol of his father's heart, 
 and wrapped himself about its strings until they only vi- 
 brated for the one thing, Isaac: Tenderness in spite of 
 whisky was a trait of the Colonel. For the sake of little 
 Isaac he beamed upon the whole of humanity and because 
 close kin to the whole world, so softened and tempered 
 until the faults of others were as readily condoned as his 
 own private delictions. 
 
 Three short summers had striven to copy the bloom of 
 the roses in the bloom of his boyish cheeks, three return- 
 ing spring tides had the blue of his dancing eyes and the 
 blue of the violet mated. The soft zephyrs of three South- 
 ern summers had toyed with the golden curls that clus- 
 tered over his boyish head, and stole slowly away as loath 
 to leave; but now the house was quiet while the nurse 
 came and went on tiptoe as the doctor made frequent visits, 
 and night and day sat Colonel Boozer beside little Isaac 
 as he talked and moaned in delerium, while the fever drank 
 the blooming life blood from his cheeks and sapped the soul 
 of the violets from his eyes. Day after day dragged slowly 
 along, till one evening as the shadows were growing longer, 
 the little lips moved, and bending over the withered form. 
 Colonel Boozer heard him pleading papa, papa, come go 
 home with me — Go home with me — Papa lets go home — 
 and as the big tears fell from Colonel Boozer's eyes, the 
 little spirit wended its way alone, and little Isaac was 
 at home. 
 
 Emanuel had met the sacrifice that Colonel Boozer might 
 
 48 
 
follow him and join his mother in a house not made with 
 hands. 
 
 As the last spade of dirt was thrown into the grave the 
 iron will of the man was broken, and in the weakness of a 
 woman his spirit sobbed out — Oh, Parson, Parson; teach 
 me the way, I want to go home with him, I want to go 
 home, and the true penitence of the man was manifest in 
 spite of his second nature forcing from his lips the agon- 
 ized expression — "I'll be damned if I don't." 
 
 When ten years later the fading darkness of the summer 
 night gave place to the morning, the watchers at the 
 bedside of Colonel Boozer, heard him faintly say, I'm com- 
 ing home to you, I'm coming home, and as his spirit started, 
 out on its long journey, clothed in a thousand righteous 
 deeds performed for Christ's sake only, the angel sang 
 of a redeemed" soul that had sought and found, — and now 
 was coming home. 
 
 49 
 
anb ©tfjer Bf)pmes( 
 
 Many friends alas! deceive us 
 Whom we've trusted many years, 
 
 But ttie man I've never trusted 
 Who would cause a baby tears. 
 
LIITES TO A LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 When clouds seem dark and friends seem cold, 
 
 When trust and faith be shaken, 
 Remember child when years are old, 
 
 Perhaps folks were mistaken. 
 When idle tongues tear hearts in twain. 
 
 And honied words deceive us, 
 Trust future years to prove it plain, 
 
 Not friends, but fiends would grieve us. 
 A lying lip with false intent, 
 
 From good may cause suspicion, 
 Of kindest acts in kindness meant. 
 
 And not in hate's commission. 
 And so when others blight his name, 
 
 And hate shall try to move you, 
 What'er his sin, what'er his blame, 
 
 Still think that "Hi" can love you. 
 Not you alone, but all that's dear, 
 
 To you or those you cherish. 
 Though heart with grief too deep to bear, 
 
 Like haunted hare may perish. 
 Or dream sad dreams of joys that were. 
 
 Like roses soon to wither, 
 God knows alone this heart, no blur, 
 
 No hatred can drift hither. 
 In after years when scornful tongue. 
 
 Its net of hate hath woven. 
 Still trust that heart that loved you young. 
 
 You'll find it true hath proven. 
 
 IN LOTTIE'S SW^ING. 
 
 Under the shade of the wide-spreading trees 
 
 There's a sweet little maiden swings, 
 
 Her clustering tresses flash gold in the breeze, 
 
 And the song that she smilingly sings. 
 
 Swing you and swing me 
 
 Swing birds in the tree. 
 
 55 
 
The moments with happiness fly. 
 Swing high and swing low. 
 Swing fast and swing slow, 
 lAnd then ''Let the old cat die. 
 I stop it a moment, the swing in its flight, 
 
 The dear little maiden to tease, 
 And her dark flashing eyes they are pleadingly bright. 
 She echoes ''Fling Lottie din pese.** 
 Swing you and swing me, 
 Swing birds in the tree, 
 For life is all happiness now. 
 They are coming, the years. 
 There are shadows and tears. 
 And the leaves will be gone from the bough. 
 I threaten to leave, she is ready to cry, 
 
 She ceases to chatter and sing, 
 And her lips pucker up and the tear dims her eye. 
 As she asks "How's I doin to fing.'* 
 "Oh fing me do pese.'* 
 I hasten to sieze 
 
 The rope, and the shadows are gone. 
 And the tear trickles down, 
 Like the dew to the ground, 
 From the rose at the coming of morn. 
 Would God, that the future no sorrow could bring, 
 
 And time in its speeding with-hold. 
 Must it dim the bright eyes of the child in the swing, 
 And silver the tresses of gold? 
 I swing soft — and 1-o-w, 
 S-o s- 1-o-w v-e-r-y slow, 
 It hardly is seeming to creep. 
 And her head starts to bow, 
 She is satisfied now. 
 And the dear little maid is asleep. 
 
 WHERE IS HEAVEN, MR. POSTMAN? 
 
 Won't you tell me. Mister Postman, 
 Is a letter there for me 
 
 66 
 
Prom my mamma dear in heaven? 
 
 Won't you look again and see, 
 For I know she must have written 
 
 To her baby here at home 
 Won't you tell me Mister Postman 
 Will a letter never come? 
 Has she left us all alone? 
 Where is darling mother gone? 
 Will I never see her smiling face again, 
 Can I go to see Tier there, 
 Mister Postman, tell me where, 
 Where is heaven? For I've searched the map in 
 vain. 
 Dearest mamma, soft was sleeping 
 
 When they carried her away; 
 And they told me not waken, 
 But to run along and play. 
 But the night grew dark and darker, 
 
 And my mamma still was gone. 
 How I waited for her coming! 
 Crying sobbing all alone. 
 Where is heaven? Do you know 
 Mister Postman, can I go 
 Just to see again my darling mother there? 
 Write my mamma that I wait 
 For her letter at the gate. 
 Where is heaven Mister Postman, tell me where. 
 
 "WHEN SCHOOL GITS OUTEN ME, 
 
 Ma tolt me onct that boys whut runned 
 
 Away from school an such 
 Wud never be a president, 
 
 An wudden mount ter much. 
 She sed at I must go an stay 
 Penned like a hog in school all day 
 An learn to pars 
 
 an write 
 
 an spell. 
 
 57 
 
F«r ma's is mas 
 
 an tite 
 
 as well 
 But boys jess hafter play. 
 
 An when I starts ter go ter school 
 
 And pass along an see 
 Tom Jones a diggin bait, hit seems 
 
 That school gits outen me. 
 An then I goes with Tom an wish 
 I dared to carry home them fish. 
 But ma you know 
 
 would be 
 
 'Twould grieve her so, 
 an me! 
 
 so hurt, 
 my shirt 
 
 Would feel a hick'ry swish, 
 
 I tolt ma onct I diddent want 
 
 Ter be no president; 
 Much ruther own a circus show 
 
 And have a circus tent, 
 Than be a king of Celum's Isle, 
 Where prospects please an men is vile. 
 An whuts the good 
 when all 
 
 an done. 
 
 Don't kings git slewd, 
 an fall, 
 
 Is all they pump an style. 
 
 So when I starts ter go ter school 
 
 An passes long an see 
 Tom Jones a diggin bait hit seems 
 
 All school gits outen me. 
 I chunks behind the shed my book, 
 Fer whut is school ter pole an hook, 
 
 6$ 
 
An mossy banks, 
 
 an streams, 
 
 so clear. 
 Then ma she spanks, 
 
 my screams, 
 
 Oh dear! 
 Fill ev'ry crack an nook. 
 But still nex time when Tom I see 
 A diggin bait school's outen me. 
 
 ADVICE TO LOTTIE, WHO IS ONLY EIGHT. 
 
 Never scorn the one who meets you 
 
 Even though his coat is old. 
 Dingy matrix holds the diamond. 
 
 Baser ores obscure the gold. 
 Delve and dig amid the rubbish, 
 
 Sort each coarser baser mind 
 Hidden deep are flecks of golden — 
 
 Thought, that might perhaps refined. 
 Circle spheres or soothe the sorrow, 
 
 Yours perhaps may be the fate. 
 Sparkling gems of thought to burnish 
 
 Thoughts that future ages wait. 
 Never crave the miser's pleasure, 
 
 Dearly bought, his hidden hoard, 
 Sweeter lives are like the roses, 
 
 Wafting all their hearts abroad; 
 Sweeter lives are like the robins. 
 
 When the summer days are long. 
 Singing, singing, mid the flowers, 
 
 That a world may hear the song. 
 Never store away your anger, 
 
 Never treasure up a frown. 
 Prom amid the glowing furnace, 
 
 Ruddy gold is melted down, 
 Prove the cherry tree that shaken. 
 
 Scatters down its creamy bloom, 
 
 59 
 
Be as violet that trampled. 
 Wafting back its sweet perfume. 
 
 Never scorn your Bible dearest, 
 Though the way be dark and long, 
 
 When we take its path to travel, 
 We are never in the wrong. 
 
 Live its truths without obtrusion, 
 Many joys it has to give, 
 
 Scatter roses, dear, that people 
 May be happy that you live. 
 
 TRY TO BETTER EV'RY PAGE. 
 
 (On the child's copy l)ook). 
 'Tisn't ruled as other papers. 
 
 Still the paper's white and fine; 
 Life would brighter be, if people 
 
 Strove to keep within the line. 
 
 Of the path of truth and honor, 
 Take the lesson little miss; 
 
 Try to fill the years with actions 
 As your pen will fashion this. 
 
 Though at first your letters waver. 
 
 Try to better ev'ry page; 
 Try to grow in goodness baby; 
 
 As you grow to greater age. 
 
 Baby; life is but the paper. 
 After years a larger school; 
 
 Sin has blotted many copies. 
 Then be careful how you rule. 
 
 CASTLE BUILDING. 
 
 When night comes down and supper's o'er. 
 
 And cares of toil are light, 
 When Lottie sits upon the floor — 
 
 And claims as hers of right; 
 
 60 
 
What turn is mine, what touch of skill — 
 
 To build a house, I know — 
 If grand and high — if mean her will — 
 
 Will be to— "BUILD TUM MORE." 
 
 A wondrous building oft we rear, 
 
 All pictured brightly o'er; 
 With here a B that stands for bear, 
 
 A bat, a ball, a bow. 
 An A an artist at his work. 
 
 For cat we have a C 
 A D for dog, perhaps, a dirk. 
 
 For elephant an E. 
 
 An F for Frank who has a gun. 
 
 At risk of life we think; 
 An H for hoop, a side is done, 
 
 The floor is laid with I — nk. 
 A J for jug, tis rare to see 
 
 A roof with jugs put on. 
 A K for kite, and king, and key, 
 
 With L for shady lawn. 
 
 And on and on we build and plan, 
 
 For buildings grand and new; 
 We build a church and use a M— an. 
 
 And N — eedle tower too. 
 And swiftly with the list we go 
 
 From M-N-0 to Z's. 
 She begs me build, and build turn more, 
 
 I beg, X — cuse me please. 
 
 But still perforce, I build and build 
 
 At mosque and minaret. 
 Till Lottie's pleas at last are stilled — 
 
 And baby, eyes forget- 
 To scan the structure as it grows, 
 
 In wondrous pictures planned; 
 And drooping eyelids slowly close 
 
 To ope' in slumber land. 
 
 61 
 
Who knows, perhaps the angels pause 
 
 And build for baby dreams, 
 A far more wondrous house, because 
 
 Like one of them she seems, 
 She sleeps so still, perhaps 'tis true. 
 
 From earth her soul has flown. 
 To come at morn as skies of blue 
 
 Return when night has gone. 
 
 Perhaps she sees in slumber land 
 
 A house no hand can trace, 
 And spoils that house my hands have planned 
 
 For lack of dreamy grace. 
 Yet night by night, when day is o'er 
 
 And darkness curtained round. 
 Her blocks, we build upon the floor 
 
 That she may tear them down. 
 As domes and walls come crashing down. 
 
 Behave, I meekly say, 
 But build again, I fear to frown. 
 
 Lest aught disturb her play. 
 
 "W^HEN liOTTIE GOES TO SCHOOL. 
 
 When Lottie goes to school to learn 
 
 To wead and pell and wite. 
 When clatter reigns at her return. 
 And glowing embers brightly burn, 
 
 And sister brings the light. 
 
 A wondrous tale it is we hear. 
 
 And sit in mute surprise. 
 As, confident, and loud and clear, 
 She "pells" the day the month the year, 
 And books and "butterflies." 
 
 And "writes aDog I sEe a Cow, 
 
 And weads about a hen. 
 That laid a nest of eggs somehow. 
 
 62 
 
A man, a horse, a rake, a plow, 
 A pig "whats" in a pen. 
 
 In golden tangles curly hair, 
 
 Nods o'er her scrawly slate — 
 A space — And then a crash — Ah there — 
 My tate is fallded out de chair, 
 My books is in the gwate. 
 
 Then mamma mad, to scold her tries, 
 
 (But clouds are brief and go. 
 When tear drops glisten in her eyes), 
 Then pets and kisses when she cries, 
 (T'was wrong, to scold her so). 
 
 T'was wrong, for childhood days are all. 
 
 Perhaps that she may know. 
 Her life may be but grief and gall. 
 Why cause one needless tear to fall? 
 Let books and lessons go. 
 
 A broken slate, a book that's lost, 
 
 With ease may be replaced; 
 But tears are dear at any cost. 
 And words that chill, and cut the most 
 
 Through life, are not erased. 
 
 One baby laugh were cheap indeed, 
 
 If bought with book and slate. 
 If by her tears she learns to "wead," 
 If books from frowns can not be freed, 
 Throw books all in the grate. 
 
 THE OLD RAG MAN. 
 Adown the road and over the hills, 
 
 With a bleeding heart I hear, 
 A bugle call as it swells and fills — 
 Softer and louder in trebles and trills, 
 For the old rag man is near. 
 
 ho — ^bring me your rags. 
 And your butter and eggs, 
 63 
 
I have things that I want to trade; 
 
 I have whistles and toys 
 
 For the babies and boys, 
 
 I have pans for the pantry maid. 
 
 Into the closet I go — they are there, 
 
 Why is it I hate to part 
 With the dear little jacket — its rent and tear? 
 There are stains, there are splotches, and dirt and wear, 
 
 "Why is it — the tears will start? 
 It was new when he started to school, and I think 
 Of the rent that he made, and the dirt and the ink. 
 
 How he came and I gave him a frown. 
 As I raise it once more 
 Bitter tears freer flow. 
 
 For I think of a green little mound. 
 
 Adown the road and over the hills, 
 
 With a bleeding heart I hear, 
 A fbugle call — hear it swell and fill, 
 But it opens the heart of its wound and still 
 A boyish voice so dear, 
 
 I can hear him once more; 
 
 I am dreaming I know. 
 
 For he sleeps till the trumpet shall wake. 
 
 Pass along with the toys, 
 
 There are other bright boys. 
 
 There is here but a heart to break. 
 
 PLAYING TBAIN. 
 
 When I go home a baby girl 
 Comes toddlinj to the door 
 
 With pleading eyes — she softly cries, 
 "Now 'Hi' Pay twain tum more." 
 
 A dining chair is engine then, 
 
 She rides in palace car — 
 (A willow chair) and seated there, 
 
 She heeds not shock and jar. 
 
 64 
 
As round the floor I shove the train. 
 
 And puff as engines do. 
 With fearful linell the supper bell 
 
 Comes in to aid us too. 
 
 I'm engineer and station man, 
 
 And then conduct the train; 
 I sell the slip for baby's trip, 
 
 Then take it up again. 
 
 She holds a paper twixt the tongs. 
 
 And burns her dollars thus; 
 If counterfeit — what matters it? 
 
 They pass for good with us. 
 The train comes puffing, steaming by. 
 
 Too close for Tabby's taste — 
 The whistles shriek and like a streak 
 
 She leaves the track in haste. 
 A tramp perhaps, has spread the switch. 
 
 Reverse the engine quick; 
 Now off we go, and from the floor, 
 
 The train and child I pick. 
 The wrecking crew is soon at hand, 
 
 (And I'm the wrecking crew) 
 I place her back and down the track 
 
 We start to speed anew. 
 While mamma, sisters, uncle, all — 
 
 The folks have stopped their ears, 
 And waxing wroth they brand us both 
 
 As "Worse than Texas Steers." 
 Then buy their peace with dimes and such, 
 
 (Its this or take to flight) 
 It's many times they've lost their dimes, 
 
 "To stop that noise to-night." 
 
 CAUTION, LITTLE MAID. 
 
 Dimpled little maiden 
 In her red Morocco shoes, 
 65 
 
Seeking for a violet 
 
 Wading in the dews. 
 "Booful" are the flowers — hut 
 
 The violets will fade, 
 Bees are in the buttercups, 
 
 Caution little maid. 
 Dimpled little maiden, 
 
 With a head of pretty curls. 
 Leave alone the roses, — they 
 
 Are not for little girls. 
 Thorns are in the roses that — 
 
 The baby never sees, 
 Thorns are in the future years. 
 
 Caution little tease. 
 
 Dimpled little maiden, 
 
 There is work as well as play. 
 Pleasures are the violets 
 
 Spread along the way, 
 "Booful" are the flowers but 
 
 The violets will fade. 
 Sin is In the pleasant way, 
 
 Caution little maid. 
 
 WHEN LOTTIE LAUGHS. 
 
 When Lottie laughs and crows in glee. 
 When fairest shines the Southern sun. 
 
 When birds sing sweetest from the tree. 
 
 When winds are tuned to harmony. 
 When summer days their sands have run. 
 
 How sweet our hours of play can be! 
 
 It's William Tremble toes awhile, 
 And hide and seek behind the door. 
 
 And castles built in wondrous style. 
 And trains of chairs that fill the floor. 
 And paper dolls are scattered o'er 
 
 The room in heaps when Lottie laughs. 
 
 66 
 
When Lottie's cheeks are pale. When fade 
 The roses bloom and dimples go, 
 
 When sickness on her brow hath laid 
 
 Its fevered stamp, and feet are stayed. 
 And curtains drawn and speech is low. 
 
 The world is all in grief arrayed. 
 
 And charms have fled from bird and song, 
 And all unsought are wealth and state. 
 
 While drone like hours drag along, 
 Nor tell if glad or mournful fate, 
 And joy and song and strife and hate. 
 
 Are all forgot if Lottie's sick. 
 
 When fever leaves her weak and pale. 
 When in her eyes the life lights shine, 
 
 When tender care hath turned the scale, 
 
 And feet that trod the shadow vale, 
 In music patter sweet divine. 
 
 She seems an angel pure and frail. 
 
 Then summer days are all too short, 
 And winds and birds once more in glee, 
 
 Repeat — repeat again the note 
 Of colden hours that come to me, 
 And softer sweeter hums the bee. 
 
 Amid tae blooms when Lottie laughs. 
 
 THE DOLL'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 The tale that her dollie has whispered to me, 
 
 The dolly belonging to Lottie of three, 
 
 T'was the head of the doll with a grievance of wrong, 
 
 Of a dollie onice fair, and her hair it was long. 
 
 And her eyes they were bright as the stars could be. 
 
 But alas for the dollie of Lottie age three! 
 
 She tugged me around in her babyish way — 
 The torture was nothing — she said it was play, 
 And the first was a leg, and the next was an arm 
 To be broken and torn, but her kisses were warm, 
 
 67 
 
When she said "00 is putty as putty tan be" 
 OO's de puttiest, feetest ole dolly to me." 
 
 She scrubbed from the cheeks of her dolly its true, 
 The blush of the roses and whispering 00 — 
 
 00 needing a doctor and needing a pill, 
 Poor dolly, dear dolly is deffully ill. 
 
 1 was well for a fact as a doll ever grew, 
 But alas for the pills and the infamous brew! 
 
 And the vinegar bandage — when ringlet and tress 
 Tumbled off with the glue in a tangle and mess, 
 And the hair of her dolly came ofC on the floor. 
 She murders her dollies does Lottie you know, 
 Does Lottie, rough Lottie of three. 
 
 THE FROST WILL FALL. 
 
 Sweet little maiden, 
 
 Roaming mid the dew 
 Seeking the roses. 
 
 None are sweet as you. 
 Seek them no longer, 
 Why the roses seek? 
 Roses and posies. 
 
 Bloom within your cheek. 
 Joys and toys and 
 
 Roses bloom, 
 Play and May and 
 Naught of gloom. 
 Smiles and wiles and 
 
 Baby tears, 
 Showers, flowers, 
 Fleeting years. 
 
 Sweet though the roses, 
 Thorns there are beware. 
 
 Dreams that were brightest. 
 Fill the heart with care, 
 
 Fair are the roses. 
 Fairer thou than they, 
 
 68 
 
Roses and posies 
 Bloom and then away. 
 Joys and toys and 
 
 Roses bloom. 
 Years and fears and 
 
 Doubt and gloom, 
 Swings and rings and 
 Sweethearts all, 
 Songs and wrongs and 
 
 Frosts will fall. 
 
 B'looms that the baby 
 Loves to pluck the most, 
 Soonest are blighted 
 By the cruel frost. 
 Seek not the roses, 
 
 Heed the Father's call, 
 Pleasures and treasures 
 Come and fade and pall. 
 Joys and toys and 
 
 Roses bloom. 
 Years and tears and 
 
 Blight and gloom, 
 Swings and rings and 
 Sweethearts all. 
 Songs and wrongs and 
 Death will call. 
 
 AS LOTTIE LEARNS TO SPELL. 
 
 Slate and pencil, pen and paper, 
 
 Mild September breeze that blows 
 Lottie's golden hair in tangles, 
 
 As she conning B-A-K-E-R goes. 
 Spelling over, over S-H-A-D-Y 
 
 Its dess hardern all to pell, 
 Baby, lean life's shady actions 
 
 Harder prove, the years will tell. 
 
 69 
 
Shorter word is smile than sadness, 
 
 Longer sorrow is than joy, 
 If your mamma tells you baby, 
 
 That you can not have the toy, 
 Never pout and scatter shadows; 
 
 Smile as sweet again, because 
 Soon it will be Christmas, baby, 
 
 Write and ask Old Santa Claus. 
 
 Slate and pencil, pen and paper, 
 Mild September breezes cool; 
 
 Learn that teachers love the children 
 Who are "doodest" at the school. 
 
 SCATERED ROSES. 
 
 On the steps in the spring stood a sweet little maid 
 
 And the roses that withered she threw 
 In the dust at her feet as she smilingly said, 
 
 "Dess de way uggy woses will do." 
 
 Little maid, little maid, they were fair as the dawn, 
 
 As the bees roved their petals between; 
 And the soul of the rose, though the freshness is gone, 
 
 Pills the vase where the roses have been. 
 On the steps, through her tears wept a beautiful maid, 
 
 For the hearts that she smilingly threw 
 In the dust at her feet as she laughingly strayed, 
 
 Flitting on to the love that was new. 
 Little maid, little maid, could you gather again 
 
 All the roses you scatter to-day? 
 Know, the tears of December are idle and vain. 
 
 For the June's that have floated away. 
 
 RIDING STRADDLE. I 
 
 When Lottie comes from school at eve } 
 
 And books are flung aside | 
 
 And I'm a horse (a make believe, ' 
 
 With gingham selvage bridle reeve) 
 Whereon she likes to ride. 
 
 70 V 
 
Then up and down the hall we go, 
 
 A chair, is London there, 
 Chicago yonder by the door, 
 New York, Atlanta, twenty more, — 
 
 (Now please don't pull my hair). 
 Cross Brooklyn Bridge so wide and high, 
 
 (The rug's a bridge) she rides. 
 She spurs her steed and bids him fly. 
 Where woods are mingled with the sky, 
 
 (Don't kick me in the sides). 
 She leaps a yawning chasm's roar, 
 
 And o'er a mountain goes, 
 The first a seam upon the floor. 
 The mount a chair that's tumbled o'er, 
 (That bridle cuts my nose). 
 Her mamma cries "For Heaven sake" 
 "Keep still. — You'll drive me mad" 
 "You'd cause the dead to rise' and quake 
 "You make my head to thump and ache," 
 "And riding straddle's B-A-0." 
 Then horsey from his gear is freed, 
 For fear a storm may brew. 
 
 SHE'S GOT A SWITCH— BE WISE AND HEED, 
 BENEATH THE BED TO COVER SPEED, 
 YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT SHE'LL DO. 
 The house is dull when Lottie's sleep, 
 While "Horsey" sits within. 
 Till baby hands from cover creep — 
 The while she dreams in slumber deep — 
 And cries "PAY HOSS ADIN." 
 
 SLEEPY TOWN. 
 
 A Mother Goose Rhyme ty another Goose. 
 Hoppity skippity jumpity jump, 
 Jumpity jerkity bumpity bump, 
 Foot for a saddle, and up and down, 
 Lottie is riding to sleepy town. 
 71 
 
Into the meadows and over the hill, 
 Over the bridges beside the mill, 
 Never a stirrup and never a rein, 
 Over the ridges and over the plain 
 
 Jerkity, bumpity, noddy head town. 
 Steed in the stable we wander around. 
 Rest for a moment then off again. 
 Aboard of the sleeper in sleep eye train. 
 
 Ringledy, jingledy, tingledy ting, 
 Stop at the station and noisily ring; 
 Dreams of the angels are floating around. 
 Nights we are spending in sleep eye town. 
 
 Out on the sleeper of noddy-head train, 
 Rattledy battledy rattle again; 
 What is the matter, we wonder — Ah well — 
 Breakfast is ready, cook's ringing the bell. 
 
 Ringledy, jingledy, rattle and ring, 
 Wait on the baby a battercake bring. 
 Kettle is hot with the coffee mill, 
 Down at station of wake up ville. 
 
 BRIBING SANTA CLAUS. 
 
 There are signs of happy Christmas, 
 There are toys within the shops. 
 
 There are dolls and swings and horses. 
 There are birds and beads and tops 
 
 And the cutest little maiden 
 Sits upon my knee at home. 
 
 As she asks with eager question, 
 "When ole Tanty Taus will tum." 
 
 Of his deer and sled and dollies— 
 "Is he dot a doll for me? 
 Will he bing a box of tandy?" 
 "Write a letter, dear, and see." 
 With a paper and a pencil. 
 She is down upon the floor, 
 72 
 
And with swiftly moving fingers^ 
 
 She Is seeking now to know. 
 "If he'll bring a little dollie 
 
 And a little china set. 
 And an orange and an apple, 
 
 And be sure and don't forget — 
 Don't forget the little cradle 
 
 And the pretty little swing — 
 Don't forget it "pretty Tanty," 
 
 And I'll be the doodest fing. 
 Dust the doodest 'ittle dirlie. 
 
 Never cry adin' at all, 
 Bring a lots and heaps of thingses. 
 
 But I toudent pell'em all, 
 But I knows 00 knows about it. 
 
 And 00 knows I love to pa'y, 
 With a lot and heaps of thingses 
 
 Bing the dollie, anyway. 
 If you come at Thristmas, Tanty, 
 
 Den I'll be so fast asheep 
 That I'm ture I toudent tee you. 
 
 And I knows I wouldn't peep. 
 And we'll put out all the fire. 
 
 So you needn't burn your feet. 
 Don't forget the cradle, Tanty, 
 
 And the pretty dollie, sweet." 
 Then the scrawls upon the paper. 
 
 Quickly up the chimney fly, 
 And she looks around and whispers, 
 "Tanty tummin' bye and bye. 
 And I wote and tolt him howdy. 
 
 And I he's a pretty dirl, 
 And I tent a tiss to Tanty, 
 
 And a pretty ittle turl." 
 
 BUTTERFLIES. 
 
 Little child, little child from the deeps of the dew, 
 Come away for your laces are torn, 
 73 
 
Why the tears in the eyes like the violets blue? 
 "Dess betaiise — tause the butterflies gone." 
 
 Little child, little child, — ^There are others as fair 
 
 As the one that has floated away, 
 There are blocks, there are pictures, your dollie is there, 
 "Baby fowed, her ole dollie away." 
 
 Little child, little child, it is often the case, 
 
 It were best it were only in play. 
 Truer hearts are neglected and slighted to chase, 
 
 Just the butterflies floa|:ing away. 
 
 Little child, little child, fondest hopes may deceive. 
 And the dream that the brightest appears. 
 
 Prove a butterfly pinion to flutter and leave, — 
 For its gold, but a shower of tears. 
 
 TO CANDY TOWN. 
 
 She is soundly asleep is the dear little maid. 
 
 And I eagerly gaze, I am sorely afraid 
 
 That the angels in search of an angel lost. 
 
 May have taken the darling we treasured the most. 
 
 But the shutters are fastened, and baby eyes brown 
 
 See the sights on the journey to Candy Town. 
 
 Ah, the visions that float through the dear little head! 
 Of the candy all glowing in yellow and red. 
 Sweetly braided and plaited, in figures and sticks; 
 There are men, and fat horses, and camels, and chicks. 
 There are cocoanut cookies, and chocolate creams; 
 And she smiles with delight as she slumbers and dreams. 
 
 Fully happy she seems, what a pity to wake 
 Just to find she was dreaming, I hastily take 
 Coat and hat from the rack, as I hurriedly go. 
 For the walks but a moment, I enter the store, 
 Now the dear little maiden has smilingly found, 
 Of truth that she journeyed to Candy Town. 
 
 74 
 
ROUTES TO PLEASURE LAND. 
 
 There are sights to be seen on the Pleasure Land road, 
 
 They are many, and pretty, and grand, 
 And the horse is for Johnnie, a drum and a sword, 
 And a dollie for Sallie, for baby a load 
 Of the best that the shops of the country afford, 
 
 On the journey to sweet Pleasure Land. 
 
 There are marbles, and tops, and a book, and a song, 
 
 And the dollies say mamma so plain, 
 Though the rivers are widest, the bridges are long, 
 Though the grades they are steepset, the engine is strong, 
 And the baby eyes dance as we thunder along, 
 
 On the seat of the Pleasure Land train. 
 
 All aboard for the trip, the conductor is on. 
 
 And his name it is Innocent Fun. 
 There is Caramel Station, and papers of Corn, 
 With the news of a feast that a king wouldn't scorn, 
 And the chocolate trees for a climb in the morn. 
 
 When the Pleasure Land journey is done. 
 
 On the hobby-horse route there are dragons and bears, 
 
 For the sword of the soldier to smite; 
 And the tiger is pussy cat, sofas and chairs 
 Are the lions and things, and the rounds of the stairs 
 Are the enemy's legions, but baby he cares 
 
 Not a fig for he rideth in might. 
 
 Now it's tingledy-tingle, the bells are in tune, 
 
 What's the harm if the old willow chair, 
 For the time is the biggest, and finest balloon. 
 For a trip to the stars, and the sun, and the moon, 
 And the Pleasure Lands there — We are sailing it soon, 
 
 Through the deeps of the bluest of air. 
 
 There are beautiful flowers in Pleasure Land park, 
 
 And the prettiest grasses of all, 
 And the skies they are brightest, the clouds never dark, 
 And the moments are filled with the song of the lark, 
 
 75 
 
And the nights they are dreams of the angels — ^But hark§ 
 
 To the sound of a tumble and fall, 
 And a thump and a scream as the baby feet slip 
 From the chair— 'Tis the end of the Pleasure Land trip. 
 
 ROUND TRIPS TO SLUMBER TO'WN. 
 
 How do we travel to Slumber Town? 
 
 We have purchased a berth we know, 
 The way that we travel we never have found, 
 For the sand-man pulleth the curtains down, 
 And the lids they are closed on the eyes so brown. 
 
 And the pillows are soft and white. 
 Ail-aboard is the word to the engineer. 
 We have purchased a berth we know, 
 And the train runneth smooth and we haven't a fear 
 Be the trip for a day, for a month, or a year. 
 That the switches are right and the track is clear. 
 
 As over the rails we go. 
 And what do we see when the trip is done, 
 
 And we gaze at the wonderful things? 
 There are poppies, and posies, and laughter, and fun, 
 And a doll that can talk, and a red little gun, 
 And a package of cookies, a cake and a bun, 
 
 And an angel with beautiful wings. 
 And how will we travel from Slumber Town? 
 
 We travel it mom, by morn. 
 The way that we travel we never have found. 
 For the sand-man keepeth the curtain down. 
 Till the journey is done, and the eyes so brown 
 
 Fly apart and the train is gone. 
 
 BABY BUSTER BROWN. 
 
 We've a little fellow's visits 
 
 Ev'ry other day or so, 
 He's a midget of a baby 
 
 But he does his best to grow. 
 There is often quite a clamor 
 
 And the children gather roun' 
 76 
 
When he comes to pay a visit 
 Bouncing baby Buster Brown. 
 
 Buster Brown his granny calls him 
 
 But of course it ain't his name, 
 If they called him any other 
 
 It would answer just the same. 
 "Ain't he grown?" cries granny Mary, 
 
 He has gained at least a poun'; 
 Ain't he "peet?" cries baby Lottie, 
 
 With a smile at Buster Brown. 
 
 Uncle Joe, he weighs three hundred — 
 
 Sixty-odd — a sight to view; 
 He's afraid, we know, he'll break him, 
 
 But he holds the aby too; 
 Talks a baby kind of prattle 
 
 When the baby cries resoun' — 
 He's too much for Uncle Joseph 
 
 Is that baby Buster Brown. 
 
 Lucy, Belle and Willie pull him 
 
 Such a way — ^we shudder — start, 
 Seem to want him torn in pieces 
 
 So that each can have a part; 
 But he thrives and seems contented. 
 
 With his legs that wander roun' 
 In a perfect semi-circle. 
 
 Bully baby Buster Brown. 
 
 Hasn't any nose to mention, 
 
 And it turns up in the air, 
 Not a single tooth for chewing. 
 
 Just a little bit of hair. 
 But his granny wouldn't swap him 
 
 For the whole of London town. 
 He's his "granny's pitty darling"' 
 
 Cooing, squalling Buster Brown. 
 
 77 
 
ISSENT DOD A DITTIN MAD? 
 
 Baby, naughty baby — 
 
 Such a naughty baby you — 
 You have broken all the dishes 
 
 And the sugar's scattered too. 
 What's the use to cry and whimper 
 
 For the floor is in a mess 
 And the syrup and the gravy 
 
 Are upon the baby's dress. 
 Get to bed you little rascal, 
 
 You are such a trial — You 
 Better hide beneath the cover 
 
 For the winds are saying "boo-oo-oo.' 
 
 Baby, pretty baby, 
 
 In the frosty morning wakes, 
 At the window is the flutter 
 
 Of the snowy winter flakes, 
 Crying, "Mama, mama, mama — 
 
 Issent Dod about to cry, 
 When de angels 'pilt' the sugar 
 
 Off de table in de sky? 
 Ain't de little angels pilted 
 
 All the sugar dat he had? 
 Will he pank de little angels — 
 
 Issent Dod a ditten mad?" 
 
 liULLABY. 
 
 There are stars in the sky, there are dews on the grass, 
 
 The shepherd hath folded his sheep. 
 With the songs of the birds there are sorrows alas. 
 Sleep baby so happily sleep, 
 
 Sleep and dream and dream and sleep; 
 Angels guard thy slumbers deep, 
 Clouds will hide the stars that beam, 
 Baby sleep, of angels dream. 
 
 In the night there are those with a prayer for the light, 
 A prayer for the spirit's release, 
 
 78 
 
Mother sings in the home to her darling to-night, 
 And baby is sleeping in peace. 
 
 Sleep and smile the years have smiled. 
 Care hath fled and spared thee, child 
 Wake to laugh and smile again, 
 Void of care and free from pain, 
 Sleep and dream and dream and sleep, 
 Laughing eyes should never weep. 
 Angels guard thy life from stain. 
 Sleep and dream and dream again. 
 
 LEOLA. 
 
 Pretty as a painted dollie 
 
 Is Leola's pretty face, 
 Ringlets o'er her baby forehead 
 
 Southern breezes softly chase. 
 Summer roses fade and shatter 
 
 Should their glow the fairies seek, 
 They would find their stolen treasures, 
 
 In Leola's pretty cheek. 
 
 What a pity years are fleeting; 
 
 To the buds belong a day — 
 To the baby, bright Leola 
 
 But a span and then away 
 Into blushing maiden, woman, 
 
 Roses blooms are shattered soon, 
 Baby, — life is like the roses 
 
 Brightest mid the deeps of June. 
 
 Just a mockingbird of pleasure, 
 
 Just a barely finished song. 
 Mid the roses and the meadows 
 
 While your baby days are long, 
 Serpent cares can never enter 
 
 Sweet Leola's little heart. 
 Baby days and pleasures vanish 
 
 Summer birds and blooms depart. 
 
 79 
 
Would that age could keep the roses, 
 
 Brighter blooming on your way 
 Bright as roses of December, 
 
 All forgetful of the May; 
 And if time shall frost your temples. 
 
 Pretty baby with its snows, 
 Would your years could bloom and blossom 
 
 Just as spotless as the rose. 
 
 PICTURES IN THE COALS. 
 
 When the winds rise higher and higher. 
 
 As the rains of winter fall. 
 While the shadows from the fire 
 
 Ghostly flicker on the wall, 
 It's a little maiden's pleasure 
 
 Just to climb upon my knee, 
 Saying, dimpled little treasure 
 
 "Ook an' thee what oo tan thee." 
 
 Then we gaze, the logs are burning, 
 There are pictures in the coals 
 
 Waxing, waning, fading, turning. 
 One a beggar bent and old. 
 
 One a meadow, cows are grazing 
 And a bird upon the wing, 
 
 "Ook," she cries, intently gazing! 
 
 "Ittle dirlie in a fing." 
 
 Just a moment, little girlie 
 
 And her little swing are gone 
 While a scowling giant surly 
 
 And a hunter with his horn 
 Into fancy's moulds are trooping 
 
 Nestled in her cradle deep 
 There's a sleep-eyes, ringlets drooping, 
 
 Here's a sleep-eyes fast asleep. 
 
 Then I sit and gaze and ponder, 
 While she rests in happy dreams, 
 80 
 
Idle dreamer, true, to wonder, 
 Is the picture what it seems? 
 
 Can a picture glowing brightly, 
 Pressage of the future hold? 
 
 Is the message offered lightly, 
 When the gipsies read the cold? 
 
 AINT NOTHIN BOTHERED DAD. 
 
 Ma ses I'm bad sometimes and then 
 
 She starts a tellin' me, 
 Whut good boys growd to famus men, 
 
 An' all 'bout Genrul Lee, 
 An' Genrul Washington, I bleeve 
 
 Who could not tell a lie, 
 (An' then ma ses I hurt an' grieve 
 
 Her hart so bad when I 
 Come home with towselled head an' sneak 
 
 Upstairs an' say — ain't saw no creek) 
 He want as smart, I bet, as I, 
 
 Most all us hoys kin tell a lie. 
 
 An' ma she knowed some boys she sed, 
 
 'Bout forty-odd I think, 
 Whut seen a man with shiny head. 
 
 And yelled, "Ole Skatin' Rink," 
 An' made him mad about his hair, 
 
 (Some folks git easy mad) 
 An' then he prayed and sent a bear. 
 
 Jest 'cause them boys wus bad) 
 Whut et em all an' ma is sure 
 
 That Profitt done whut I won't do; 
 I'd hate to think that all them folks 
 
 Wus murdered jest fer foolish jokes. 
 
 Ma ses a man an' woman wus 
 
 Whut swored a lie wun day, 
 An' Spitfire wus her name — her hus — 
 
 Wus Annynyus, they — 
 
 81 
 
They all fell ded fer tellin' lies 
 
 'Bout how much cash they had, 
 But then whut gives me most surprise, 
 
 Ain't nothin' bothered Dod. 
 I heered him swear a lie I know. 
 
 In givin' tax on half his store. 
 An' ma she was mistaken — Please — 
 
 Them folks went ded from hart dease. 
 B'Ut when I ask why pa ain't ded 
 
 She frowns an' makes me go to bed. 
 
 BOUT EIGHTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 Oh, grandma, see the roses glow 
 
 Like tints of sunset skies. 
 You're young, my child, you're young, and so 
 
 You see with younger eyes. 
 They seem but of faded hue 
 
 To those that clambered o'er 
 That cabin home your grandma knew 
 
 'Bout eighty years ago. 
 
 It seemed the rainbow lingered there 
 
 Mid blooms, as loath to leave, 
 And sunset tints and rainbow fair, 
 
 One web of bloom would weave. 
 Such wealth of hues you never saw. 
 
 And ne'er will see I know. 
 The rose wus fairer 'fore the war, 
 
 'Bout eighty years ago. 
 
 Alas, I would one piney grew, 
 
 I'd bind it in my hair, 
 There's none like those your grandma knew, 
 
 When she was young and fair. 
 And winter pinks that braved the frost, 
 
 And bloomed mid drifted snow. 
 I know the seed of these wus lost 
 
 'Bout eighty years ago. 
 
Oh grandma, hear the birds in song 
 
 So sweet amid the trees, 
 And list — the clover blooms among, 
 
 The busy hum of bees. 
 It seems the smiles of heaven fill 
 
 Our smiling world below. 
 'Tis fair my child, but fairer still 
 
 'Bout eighty years ago. 
 
 Oh, grandma, see the stars how bright! 
 
 How twinkling thousands gleam 
 Like gems within the dome of night, 
 
 Like pearls that light a dream. 
 Ah yes, my child, the stars I see, 
 
 But grandma sighs to know 
 Not half are there that used to be, 
 
 'Bout eighty years ago. 
 
 ST. VALENTINE ROMANCE. 
 
 (From Pig Skin Precinct.) 
 Go sweet Cupid to advise her, 
 
 Tell her; (fairest, dearest one) 
 Heart of mine out beats the geyser 
 Steaming in the Yellowstone. 
 
 Spouting, steaming rainbows ever, 
 
 Lovelit heart so seeming gay, 
 Once she frowns alas, and never 
 Hades seems a mile away. 
 
 Mr. Scotts Emulsion Smith, the bard of Pig Skin Pre- 
 cinct, sat on his plow hatching out a conundrum as follows: 
 "What is the dilference between a bottle of rye and one of 
 Shakespeare's plays? One is a-dram and the other dram-a." 
 The scene changed and the following gem of poetry 
 strolled leisurely through his massive brain: 
 
 "A king can make a belted knight, 
 A marquis, duke and a' that;" 
 
 83 
 
A cop can raise a club to fight 
 And smash a Sunday straw hat." 
 
 Thus ran the strain, on and on, relating the bard's very 
 latest experience with the custodians of the law on the last 
 visit to town. In the midst of his musings, the train of 
 thought was suddenly brought to an abrupt halt that jolted 
 the poetic passengers from the land of fancy out of their 
 berths, and set the gems of poesy rattling off into the void 
 like peas from a boy's blow-gun. 
 
 "Mawnin'," said Mr. Ebenezer Hezekiah Johnson, who 
 had thus unceremoniously waved the red light over the 
 track of the poetic fast mail. 
 
 "Mawnin'," replied the bard. "Mawnin', mawnin'. "Whut's 
 up?" 
 
 "Well, cap," replied the lanky interloper, "bizness is biz- 
 ness. Jess this: Got a gal down thar — putty ez a speckled 
 puppy — two shootin' stars in place of eyes — cheeks like 
 finest red calico, and all such. Bizness is bizness — want one 
 of them tarnation putty volentines wrote fer that gal. Fix 
 hit up and don't let a durn thing on the pike git in sight 
 of hits rattlin' feet." 
 
 "Do you expect me," replied the bard, "me who deals in 
 stars and sunshine, to waste precious moments that speed 
 away, scribblin' about the pink toes of your barefoot 
 maiden, or set to divine music the clamor of the pots and 
 kittles that she swings in her daddy's kitchen? I prithee 
 get thee hence — I have no time." 
 
 "Say, cap," interrupted the youth, "twenty cents is better 
 made than lost. Got the cash right here." 
 
 "How the jingle of the guinea 
 
 Helps the hurt the honest feel," 
 An' a sonnet's better written 
 Than to lose a peck of meal." 
 "Say, old fellow, make it a quarter and she goes." 
 After a few words of parry and a few moments of 
 haggling, the contract is let for one more poetic gem to 
 blaze on the horizon, with its tail over the dashboard of 
 
 84 
 
art, and the warmth of its fiery sentences scorching the ear 
 of one receiving it. 
 
 Duly embossed with big red capitals, tied with red ribbon 
 decorated with two billing doves perched upon a bleeding 
 heart, on the 14th of February Miss Sallye Fannye Jones 
 received the following: 
 
 MY LOVE, MY ONLY LOVE. 
 
 If ev'ry dewdrop was a gem, 
 
 And ev'ry bud could hold 
 The wealth to deck a diadem. 
 
 If all the sands were gold. 
 If all the fleecy clouds were lace 
 
 With rainbow colors wove. 
 They'd prove the grace 
 Of form and face 
 
 When worn by her I love. 
 
 Blend all the hues that deck the rose, 
 
 Her cheeks are fairer yet; 
 Her brows that vie with pearly snows. 
 
 With golden curls are set. 
 Her eye that chains the glow of stars 
 
 Wfith more than starlight beams. 
 Her voice like strains of soft guitars 
 
 Bids moonlight swoon in dreams. 
 
 Blend all the strains a poet sings 
 
 With all the songs of birds; 
 Melt all the chords of zither strings. 
 
 And coin them into words; 
 To speak the thoughts that I would fain. 
 
 Should melt her heart and prove 
 Love's sweetest strain. 
 And bid her reign. 
 
 My love, my only love! 
 
 Mr. Ebenezer Hezekiah Johnson captured the passing 
 smiles of the fair one with this epistle. For a season he was 
 
 85 
 
promoted to a front seat at the fires of lier heart, chewed 
 
 her chewing gum while she was otherwise engaged, and 
 toted her Sunday shoes until she got ready to put them on 
 just previous to arriving at the church on Sunday mornings. 
 The envy of the neighborhood, he was counted lucky: but 
 when skies are fairest, clouds are often forming; the smiles 
 of the sunshine foreshadow the storm, and the new sawmill 
 man with the red-flowered buggy at last captured the strong- 
 hold wherein he deemed himself secure. The bard of Pig 
 Skin became the richer by ten cents and the best coon dog 
 in the settlement, and a few days before the ceremony was 
 to be performed. Miss Sallye Fannye Jones had the pleasure 
 of reading the following: 
 
 A MATCH FOR YOU. 
 
 If all the dews that fell became 
 
 But freckles on the rose. 
 That rose indeed might well be shame 
 
 At face no worse than yours. 
 If all the sunset tints were red 
 
 Like dad's old fam'bly hoss, 
 'Twould surely match your towseled head 
 
 Of hair that breezes toss. 
 
 Blend all the tints of coffee stain, 
 
 And chalk it o'er w ith chalk. 
 Then add a face to stop a train. 
 
 To cause a mule to balk; 
 Then build a frame to scare the crows, 
 
 And when to shape it grew, 
 Add tacky clothes. 
 And pigeon toes, 
 
 'Twould be a match for you. 
 
 They say that true love never can die, nevertheless Mr. 
 Ebenezer Hezehiah Johnson within a fortnight found an- 
 other "gal as putty as a speckled puppy," and the bard 
 reveled in another peck of meal as the price of a sonnet. 
 
 86 
 
ffioge? anb HesretJi 
 
 Though of love the fever rages. 
 
 Yet recovery is sure; 
 Dr. Time and Dr. Marriage 
 
 Never fail to make a cure. 
 
WAITING. 
 
 She came, I glanced, 
 
 My full heart danced 
 
 With love the sweetest resonance, 
 
 And life, anew, 
 
 Far brighter grew, 
 
 The starlight whispered to the dew. 
 
 A tale of love, 
 
 The cricket strove. 
 
 With song the ear of night to move. 
 
 She came, to pass 
 
 Away, alas, 
 
 As breezes bend, and leave the grass. 
 
 She came as goes 
 
 The wind that blows 
 
 From out the land of summer snows. 
 
 She said that yet, 
 
 I might forget 
 
 As spring forgets the violet. 
 
 And leaves the blue, 
 
 To wander through 
 
 The hours with roses filled with dew. 
 
 When starlight gleamed 
 
 I thought, I dreamed 
 
 She loved me better than she seemed. 
 
 When sped the night, 
 
 When came the light, 
 
 I plucked the fragrant lillies white 
 
 And to her bore 
 
 My love to show 
 
 Like lillies pure as drifted snow. 
 
 When shadows fled, 
 
 When morning wed 
 
 The noon, I plucked the roses red 
 
 And brought to her, 
 
 I sought to stir 
 
 Some spark, for warm the roses were. 
 
 89 
 
She flushed and smiled, 
 
 Again a child, 
 
 She kissed the dewy roses wild; 
 
 Within her eye 
 
 There flitted by 
 
 A gleam of love — I wondered why. 
 
 When dewy June 
 
 And silver moon, 
 
 And lovers hearts should be in tune, 
 
 I asked to wed, 
 
 And fondly plead. 
 
 With icy heart she coldly said, 
 
 The world is wide 
 
 And by your side 
 
 To drift-to-dream to be your bride 
 
 Can never be. 
 
 'Twixt you and me 
 
 There comes a life, a gulf, a sea. 
 
 A sad refrain, 
 
 A sweeter strain, 
 
 A long lost love will come again — 
 
 Though time is old. 
 
 And seas have rolled. 
 
 Between — ^he'll come, my heart hath told. 
 
 Er'e slander came 
 
 To blight his name — 
 
 He brought me roses just the same, 
 
 The same as you, 
 
 I kissed the dew. 
 
 We vowed to live forever true. 
 
 Why should they say. 
 
 That day by day — 
 
 In prison cell he's kept away. 
 
 What e'er they've said, 
 
 My heart's afraid 
 
 To break a single vow we made. 
 
 9Q 
 
Again he'll come 
 
 Through years of gloom. 
 
 I've dreamed he came when rosea bloom, 
 
 I watch and wait. 
 
 The happy fate, 
 
 And dream I see him at the gate. 
 
 When dewy June, 
 
 And silver moon. 
 
 And lovers hearts should be in tune, 
 
 A meadow rank, 
 
 A river bank, 
 
 A broken heart plunged in and sank. 
 
 Now the reader can take the above, or a more life-like 
 ending, which we entitle our double barrel style of poetry: 
 When dewy June, 
 And silver moon. 
 
 And lovers hearts should be in tune, 
 A man appears, 
 B€en courting dears. 
 With happy laugh he orders beers. 
 
 WHEN THE W^IND IS IN THE CANE. 
 As the mists are adrift in the meadows. 
 
 And the robes of the evening are spread 
 On the hills where the poplars are glowing. 
 
 And the dark and the daylight are wed. 
 Blended silver and gold in the zenith. 
 
 As the moon at the gates of the dawn. 
 With the gold of a star at her bosom, 
 
 Creepeth up when the streamers are gone — 
 Creepeth up shooting arrows of silver, 
 
 To the heart of the hills and the plain. 
 There's a whippoorwill singing, Leola, 
 
 And the' breeze whispers low in the cane. 
 In the wealth of the golden September, 
 
 Where the winter and summer are met, 
 
 91 
 
In the snow and the bloom of the cotton, 
 And the days in their dreaming forget 
 
 All the cold of the dreary December, 
 And the feverish heat of the June, 
 
 Where the roses and violets blossom. 
 And the dews catch the glow of the moon. 
 
 I am dreaming again of Leola, 
 All the music of pleasure and pain. 
 
 And the heart is in tune, as the breezes 
 Of the night whisper low in the cane. 
 
 Through the years are her features before me; 
 
 There was night in the deeps of her hair, 
 In her eyes were the violets blooming. 
 
 In her cheeks were the tintings as rare 
 As the shades of the snows and the roses. 
 
 As a bloom from the garden of dreams. 
 In her form was the grace of the willows. 
 
 In her voice was the song of the streams. 
 
 Singing on to the seas in the shadows, 
 Smiling back to the sun fretted plain, 
 
 And the dream comes again of Leola, 
 As the winds touch the harps of the cane. 
 
 Through the days come the dreams of Leola, 
 
 And the roses that faded away. 
 But the fragrance of roses may linger 
 
 In the vase that is shattered to-day. 
 As the breeze is adrift in the meadows, 
 
 And the quail from his piping is stilled, 
 Come the dreams of Leola, Leola, 
 
 And the frame of the picture is filled 
 With the blue of the violets blooming 
 
 In her eyes that may never again, 
 Whisper love as of old when the breezes. 
 
 Of the South sang the notes of the cane. 
 
 From the dream with its wreathings of roses 
 To the present she rouses me now, 
 
 92 
 
And the voice of Leola is screaming: 
 "Git about, and be feeding the cow," 
 And a face that is darkened with anger, 
 
 Peeping out from an old knitted hood. 
 Mutters: "John, you are lazy as blazes, 
 
 Step around, and be getting the wood, 
 But a dream of the rosy Leola 
 
 Of the past is allowed to remain. 
 And the winds they are hushed to a whisper 
 
 For Leola is raising the CAIN. 
 
 MID THE MEADOW BLOOMS WITH HER. 
 
 T'is a wreath of happy faces, 
 
 Mid the shadow of the years, 
 But a dream that mem'ry traces. 
 
 Through the mist of time and tears 
 But the things that are have vanished, 
 
 For the dreams of years that were, 
 And the cares of life are banished, 
 
 'Mid the meadow blooms with her. 
 
 Mid che meadow blooms with her. 
 Mid the dream of things that were. 
 
 Comes her face as sweet and smiling as of old. 
 There are smiles my tears to blot, 
 And a blue forgetmenot 
 
 In her curly hair is tangled with the gold. 
 
 'Tis the odor of the roses 
 
 On the broken shattered vase, 
 But a fragile bloom that closes, 
 
 Lest the sun behold its face, 
 'Tis the real of idle yearning, 
 
 'Tis the dream that shuns the day, 
 T'is the ghost of love returning. 
 
 As the present fades away; 
 But from out the present stealing 
 
 Back amid the years that were 
 
At her feet in love I'm kneeling 
 Mid the meadow blooms with her 
 Mid the meadow blossoms sweet, 
 With the daises at her feet, 
 
 Is her face as sweet and smiling as of old. 
 There are smiles my tears to blot, 
 And a blue forgetmenot 
 In her curly hair is tangled with the gold. 
 
 MID THE LILLIES OF LEE. 
 
 Floating on, floating on, she is here in the boat, 
 
 On the lake, mid the lillies of spring, 
 Floating on to the mockingbirds madrigal note, 
 
 By the banks where the jessamines cling — 
 In her eyes is the blue of the violet meads. 
 
 With the deeps of the star lighted sea — 
 On her cheeks is the blush of the dawn when it speeds. 
 
 To the breast of the lillies of Lee, 
 'Tis the rack of a dream, floating on, floating on; 
 There is naught but the wind, and the phantom is gone, 
 
 But the lillies are blooming for me. 
 Floating on, floating on, there's a croon in the breeze. 
 
 Sweeping on through the rose scented air. 
 And the dawn glinted dews, mid the moss of the trees. 
 
 Are the pearls in her billowy hair. 
 In the sigh of the breeze is the echo of song 
 
 From the past that she happened to sing; 
 'Tis a picture of old (but the years they are long) 
 
 Of a maid, and a man, and a ring. 
 'Tis a vision that comes — there are roses to bloom; 
 "Tis a dream to depart, and a heart in the gloom 
 
 Of despair — 'mid the lillies of spring. 
 Floating on through the years — There are others as fair, 
 
 And the roses new beauties unfurl, 
 Floating on through the years, there's a ringlet of hair, 
 
 And the form and the face of a girl — 
 And the heart is adrift in the dream of the years, 
 
 In the longings that never could be. 
 
 94 
 
Floating on, floating on, mid the meadows of tears, 
 
 Are the blooms of the lillies of Lee; 
 'Tis a song that is soft as the bees' at the bloom 
 'Tis the light of a star in the midst of the gloom; 
 
 There are none that are fairer than she. 
 
 On the lake floating on, mid the lillies of Lee, 
 
 There are paths for the dreamer to tread; 
 There are fields to be won — there is labor for me. 
 
 And the wine of the vintage is red, 
 But the gold of the miser is sordid, and stained. 
 
 And the paths of the future are dim. 
 In the fields there are others to gather the grain. 
 
 Here the cup runneth over the rim. 
 'Tis the vintage of sorrow — the cypress is there, 
 'Tis a ring and a picture — a ringlet of hair. 
 
 And the dreams of the moment that swim, 
 Through the heart and the brain of the dreamer — and she. 
 In the dream is again mid the lillies of Lee. 
 
 NORMA. 
 
 Mid the cold and the snow of the winter. 
 
 They are blooming the roses again. 
 In the cheeks of my Norma, sweet Norma, 
 
 And the fates they are weaving the skein 
 Of a love in the life of a dreamer; 
 
 And the soul from its sleep — is awake 
 To the music, ah Norma, sweet Norma, 
 
 Should a heart with its melody break? 
 
 'Tis the tone of a life that is playing, 
 
 To the heart of my Norma alone, 
 'Tis the hope of a hope that is hopeless, 
 
 For the rose when the summer is gone, 
 'Tis the bloom that the bee has awaited. 
 
 Till the snows of the winter have come, 
 Till the flakes of the years are upon him. 
 
 Till the songs of the reapers are dumb. 
 
 95 
 
In a dream — it is only my dreaming, 
 
 Cometh sweet as a silvery bell. 
 But a word and a whisper from Norma, 
 
 But a word and its melodies swell — 
 To a storm and her arms are around me. 
 
 They are chains that I'd tremble to break, 
 Could the dream be for ages and ages, 
 
 It were happiness never to wake. 
 
 'Twas the ghost of a star in the ocean. 
 
 But the glow when the daylight has fled, 
 Coming back like the echo of music. 
 
 From the grave when the singer is dead, 
 'Twas a dream, but a dream — and the daylight, 
 
 Streaming in at the window, I view. 
 And the voice of despair, like a demon. 
 
 Mutters Norma was never for you. 
 
 But the bird at the window is singing, 
 
 That the roses are coming again. 
 And the violets blush in the meadows, 
 
 To the love of the silvery rain. 
 But to me all the song is of Norma, 
 
 And despair, with its melody grows 
 There are sobbings of sighs with its music, 
 
 There are thorns for the blush of the rose. 
 
 When the winds steal the hearts of the roses. 
 
 When the lillies are white as of old. 
 And the "jessamine" blossoms are trailing, 
 
 'Mid the green in their wreathings of gold. 
 To my heart comes the sigh of the cypress, 
 
 In the breath of the rose is the rue, 
 And the birds are but mocking me singing. 
 
 Pretty Norma was never for you. 
 
 There are shieks when the ship plunges downward 
 O'er the storm — but the wailings are hushed 
 
 In the roar of the waste of the breakers, 
 On the breeze as the roses are crushed, 
 
 96 
 
Rises incense of spring, and of morning, 
 
 And a heart that is loving and true 
 From the garden of passion is plucking, 
 
 All the roses that blossom for you. 
 
 As the rose of my love lieth dying, 
 
 Comes the strain of a sorrow, and sweet 
 Sings the heart that is crushed as the roses. 
 
 Sings the heart that is longing !o beat. 
 With its wings as a dove o'er the billows. 
 
 Flying home in its course ever true, 
 With the leaf of its love o'er the waters, 
 
 To the ark it has builded for you. 
 
 But the tones of the matin and vesper, 
 
 Roll along o'er the land and the sea. 
 And the dawn and the blush of the evening. 
 
 Whisper Norma was never for thee. 
 There is wealth, I would win it for Norma, 
 
 There are heights; I would struggle to rise, 
 E.ut the way lieth darkened without her. 
 
 And the light is alone in her eyes. 
 
 In the darkness I'd falter and stumble, 
 
 In the pits that encircle me 'round, 
 And the caverns would echo but Norma, 
 
 As a soul in its sin struggled down; 
 While around me the demons were wailing. 
 
 But the worst that the demons could do. 
 Were to whisper, and whisper, and whisper, and whisper 
 
 Pretty Norma was never for you. 
 
 I would blazen her name on the ages, 
 
 I would laurel her temples with song. 
 Flowing on, singing only of Norma, 
 
 Through the years, and the years they are long. 
 I would paint her in tints of Aurora, 
 
 I would coin into music the dew, 
 But the whisper comes sobbing and shrieking. 
 
 Pretty Norma was never for you. 
 
 97 
 
IF YOU WERE I. 
 
 If you were I, and I were you, 
 
 And both our hearts together beat, 
 One fashioned firmly from the two, 
 
 Twin streams that blend when once they meet. 
 If I were you, and you were I, 
 
 My heart for you, and yours for me, 
 Then dreamy days too soon would fly, 
 
 And life be one sweet melody. 
 
 Could hope but live that future days. 
 
 Your heart for mine could keep in store, 
 Ah, then, my feet in rapture's ways. 
 
 Would tread to wander forth no more. 
 Mid scenes where men must wear the mask, 
 
 Of smiles to hide a heart that aches, 
 And deem life's pleasures idle tasks, 
 
 For heart that wears, that can not break. 
 Could but our lives in future blend, 
 
 As skies and seas in distance meet, 
 Could you but smile, ah then, ah then, 
 
 Time's speeding days would prove too fleet. 
 
 THE CUPOLA TOP. 
 
 I wus poor as a snake, an' I worked on a farm 
 
 Of a crusty old man. — If the weather wus warm 
 
 I'd a bunk in the barn out of way of his sight; 
 
 And the labor wus tough, but the moments wus bright. 
 
 For the crusty old man with his crabbidy style. 
 
 Had a daughter that often in passing would smile. 
 
 There were roses and peaches and cream in her cheek, 
 
 And her teeth rivaled pearls when she'd smilingly speak, 
 
 And the form of a fairy, and gold in her hair, 
 
 (And her dad had the lands and the dollars to spare), 
 
 And his house wus a place, people often would stop, 
 
 Just to gaze on its glories and cupola top, 
 
 Just the bear and his daughter wus all of the crop, 
 
 Of the folks in the house with the cupola top. 
 
In the morning and evening she tended the school, 
 With a driver, ('twus me), with a stubbornish mule, 
 In a rusty and battered ole buggy beside. 
 Ruther fur to go walking, and close for a ride 
 Never knew how hit started, but Sarah and me 
 In a time come the best of acquainted to be. 
 Never knew how she loved me this maiden so fine, 
 But she swapped off the heart in her bosom fer mine- 
 There wur much richer fellows, a dozen or so, 
 Of the boys got the mitten from Sarah you know. 
 'Twus a drive after school, at the parsons, to stop, 
 She was mine though she lived in a cupola top; 
 Then the wrath and the rage of her rusty old pop 
 Bout the girl that had fled from the cupola top. 
 Wus he mad? Well, I reckon, — the darkies at home 
 Have remarked that his whiskers wur covered with foam, 
 
 That he cussed as he drank, (and his drinking wus hard) 
 Till he scorched all the leaves of the trees in the yard, 
 That he cussed in the Hebrew, the Spanish, and Greek, 
 And the Latin and Russian, a flame and a streak, 
 From the A to the Z of his Webster, and then 
 By the bolt, and the yard into bunches of ten; 
 There were fricasseed oaths and an oath in a fry, 
 They were stewed, in the jackets a bake, and a pie; 
 
 There were Doric, Ionic, Corinthian styles; 
 
 They were shingled and gabled, with thatches and tiles 
 
 And he started to town to his lawyer and said, 
 
 D — n the world, if the hussy shall finger a red. 
 
 As he flew in a passion of cussing again 
 
 An' the doctor said passion had ruptured a vein. 
 
 And we buried him nicely, the story is told. 
 
 There were houses for Sarah and acres, and gold, 
 
 An' I'm tending the labor and making the crop, 
 
 While its Sarah that sings in the cupola top. 
 
 99 
 
MY QUEEN, MY DREAM. 
 
 My dream, my queen, I know not how, 
 
 To frame your face in fancy's mould. 
 If deeps of midnight crown your brow, 
 
 If silken waveg of sunlit gold— 
 If zephyr flax your head shall crown, 
 
 My dream, my queen, I'll constant be, 
 Or if thy curly locks be brown. 
 
 What e'er thou art the years to me, 
 Though long and drear the waiting seem, 
 Will bring, and say, thy queen, thy dream. 
 
 My dream, my queen — I may not know, 
 
 How in thy cheeks thy warm blood runs; 
 If crimsoned tints mid drifted snow. 
 
 If browned by burning Southern suns, 
 Or if thy slender form shall sway, 
 
 Like reeds when summer breezes sue. 
 What e'er it be — my heart shall lay 
 
 Its dreams aside, and dream of you; 
 That naught of earth may come between 
 My heart and thine, my dream my queen. 
 
 My queen, my dream what e'er thy form, 
 
 How filled with charms of dreamy grace. 
 How red thy lips, thy kiss how warm. 
 
 Thy tones how soft, how fair thy face. 
 If but thine heart be tuned to beat 
 
 With mine — to strive, to fall, to rise. 
 If soul with soul as one shall meet. 
 
 And blending, deem its dearest prize 
 To love, be loved, to feel the beam 
 And glow of trust, and truth, my dream. 
 
 My queen, my dream, wher e'er thou art, 
 Some fate hath marked thee for mine own, 
 
 In harmony hath toned thine heart. 
 That mine may speak again its tone 
 
 100 
 
If dawling tardy years, but bring 
 None other than my dreamings vain. 
 
 If longings, weary, fold their wings, 
 And sadly seek thee ne'er again, 
 
 One heart more sad than all will seem, 
 
 If fate shall fail, my queen, my dream. 
 
 WHEN YOU ARE NEAR. 
 
 My pretty pearl, 
 
 My dainty girl. 
 
 Where have you been so long? 
 
 The rose had fled. 
 
 And joy was dead. 
 
 And birds had ceased their song 
 
 When you were gone. 
 
 My pretty pearl. 
 
 My dainty girl, 
 
 The roses bloom again. 
 
 Since you are here 
 
 The skies are clear. 
 
 No wracks of cloud remain 
 
 When you are near. 
 
 My pretty pearl. 
 
 My dainty girl, 
 
 I've wandered far to look 
 
 For you, my dear, 
 
 I wished you here, 
 
 You had the pocket book. 
 
 AD FINEM. 
 
 Other hands dewy roses have gathered, 
 
 They are all I can offer to you; 
 Other hearts you have crushed as the roses, 
 
 For the roses, you offer the rue. 
 If the love that is mine, you would trample. 
 
 If the heart that is given, you scorn. 
 If the night of my sorrow is starless. 
 
 If the clouds overshadow the mom, 
 
 101 
 
If the moon in the shadows is shrouded, 
 
 If a life be a desolate day, 
 But a shadow of tears, 
 
 Through the chill of the years, 
 
 All the more I will worship you "Fay. 
 
 Other hands as the fairies have prisoned, 
 
 In their gems of devotion the dew, 
 And the stars; they have gathered the treasures, 
 
 There are none I may offer to you. 
 Other hands delving deep in the darkness, 
 
 Caught the light with the gleaming of gold, 
 With the spoil of the hearts of the mountains. 
 
 Yet the heart in your bosom was cold, 
 I have only — I love you — to offer, 
 
 Though the star hath forsaken the way, 
 Through the journey of tears, 
 
 Through the flight of the years, 
 
 All the more will I worship you Fay. 
 
 They have said you were frozen and heartless, 
 
 Other hearts have forsaken the snows, 
 Left the chill of the passionless marble. 
 
 For the fragrance and bloom of the rose, 
 For the chains of the winter are galling. 
 
 Brighter far are the roses of spring, 
 In the comb dripping sweet is forgotten, — 
 
 In the joy of the sweetness, the sting. 
 If the chains of my passion could bind you. 
 
 Could your heart but be melted away 
 By the flame, or the tears. 
 
 In the love of tlie years 
 
 Through a life would I worship you Fay. 
 
 FOR YOU. 
 
 On the porch I am dreaming a dream of the past, 
 Of a maid and a summer too happy to last. 
 You're away from me sweetheart, my heart is alone. 
 Ever singing I love you, my sweetheart my own. 
 
 102 \ 
 
On the night hangs the moon in its raiment of light. 
 But a dream of the day, but the shadow of night, 
 It is fairer by far when it rises to view. 
 As I think it is shining and smiling for you. 
 
 In the meadows of azure besprinkled with gold, 
 
 Of the stars that seemed brighter and lighter of old, 
 
 I am gazing, in dreams of a summer so dear, 
 
 And the dream bring a sorrow — I thought you were near. 
 
 But the star rises brighter and lighter to view. 
 When I think that it showers its gold upon you. 
 In the deeps of the bosom a heart is in grief, 
 For the roses that shattered, loves melody brief. 
 
 Giving love of a life for a rose of a day. 
 For the roses that shattered and drifted away, 
 But the roses are sweeter and brighter the dew, 
 When I think that the roses have blossomed for you. 
 
 THE CHORD OF A SONG UNSUNG. 
 (The soul can not he painted on canvas). 
 
 The loud harp rings, 'tis the strain of glee, 
 
 'Tis the touch of a master's hand. 
 And the winds that flee to the distant sea. 
 
 And the winds of the distant land. 
 
 And the loud waves roar 
 
 On the distant shore, 
 Of the fame of the harp and tongue. 
 
 But the echoes that flow when the song is o'er 
 
 Are the chords of a song unsung; 
 Of the words that choke, 
 Of the heart that broke. 
 
 Of the harp of a life unstrung. 
 
 The soft harp sobs 'tis the sigh of pain, 
 
 'Tis the soul of a master breathes 
 It sobs again as the sad notes wane, 
 
 In the swoon of the cypress wreaths. 
 
 103 
 
And the song is stilled, 
 
 And a heart is chilled, 
 'Twas the song of a harp unstrung; 
 
 Of a love that filled, of the heart it thrilled, 
 
 Of the sting of a serpents tongue. 
 'Twas the sob of woe, 
 That a soul must go, 
 
 With the strain of a life unsung. 
 
 THE MAID WITH THE RING. 
 
 There were tears for the parting, the soldier has gone. 
 With the roll of the drum and the blast of the horn. 
 There were shouts for the stripes as they twined with the 
 
 star. 
 There are hearts with the soldier in fortunes of war, 
 And the mother looks back through the mist of the years. 
 To the child in the cradle — A father in tears, 
 
 Sees the chair that is vacant — the maid with the ring. 
 
 Weeps alone in the chamber and ceases to sing. 
 
 There were shouts for the soldiers, the thousands that 
 
 pressed 
 Little dreamed of the sorrow a mother confessed. 
 As she knelt to her God, as she plead through the night — 
 For the hand of Jehovah to lead him a right — 
 Just to keep him from harm and to soften his soul. 
 Just to bring him at last, with the sheep to the fold. 
 
 There are warm sunny lands, there are roses that bloom — 
 In the path of the Sentry. — The beam and the gloom — 
 At the flash of the riflle, a bullet has sped — 
 There's a groan as he falls, and the picket is dead — 
 Nay — he moves — there is life— tear his vestures apart. 
 See the book that she gave, how it covers the heart — 
 
 It Is torn by the ball but the tale it has told — 
 Is the hope of her heart, he has treasured its gold. 
 There are warm summer days, there are crowds at the train. 
 There's a mother that weeps, he is coming again, 
 
 104 
 
There are laughter and tears — there are roses to cling 
 To the home that is built — for the maid with the ring. 
 
 A BOUQUET. 
 
 I have gathered the gold of the daisies 
 And the snows of the lillies for you, 
 
 And the roses are lending their graces 
 To the charms of the violets too. 
 
 And the words whispered over and over , 
 To the song of the mocking birds were. 
 To the song of the bees in the clover, 
 "I am hunting the daisies for her." 
 
 By the gold of the daisies — I love her 
 
 In the deeps of the violet blue, 
 In the blush of the roses discover. 
 
 But a heart I am sending to you. 
 
 Let the song that my lips, never fashion. 
 Let the words that I falter to speak. 
 
 Speak aloud in the roses of passion. 
 When the tongue in its pleading is weak. 
 
 They were gathered for you as the splendor. 
 Of the dawn kissed the cheek of the dew. 
 
 Would alas! that the passion they tender, 
 Brought a heart to be given by you. 
 
 IN GEORGIA DEAR. 
 
 In Georgia dear, I long to be, 
 
 Once more beside thy door. 
 To say good bye once more to thee. 
 
 When twilight hours are o'er 
 To speed the time on blissful wing, 
 
 To speak with loving words. 
 To hear the songs you used to sing, 
 
 To hear the mocking birds, 
 Singing so sweetly. 
 Wooing the heart of the rose, 
 
 105 
 
Singing and swinging, 
 
 Down where the magnolia grows, 
 Down in old Georgia, 
 
 Down in the land of my birth, 
 Dearer, and fairer. 
 
 Than all of the rest of the earth. 
 
 In other climes my feet must roam, 
 
 Neath other stars to stand, 
 Yet still I dream of thee at home, 
 
 In dear old Georgia land. 
 How slowly moments drag along! 
 
 How harsh the hand of fate! 
 But still I hear that bird in song. 
 
 That nests beside your gate. 
 
 Singing so sweetly, 
 
 Wooing the heart of the rose. 
 Singing and swinging, 
 
 Down where the magnolia grows, 
 Down in old Georgia, 
 
 Down in the land of my birth, 
 Dearer, and fairer, 
 
 Than all of the rest of the earth. 
 
 Does there remain one sigh for me. 
 
 One thought of feet that roam. 
 When thou to God dost bend thy knee? 
 
 If aught in prayer can come 
 For one who holds thee in his heart. 
 
 And bows at mem'ry's shrine. 
 Who dreams while lonely longing starts. 
 
 He hears thy voice divine. 
 
 Singing so sweetly, 
 
 Soothing my sorrows and cares. 
 Ringing and singing. 
 
 Sweet as the chime of the years, 
 Down in old Georgia, 
 
 Down in the land of my birth, 
 
 106 
 
Dearer and fairer, 
 Than all of the rest of the earth. 
 
 Hast thou no word to soothe the grief 
 
 Of one who loves thee best? 
 Can'st thou not bid one jasmine leaf, 
 
 That bloomed upon thy breast, 
 Go cheer the weary cheerless miles. 
 
 His erring feet must go. 
 Can'st thou withhold thy song and smile 
 
 From one who loves thee so? 
 
 Smile once so sweetly, 
 
 Smile and my sorrows are past, 
 Ringing and singing, 
 
 Love will fly homeward at last. 
 Back to old Georgia, 
 
 Back to the smile of the girl, 
 Nearer and dearer 
 
 Than all of the rest of the world. 
 
 BUT TO FORGET. 
 
 My love I have garnered the dreams of the years, 
 
 I have plucked out the tares, I have sorted the grain, 
 il have treasured the roses forgiven the tears, 
 
 I have jeweled the pleasures, and buried the pain. 
 My love could you know as your heart never knew, 
 
 My love had you felt as your heart never felt, 
 [Pelt the beat of a heart that was burning for you, 
 
 Felt the glow of a life into melody melt. 
 
 Known the music of life that was only for thee. 
 
 Heard the song of the heart that was only for you, 
 My love had there been but an echo of me. 
 
 In the tone of your life as its melody grew, 
 While my heart beat its dirge, had you smiled even then, 
 
 Even then had I struggled and striven to win, 
 d had striven to conquer to master, but when. 
 
 In your heart was but scorn. In my heart grew its sin. 
 
 107 
 
My love, have I sinned, I was only to blame; 
 
 My love if I fall it is only my sin. 
 OVIy love it is mine, it is mine is the shame, 
 
 My love if I fall there is nothing to win. 
 There is gold I might win till its opulence grew, 
 
 From the praises of men I have nothing to gain. 
 There is power to win could I win it for you, 
 
 But to win as a miser were worthless and vain. 
 
 There are laurels and gold, but they're only for you, 
 
 And as worthless to me as the dead withered leaf 
 "Why the sowing and reaping, for fortune to sue, 
 
 When the serpent still stings as I gather the sheaf 
 Though my sins are my solace, my heart beats for you; 
 
 In its sorrow is forced to forget what is passed. 
 If the star hide its face be the needle untrue, 
 
 Every ship in the breakers must shatter at last. 
 
 CYPRESS WREATHS AND ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Bitters mid the sweets are mingled, 
 
 Thorns are 'mongst the roses set. 
 Sorrows come to teach us patience, 
 
 Joy and pride might truth forget. 
 
 How narrow is the dividing line between life and death, 
 between sorrow and happiness. — A touch of God's power, a 
 breath of his tempest, and smiles become tears, the laugh- 
 ter sighs, — and life is death. 
 
 Never more forcibly was this brought home to me than 
 a few short months ago when I boarded the train for 
 Atlanta. Behind followed a special train bearing a bridal 
 party. The mind could look back over the rails at the 
 happy faces amid the orange blossoms and see, not a sign 
 of pain, not a wreath of sad cypress to mar the occasion. — 
 Life, youth, wealth and happiness mingled with a sky of 
 rainbows amid a sunrise of gold. 
 
 Macon — change cars for Atlanta and Savannah, then off 
 for a long wait since the schedules are changed. Two 
 men and a little child with curly locks all atangle, little 
 
 108 
 
feet that were hardly steady as they ran about the floor 
 of the waiting room, two men and a little child in the 
 waiting room of a city depot, nothing more. Thousands 
 passed and went in the course of the long years; thousands 
 would go and come in the future, shadows and sunshine 
 would be mingled, sorrows and smiles would come to- 
 gether. 
 
 Want mama cried the little boy, want mamma, want 
 mamma. The father a giant in frame, bowed his head 
 and spoke not. Want mamma, want mamma, pleaded the 
 little child. I saw the strong man raise his head and the 
 great big tears flow down his cheek; but wiping them 
 away, he took the little child by the hand and striding out 
 into the night, strove to amuse him with the passing 
 sights of the city. The other man said that the mother was 
 a corpse being carried back to the old North Georgia home 
 for burial. 
 
 Fate had led her feet in pleasant pathways; wealth 
 and loving hearts had striven to scatter roses around her; 
 but amid the magnolias, while the sighs of the Southern 
 pines sobbed out a requiem, the grim reaper had called; 
 amid the red hills and the spreading oaks would her grave 
 be made. 
 
 A few short years ago and the orange blossoms had 
 bloomed around her path; but the dividing line had been 
 passed, and God's will was being carried out. The cypress 
 wreathes now blotted out the oranges blossoms, and laugh- 
 ter had become tears. 
 
 All aboard for Atlanta— shouted the watchman, then 
 out through the night, — past the twinkle of the lights that 
 sat like stars in the diadem of the city, faster and faster, 
 sped the train, — a throbbing breathing monster, flying on 
 like the wind, startling the gray doves from their nests, 
 tearing the hearts of friends asunder, joining the hearts 
 of friends again, on and on, — the accumulated genius of a 
 thousand years, the golden grain of the minds of men, all 
 garnered, into the flying object that we call a train. 
 
 109 
 
Ere long the day broke — Southern sunrise. Far over in 
 the East came a faint glow — a gleam — a shade that was 
 not all a shade, and yet not light — the shadow of a dream 
 that was yet to come' — the pink of the morning blended 
 with the dark pinions of the night, and shaded the pulsing 
 throbbing gold of the Southern stars: the gaunt trees be- 
 came giants with phantom arms outspread, the floating 
 clouds were mountain peaks and ragged sierras and the 
 red hills were yet but seas of shadow sleeping on un- 
 ruffled by a single warring wind. 
 
 Lighter and brighter it grew, and the trees became real 
 pictures, touched by the artist hand of autumn with green 
 and gold and red and yellow, and the leaves like the altars 
 of nature burned brighter as the sun arose. 'Twas as the 
 dream of a Rubens, as the inspiration of a Murille, for 
 the scene was perfect, as hickory and sweet gum, oak and 
 maple, pine and poplar, vied with each other to win the first 
 warm smiles of the blushing day, as the dawn came timidly 
 over the hills and smiled into the hearts of the valleys. 
 
 My seat companion talked uncreasingly — looking out of 
 the window the exclamation was forced from my lips — what 
 a splendid scene. What de h — 1 you tinks dem yellee trees 
 is putty? But I made no answer to the pot hook nose ex- 
 cept to say, "Only the point of view my friend and the 
 train sped on," 
 
 Another moment — where you tinks cotton going (mean- 
 ing prices) . A spite is horrible but I answer — to Liverpool 
 or h — 1, I guess, while father Abraham figures in silence 
 of profit and loss. 
 
 Griffin — Magic city of the mills — the enterprise that 
 built these hives of industry is worthy of the highest 
 praise, the hives themselves are as ugly as an old-fashioned 
 bee gum. 
 
 Now you sees somethings whuts putty, said old forty-per- 
 cent, as he gazed out of the window. Merely the point 
 of view my friend, merely the point of view. And once 
 more the hook nose probably figured out insurance poli- 
 cies and future fires. 
 
 110 
 
A way station — a long delay. A woman clad in mourn- 
 ing with her face hidden by a cheap veil, a cheap coffin 
 box that even in its cheapness made some show of orna- 
 mation. A dead man taken off the train. No one to meet 
 the corpse. The woman wept silently and passed toward 
 the waiting room: the Pullman porter for once unbent 
 and came and offered his assistance, the conductor was as 
 considerate as if she had been one of the wealthliest of 
 the land? "One touch of nature had made the whole 
 world kin," and as the train speeded off for the first time 
 I could see the features of the woman who was probably 
 a servant, and of a lower race into whose life the cypress 
 wreathes were coming as in the lives of the ones upon 
 whom the gold of a world is showered. 
 
 Life is not all rainbows and orange blossoms, and grief 
 will always find sympathy from those who have true man- 
 hood enough to feel for the sorrows of the unfortunate. 
 
 It was a little act of a gentleman, but the pages of the 
 angels were made brighter with the record of a simple 
 act of kindness, and the heart of the woman, and the heart 
 of the man, both rose nearer to God's Throne because of 
 the deed. 
 
 Ill 
 
I^ebottonal 
 
 Why the journey, whither drifting, 
 What awaits me on before? 
 
 Idle questions, God is mercy, 
 This is all I need to know. 
 
MY MOTHER'S PRAYERS. 
 
 Conning o'er the dreary pages, 
 
 Reading through the years of care, 
 There's a little childhood corner, 
 
 Happy faces pictured there. 
 Father's face is printed yonder, 
 
 Brothers dead, alive, in pairs, 
 And in golden letters often 
 
 Are my dear old mother's prayers. 
 
 One a picture of the children, 
 
 Kneeling there around her knee, 
 Was it but a childish fancy? 
 
 Yet there often came to me — 
 As she prayed a softened rustle, 
 
 As the tempered breeze that springs 
 From the sighing of the aspen, 
 
 Then I thought it angel wings. 
 
 There's a streamlet in the meadow 
 
 And the shadows on the pool, 
 And it seems the bell is ringing. 
 
 In the picture of the school. 
 Pictures of a rosy maiden. 
 
 With a braid of flowing hair. 
 Then I turn the pages over. 
 
 And again is mother's prayer. 
 There's another little volume 
 
 Of the hurried busy years; 
 It is pictured with the trials, 
 
 With the sorrows and the tears. 
 Of a lad who wandered dreaming, 
 
 Doubting if her faith was true, 
 But its pages whisper, whisper, 
 
 Mother prays at home for you. 
 There's a path with roses shadowed, 
 
 Brightest skies and sweetest song. 
 Sloping gently, gently downward, 
 
 Rosy path of sin and wrong. 
 115 
 
I would tread its pleasant mazes, 
 But the whisper comes — beware! 
 
 And I hear a word of caution, 
 Just a word from mother's praye.r 
 
 Woven into thought and action, 
 Growing plainer every day, 
 
 Mother's prayers are leading, pointing; 
 To a straight and narrow way, 
 
 If the present moment's counsels 
 Teach me falsely, — ever true 
 
 Comes a voice "At home a mother- 
 In her closet prays for you." 
 
 Many sins the thought has spared me 
 
 When my wayward feet would go, 
 Through this vale of human errors, 
 
 Where the blooms of passion grow. 
 Many deeds of questioned honor. 
 
 Shunned because I thought — she cares 
 Even though that God I doubted, 
 
 Who was ever in her prayers. 
 
 Gracious God! Oh seal them, stamp them, 
 
 Just her simple teaching old, 
 Oh my heart and in my being, 
 
 Lettered there in virgin gold. 
 Teach me as her words have taught me, 
 
 Lead me all along, and where 
 Fleeting life is swiftly passing, 
 
 Let me still hear mother's prayer. 
 
 WHAT MEN MAY SAY. 
 
 I scorn to ask, I do not care 
 How men may hold my name, 
 
 If friends should come my joys to share 
 If foes should plot my shame. 
 
 If smiles or scorn, if love or hate 
 Should chance to turn my way, 
 
 116 
 
I do the best I know, nor wait 
 
 To ask wtat men may say. 
 'Twill all be well at God's command, 
 
 If I but do the best I can. 
 
 What men may say — a world of wrong 
 
 Hath wrought because of this, 
 If men be right, I join their throng, 
 
 If wrong, no idols kiss. 
 I scorn to pause — to ponder how 
 
 That deed that I may do 
 May please a world — I scorn to bow 
 
 To wrong that men may view. 
 Though friends assail — though foes may smite, 
 
 -Give strength Oh Lord to know the right. 
 
 FROM THE BEATEN TRACK. 
 
 I never learned a rule at school, 
 
 Or got the rule of three, 
 I worked them by the work it rule. 
 
 If problems came to me. 
 
 I never went a mile around 
 
 To keep the wagon ruts, 
 I climbed the fence and often found, 
 
 Through blooms the nearer cuts. 
 
 I never took a creed to hold. 
 
 As true beyond compare, 
 Nor thought because 'twas staid and old, 
 
 The words of God were there. 
 
 I never took a God that men 
 
 Have throned in printed books, 
 I found him in the lonely glen 
 
 His songs were in the brooks. 
 
 I see him when the lightnings cleave, 
 
 Dark clouds mid thunder rolled, 
 I see his smiles when sunbeams weave 
 
 Bright robes that earth enfold. 
 
 117 
 
I hear Him in the robin's wings, 
 
 His matins greet the morn, 
 His vesper notes the cricket sings, 
 
 When twilight hours are gone. 
 I know him by each gem of light, 
 
 That mid the darkness gleams, 
 I know my prayers He will not slight, 
 
 He guards when all is dreams. 
 If God is God mid organ peals, 
 
 Where thousands bend the knee, 
 That God still rules mid lonely field, 
 
 May still commune with me. 
 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 Heavenly Father — pray thee guide me. 
 
 For my soul is sad to-day; 
 In my sorrow stay beside me 
 
 Watch thou o'er me lest I stray. 
 For my feet are prone to error, 
 
 Stay Thou with Thy guiding hand. 
 Draw me by thy love still nearer. 
 
 Heavenly love to mortal man. 
 I would praise: the soul would own Thee, 
 
 Give to Thee my Father praise; 
 But the flesh hath oft forsworn Thee, 
 
 Oft my feet left wisdom's ways. 
 Sinned I have, but now returning, 
 
 Torn by thorns my hands have sown, 
 Shall I find Thy love still burning, 
 
 Is thy hand stretched forth to own? 
 Yea I know Thou dost invite me. 
 
 Even when my feet go wrong; 
 Soiled I come, Thou wilt not slight me, 
 
 Thou alone shall be my song. 
 
 THE OLD MEETIN HOUSE. 
 
 Our meeting house of long ago. 
 Must go to build the new, 
 118 
 
Hit aint in modern style you know, 
 
 An' old time things wont do, 
 This world moves on and people say 
 
 That folks must heed the time. 
 Some sets as strate as hoards to pray, 
 
 An never line's the himes. 
 An' somehow hell has kinder grown, 
 
 In later times a place, 
 That's spoke of in a lighter tone 
 
 An not so hard to face. 
 Hit seems as folks is workin hard. 
 
 To find a smoother road, 
 To ride on motor cars to God, 
 
 Not like them ways we knowed. 
 When you'uns, and when I wus young, 
 
 No orgins "spiled" our song; 
 No choir got paid fer himes we sung, 
 
 We'd thought hit awful wrong. 
 An somehow still I never can 
 
 Git used to care to jine; 
 To sing like when we used to stand, 
 
 An sing hit line an line. 
 An' when — the preacher took his text. 
 
 He never preached to please; 
 'Twas burnin' hell, this worl' an' next. 
 
 An sailing stormy seas. 
 But somehow, now, hits blooms and birds 
 
 An preachin don't begin, 
 With all these fancy soundin words. 
 To turn a man from sin, 
 
 A meetin house we used to know 
 
 But folks will call the new 
 A church— an pay for style an show, 
 
 An rent a fancy pew. 
 An somehow now hit seems to me, 
 
 That grace is bought an sold, 
 
 119 
 
That good old song "Salvation's Free,' 
 Is out of place an old. 
 
 I feel as if I'd lose a friend, 
 
 I never can regain. 
 Hit seems that finer things will tend 
 
 To make the humble vain. 
 But times is new — hit's churches now — 
 
 And fancy pews and show, 
 Whar folks sets up an never bow, 
 
 Like folks did long ago. 
 
 I know its wrong — I feel that I 
 
 Should change as people do; 
 And when the old is gone I'll try — 
 
 I'll try to like the new. 
 I'll try to serve and never shirk. 
 
 My duties when they come. 
 But somehow all this banjo work, 
 
 Don't make me feel at home. 
 
 I wonder if the saints of old, 
 
 Have ever changed their ways, 
 And learned that fancy pews — an gold. 
 
 Make people grow in grace; 
 Or that 'twas wrong on bended knee, 
 
 To God in prayer to bow. 
 To sing Salvation Full an Free, 
 
 If folks are better now. 
 
 WASTED MOMENTS. 
 
 I have gathered my grain for the keeping. 
 And the wine of the grapes I have pressed; 
 
 I have rested at last from the reaping, 
 And the sun sinketh low in the west. 
 
 I have gathered my acres as treasures 
 I have hoarded my silver and gold, 
 
 I have barted my life for the pleasures 
 Of the miser, and happiness sold. 
 120 
 
As the flood of my life is receding, 
 And the years at the ebb of the tide, 
 
 I am bowed in my winter; and pleading, 
 Seek the Christ that my summer denied. 
 
 But a sad and a desolate being. 
 But a wreck that is offered to Thee, 
 
 From the wrath I have merited fleeing, 
 Crying, Lord render mercy to me. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 Into the void of the night in trust, 
 
 Cometh a soul to Thee; 
 Out of the pit of despair, the dust, 
 
 Mercy have Thou on me. 
 
 Not for the good of the life I've led, 
 
 Not for the evil done, 
 Only the love of the Christ who bled, 
 
 Love for Thy Holy son. 
 
 Into the void of the night I call, 
 Seeking Thy ways and Thou; 
 
 Into the realms of the fiends I fall; 
 Unto Thy throne I bow. 
 
 Out of the mouth of the pit, Thy hand 
 
 Plucketh my sinful soul; 
 Out of the pit as the burning brand, 
 
 Out of the flames that roll. 
 Out of the gloom of the night to soar, 
 
 Out of the dust to Thee— 
 Into the grasp of the fiends no more, 
 
 Into eternity. 
 
 MOTHER'S BIBLE. 
 
 Fortune never smiled in passing 
 Other hearts and other hands, 
 
 Felt the warmth of her caresses. 
 Golden treasures, fertile lands, 
 121 
 
All alone and hopeless drifting, 
 Overwhelmed the golden tide; 
 
 Ebbing, ebbing never staying. 
 Even health alone denied. 
 
 Few my jewels in the casket, 
 
 Garnered treasures of the years. 
 Many sorrows half forgotten, 
 
 Many half remembered tears; 
 But a treasure half forgotten. 
 
 Buried neath my spectral gold, 
 Brighter grows in ragged edges, 
 
 Dearest mother's Bible old. 
 
 Father, if my way is rugged, 
 
 Danger threatened, trials, loss. 
 Let its lesson teach me patience. 
 
 Jesus bravely bore His cross. 
 And if tears shall be my portion. 
 
 Father, let my heart accept 
 Sorrows, if my Lord would chasten, 
 
 For I read that "Jesus Wept." 
 
 In its pages roses blossom, 
 
 Softened sunlight, smiling rain, 
 Meadow violets are blooming; 
 
 Garnered sheaves of golden grain, 
 Wine and oil for wearied toilers. 
 
 Balm for hearts that bleed and break. 
 Daily bread for those that labor. 
 
 Toiling on for Jesus sake. 
 
 Often, often sadly dreaming. 
 
 Weighted down with galling care, 
 Comes my mother's picture seated. 
 
 In her cosy cushion chair, 
 Turning pages, slowly searching 
 
 Through its faded, tattered leaves, 
 Till at last the massage greets her. 
 
 Whomsoever hears, believes. 
 
 122 
 
Turns aside from sin, and faithful 
 
 Bids his Savior come, abide 
 In his heart to keep and clean it, 
 
 I will never cast aside. 
 Even though the world may buffet, 
 
 To the shadow of the cross, 
 Whosoever comes for shelter. 
 
 He shall never suffer loss. 
 
 Other hands have won their treasures. 
 
 Fame and friends and golden ease, 
 But my only treasure, never 
 
 Would I give for one of these. 
 Faded where her hands have thumbed it. 
 
 Yellowed now with time, and dim. 
 Still it says that Christ will save me, 
 
 If I only trust in Him. 
 
 OIiD FAITHS. 
 
 My dreams are like a garden old, 
 
 And like a roving little child 
 I strive to pluck the marigold 
 
 That struggles 'mid its weeds so wild. 
 
 These old-time blooms our mother wore. 
 These old-time faiths our fathers knew; 
 
 In old-time gardens brambles grow: 
 These old-time faiths we doubt as true. 
 
 That faith that bade, Be faithful, just, 
 To whom is owed, to him is due; 
 
 From churchyard mould, from out the dust. 
 Speak old-time hearts: Be firm and true. 
 
 No flowery paths, no easy ways. 
 
 He who would win must strive to win; 
 
 They speak, those hearts of other days: 
 "What God calls sin must still be sin." 
 
 Still, though our hearts may strive to build 
 A faith where sin be godly — when 
 
Our breasts are cold, our tongues are stilled; 
 
 God reckons not the thoughts of men. 
 A garden old I hold my dreams; 
 
 False creeds may come and fade and go; 
 I think, adown my cheek there streams 
 
 A tear that I have wandered so — 
 So far away, because of old 
 
 The path was rough and straight the way; 
 One gem of truth, of old-time gold, 
 
 Lord help that I may find to-day. 
 
 WHOSO BEARS A FAITHFUL HEART. 
 
 That man who lives for right alone — 
 
 For truth because it's truth — 
 Though poor in purse, though ills are borne. 
 
 While paths of wrong are smooth: 
 That man I hold a greater king, 
 
 If this his constant creed, 
 Than lords of state, and men of weight, 
 
 Whose god is wrong and greed. 
 That smith who makes his anvil ring 
 
 And bears a faithful heart, 
 Though scorned by idle duke and king, 
 
 Hath sought a nobler part; 
 I scorn the signs of rank as naught 
 
 On men too weak to win, 
 Who shine with gold their fathers stole, 
 
 That gold that gilds the sin. 
 
 IN A STUFFY RENTED PEW. 
 
 Never could enjoy religion 
 
 In a stuffy rented pew. 
 Where the sickly yellow shadows 
 
 Tinted windows struggled through, 
 While the preacher reads his sermon 
 
 An' the congregation stares, 
 Sittin' stiff as iron pokers 
 
 Through the sayin' of the prayers. 
 124 
 
Never could enjoy the singiii' 
 
 Of a hired singin' crew, 
 With a noisy horn a-tootin' 
 
 An' a flute an' fiddle, too; 
 "Coronation's" out of fashion, 
 
 "Promised Lan' " an' "Jordan Banks" 
 Cast aside — for jigs and waltzes: 
 You may put me with the cranks. 
 
 But I never thought the omens 
 
 Of the voyage very fair, 
 Sailin' stormy seas for Zion 
 
 To the tune of "Mollie Hare." 
 Rentin' pews to hear the preacher 
 
 Readin' texts that never melt 
 Sinners' hearts to seek a Savior 
 
 That the preacher never felt. 
 
 How I long to feel the pleasure 
 "Jesus Lover" used to bring, 
 When the preacher'd line the music 
 
 An' the congregation sing; 
 When a hell was still in fashion, — 
 
 But the style would never do 
 For the present congregation 
 
 An' the present tony pew. 
 
 WHENCE ANB WHERE. 
 
 I sat beneath the vaulted walls; 
 I asked: my soul had sought to know 
 Whence: where: and how, to weal or woe, 
 And echo spake, "The Book doth show 
 The truths of time," and that is all. 
 
 At midnight hour the sage I call. 
 As dusty to me he peered within: 
 'From whence is grace, who gave us sin?" 
 He spake: "All truths arise, begin 
 Within The Book," and that is all. 
 125 
 
From whence The Book? If greater than 
 That Book in truth hath dipped the pen, 
 That truth should shine to doubting men— 
 Whence, where, and how were easy then: 
 Why veil life's truths from blinded man? 
 
 Where tends it all? I see the leaves 
 
 To-day float down, to-morrow lie 
 
 To be no more—to fade and die. 
 
 Is life as these? Must You and I 
 
 By death be reaped as garnered sheaves? 
 
 Whence, how, oh Lord? Thine essence rare 
 A soul. Thy breath, Thy soul, a draught 
 Of Thine own self — a moment quaffed. 
 Then cast adrift, as naught as chaff, 
 A breath of wind, a puff of air. 
 
 Thine own. Thy life, God-born, a child. 
 E'en arm that held, e'en breast that nursed 
 In human hearts forgive the worst 
 And loveth erring one and durst 
 Bid glad return though sin defiled. 
 
 And dost Thou say 'mid ages hence 
 No hope can come, no saving hand — 
 Thou soul, stay bound in sinful band, 
 I will not say, arise and stand 
 When sin be purged, if man repents? 
 
 Whence life? Whence death? That God that gave 
 
 A life, a soul, must read them all; 
 
 That God that out of voids could call 
 
 New worlds, must love, though men may fall — 
 
 He unthought plans may find to save. 
 
 CREEDS AND DEEDS. 
 
 Aye, scour the world and preach your creeds 
 
 And strive yourselves among 
 The faith that wins is found in deeds. 
 And not in silver tongue. 
 
 126 
 
Is he that sings the sweetest song — 
 W)ho prays the sweetest prayer — 
 
 Yet walks the stricken homes among— 
 Nor soothes the sorrow there: 
 
 Is he who sprays, is he who dips- 
 Is he who doctrine proves, 
 
 More loved of God than he whose lips 
 No word of doctrine moves, 
 
 Save such as bids, Be true to all 
 And aid as best you can. 
 
 To raise again the ones who fall, 
 To love a brother man. 
 
 One deed of right were worth a world 
 
 Of all we hold as creeds. 
 Let flags of God that war be furled. 
 
 Lest fields grow rank with weeds. 
 Go scour the world for wrongs to right. 
 
 Go give where hunger needs — 
 Go teach that God is love and light 
 
 A thousand flames with creeds. 
 
 For when the years of earth are passed, 
 
 And full reward is won. 
 The meed will not be creeds held fast, 
 
 But deeds that we have done. 
 I DO believe: In God — not Creed— 
 
 In truth and right — and when 
 That creed I keep in word and deed, 
 
 I walk with God— AMEN. 
 
 THE BEST WE CAN. 
 To him who does the best he can. 
 
 However fates may frown — 
 To him who smiles and labors on, 
 
 "While hopes, like ships, go down, 
 To him who loves his fellow man, 
 His country and his God, 
 127 
 
To him who does the best he can: 
 There comes at last reward. 
 
 It may not be the victor's crown, 
 
 Nor pride of high estate; 
 True hearts may beat 'neath beggar's robes, 
 
 True loves be paid with hate; 
 But God is God, and hearts must own 
 
 His will and bow to Him; 
 Must walk that way His Word hath shown. 
 
 Must pray when paths are dim. 
 
 It may not be the robes of state. 
 
 Nor heaps of shining gold; 
 The blacksmith toiling at his forge, 
 
 The plowman bent and old. 
 If but the best they can, they do, 
 
 No greater deeds than these: 
 God seeks the heart, the just, the true, 
 
 He weigheth bended knees. 
 
 Who does the best he can is God's — 
 
 Is God's own child to keep 
 In life, in death, in joy, in pain, 
 
 'Mid seas where tempests sweep; 
 And kings who rule this world of men, 
 
 That serf who groans and bows. 
 All pass to one reward and then 
 
 No rank one God allows. 
 
 If weal or woe, if works were naught. 
 
 If trusting feet have trod 
 That path He showed and hands have brought 
 
 That best they could to God, 
 That best they could, and will He turn 
 
 From all that they could bring. 
 That best they could. He will not spurn, 
 
 If serf or sceptered king. 
 
 Who does the best he can, may weep, 
 But God is just to own and keep 
 
 128 
 
To lead through vales, through waters deep, 
 To try the gold, to purge the dross. 
 To buy that soul with bleeding cross; 
 No king, no beggar then, — a man 
 Who vowed, "I'll do the best I can.'' 
 
 AS YE SOW YE WILL REAP. 
 
 As ye sow ye will reap — 
 
 With the coming of years; 
 
 As ye plant ye shall gather again, — 
 
 There are debits to keep, 
 
 There are credits of tears. 
 
 For the years never reckon in vain. 
 
 If ye buy ye must pay, 
 
 'Tis the law of the Lord; 
 
 As ye give, it is given to you. 
 
 As ye wound, as ye slay, 
 
 Ye must die by the sword, — 
 
 Te are paid for the labors ye do. 
 
 If the harvest of life 
 
 Is a harvest of woes, 
 
 Ye may turn to the record and see 
 
 In the planting of strife 
 
 Is the reaping of foes 
 
 For the tale of the harvest to be. 
 
 Ye will reap as ye sow — 
 
 Though the years they are long. 
 
 There is never a reckoning lost; 
 
 Though the mill runneth slow, 
 
 Yet the stream runneth strong, 
 
 And the miller is keeping the cost. 
 
 As the flight of a bird 
 
 Coming back to her nest. 
 
 O'er the waves, if the ocean divide; 
 
 As the wail of a word 
 
 To the heaven addressed, 
 
 Cometh back angry word to deride. 
 
 129 
 
As the tide runneth low, 
 And the tide floweth in, 
 And the ships furrow homeward the foam: 
 So the good that we do, 
 And the blight of a sin, 
 They are all coming home, coming home — 
 Coming back unto me, coming back unto you: 
 We are paid through the years for the deeds that 
 we do. 
 
 IF WE LEND A HELPING HAND. 
 
 Life at best is full of trials, 
 
 Full of sorrows for us all; 
 Many seek the Master's presence 
 
 Who are weak enough to fall; 
 Should you see a fellow toiler 
 
 Falling out, perhaps you may 
 Lend a helping hand to raise him. 
 
 Cheer him onward in his way. 
 
 Tell him others fell and strugglea 
 
 Up again to greater height; 
 Others fought and bravely battled. 
 
 Winning hearts to know the right; 
 Shake his hand and give him blessings, 
 
 Soothe away his timid fears; 
 Smiling words may bring YOU blessings 
 
 Through the fruitage of the years. 
 
 Many things are more than money, 
 
 Human hearts are more than gold; 
 Happiness is never purchased. 
 
 Faithfulness is never sold. 
 Many weary hearts are cheerless. 
 
 Dreary, burning deserts where 
 Parching sands of sin are scattered— 
 
 If you scatter roses there, 
 Rooted deep you may discover, 
 
 Where your roses long have lain, 
 130 
 
others grow to scatter blossoms 
 Neath your weary feet again. 
 
 Seek the deeps of hidden feeling, 
 Softer thoughts may be below; 
 
 Far beneath the dreary desert 
 Living waters often flow, — 
 
 Where we little think them hidden, 
 
 Till we try to do our part; 
 Deeper springs are in the desert, 
 
 Deeper thoughts are in the heart. 
 If you bring a soul to Jesus, 
 
 If you save him from a fall, 
 They may never write the story 
 
 On the snowy marble tall. 
 
 But in Heaven by the angels 
 
 Is the simple story told. 
 And a human heart is written 
 
 In its words of living gold; 
 And a human harp is playing 
 
 In a sweeter, softer tone. 
 While the echo of the music 
 
 Strikes an echo of your own. 
 
 Life at best is full of trials, 
 
 Full of failings with us all; 
 Never frown and strike a brother 
 
 Who is weak enough to fall. 
 When his weary limbs shall totter. 
 
 Brace him up and bid him stand, 
 He may rise again to Jesus, 
 
 If you lend a helping hand. 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Let others toil and strain and strive, 
 I've learned at last to know 
 
 That not within the busy hive. 
 Where golden rivers flow, — 
 
 131 
 
That not where gems and silks adorn, 
 
 Where gold in surfeit gleams, 
 Are lightest hearts, is gladness won, 
 Or life but happy dreams: 
 A life of ease. 
 Myself to please, 
 
 As free as breezes are; 
 To rove along, 
 With laugh and song, 
 To me were better far. 
 
 What care I if the wreath of fame 
 
 Shall deck some other brow — 
 No gilded tongues my deeds proclaim. 
 
 No fools in homage bow? 
 What care I for the world to hold 
 
 A captive in my hands? 
 What care I for the gleam of gold, 
 For wealth of fertile lands? 
 No home, no bed 
 To lay my head. 
 
 No food but chance may bring; 
 I labor here, 
 I labor there. 
 And toiling smile and sing. 
 
 If fate shall bring a crust of bread 
 
 And fate deny me meat, 
 Whatever comes, I bow my head 
 
 To God in thanks and eat. 
 I crave not titles, land nor wealth, 
 
 I bend no fawning knees, 
 But give oh! Lord the heart, the health, 
 Far more than all of these. 
 A life of right. 
 And not of might, 
 
 A life that men may say, 
 
 132 
 
When life is done, 
 "He injured none, 
 
 But harmless went his way. 
 
 CUI BONO. 
 
 (The Rich Man speaks.) 
 I have added my acres to acres, 
 
 I have burdened my lockers with grain; 
 I have gathered my riches and treasures, 
 
 But the end of the getting is vain; 
 For at last they are loss, and the pauper 
 And the king hath his dwelling of clay, 
 From the dust to the dust, as the treasures 
 And the monuments crumble away. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 (The Author.) 
 I have added my laurel to laurel, 
 
 I have jeweled my temples with fame; 
 I have climbed as the multitude groveled. 
 But the end of the way was the same; 
 For at last it is loss, and the laurels 
 Of the world are but idols of clay; 
 Both the sage and the serf are forgotten. 
 As the monuments crumble away. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 (The Conqueror.) 
 I have marshalled my legions and armies, 
 
 I have warred with the world for the crown; 
 I have riven the hearts of the nations, 
 
 I have battled their battlements down; 
 But at last it is loss for the armies. 
 
 And the legions are creatures of clay, 
 And the fame of the victor is chiseled 
 On the marble that crumbles away. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 (An Humble Preacher.) 
 
 I have garnered the souls of the wayward, 
 
 I have gathered His sheep to the fold; 
 
 133 
 
I have winnowed the grain of the harvest, 
 And the hearts I have melted are gold; 
 
 From the dust to the dust, it is written. 
 And the body returneth to clay; 
 
 But the soul without sin, to its joys enters in, 
 Though the monuments crumble away. 
 
 HE LIED LIKE A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Is a falsehood ever justified? Perhaps not. We leave the 
 discussion to others, while we tell our story. 
 
 Over the long lines of marble set in the cemetery (for 
 short we call it Andersonville) fluttered thirteen or more 
 thousand flags, the duplicates in miniature of the starry 
 banner that had waved in tattered triumph over the heights 
 at Yorktown, and reunited brother to brother (God grant 
 forever!), when the magnanimous victor, sparing all the 
 humiliation possible to the illustrious Lee, like a brother, 
 accepted the surrender of a nation at Appomattox. 
 
 Down the long lines where brave men slept, went man 
 and maid and matron, placing the May Day Violet, the May 
 Day Roses or the May Day Lilies on the graves of the sol- 
 diers, for it was Decoration Day, and since brothers in 
 arms, or foes in fair battle, forget their hatred; among the 
 emblems of the Grand Army were mingled the bronze 
 crosses of the Confederacy, all intent upon paying respect 
 to the memory of those who had died for what they believed 
 was right, and as 
 
 Once again 'neath the stars (ever true 
 To a flag that has mouldered away), 
 Now as true to the flag of the Blue, 
 Trod the snow-templed soldier in gray, 
 A little withered woman entered the office of the superin- 
 tendent, and timidly asked if he could show her the grave 
 
 of . The name — ah, well, she remembered it if 
 
 no one else did, and she had come with a wreath of roses 
 
 134 
 
to place upon the grave of her soldier boy, while the mock- 
 ingbirds flitted around and sang softer and sweeter, re- 
 joicing that the May-time roses could bloom, that fond 
 hearts might still show their devotion, and scatter blossoms 
 on the graves of those they still held dear. 
 
 He belonged to the Tenth Cavalry, and was cap- 
 tured at Gettysburg while leading a charge, she said; "and 
 they wrote us how brave and strong he was, and for a short 
 while we would get letters, through the Confederate lines, 
 to tell us he was still alive and hoped to be exchanged, 
 while we kept praying that the war would end: then the 
 letters stopped coming, and we heard long after that he was 
 dead and was buried in the cemetery here. Can you show 
 me his grave?" 
 
 The old superintendent turned away, with moistened eyes, 
 and as he took down from the shelf his records, said, "I will 
 see, madame, if I can find out if he is buried here." 
 
 "Oh, please do, sir," she said, "for we have been very poor 
 and it is over forty years that I have waited and hoped for 
 the time to come when I could find him, and see if they 
 cared for his grave, and know that it was true that he had 
 not forgotten us and gone off somewhere else; and when 
 his father died a few years ago, almost on his dying bed he 
 begged me to go and find our boy and bring him home to be 
 buried beside me, where he planted the big willow tree 
 over the grave of his little sister before he v/ent off to the 
 war; and now here I have come to find him and take him 
 back home — please, sir, find out if you can." 
 
 The old weather-beaten Confederate spectator standing in 
 the little office wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and 
 turned av^ay, for he had sought in vain among the slain of 
 the Wilderness for the brave young son that enlisted at his 
 father's side. 
 
 At last the old superintendent, slowly putting up his cem- 
 etery records, replied, "Madame, I fear they have informed 
 you wrong; the records do not show that such a soldier was 
 buried here. Perhaps he was buried in Arlington, or some- 
 where else." 
 
 135 
 
"Please look again, sir, for I have the last letter he wrote 
 home," and she drew forth from her bosom a faded and 
 worn envelope and handed it to him. 
 
 The officer slowly turned the leaves again and again, and 
 at last replied, "Madame, I can not find his name at all. I 
 know nearly every grave in the cemetery and his name I 
 have never seen on any of the headstones." 
 
 Then she sighed and softly weeping turned away, and 
 placed the wreath of roses on the grave of some other 
 mother's boy, while the superintendent, sighing, said to me, 
 "I hated to tell her a falsehood, but I could not break her 
 heart. Her boy is buried just outside the cemetery walls. 
 While a prisoner, he murdered a comrade, and was shot by 
 the verdict of a courtmartial of his own fellow soldiers; but 
 the task was too hard to tell her, and perhaps God will 
 pardon the falsehood — I could not tell her!" 
 
 Wbt 3lofi(t €miit 
 
 She could not call the vasty deep to bear 
 
 Her argosies of death to seek her foes. 
 
 But love of home still bade her matron's tear 
 
 Their heart strings loose (though smililng) when arose 
 
 Brave men and boys and mother's blessing flows 
 
 (From Spartan lips, that smiled amid their pain). 
 
 In soft, sad words, "Be brave, whate'er oppose. 
 
 Strike hard for right, and if perchance in vain. 
 
 Love waits: in honor come, or not again." 
 
 States were her jewels, fairer than the gold 
 
 Of Union, precious casket closed around, 
 
 When flames beset, she sought to snatch and hold 
 
 Her treasures safe, and flung their casket down 
 
 That in her breast, though seared with sword and wound, 
 
 And crimsoned with her blood they might uprear 
 
 Truth's altar, when some future Henry sound 
 
 136 
 
Truth's bugle call, and glorious and clear 
 Some Bunker Hill her free-born spirit cheer. 
 
 THE DEAD OF THE GRAY. 
 'Mid the snows of the hills of Virginia, 
 'Neath the grass of the valleys below. 
 Where the Shenandoah rolls and its waters, 
 
 Of the dead, whisper soft as they go, 
 Where the James, Rappahannock, Potomac, 
 
 'Mid the shadows are winding their way, 
 Are the graves of the hundreds and thousands 
 Of the men who have died for the Gray. 
 
 There is grief in thy soil, Carolina, 
 
 To remain as the ages shall flee; 
 There are graves at the foot of the Blue Ridge, 
 
 There are graves by the side of the sea. 
 There is grief in the glory of Sumter, 
 
 In the sob of the surf of the bay; 
 There are tombs ,in the fields and the forests. 
 
 Of the glorious dead of the Gray. 
 
 In the hills and the valleys of Georgia, 
 
 Lie the ones who have battled the foe. 
 From the crags where Savannah, Ogeechee, 
 
 Oconee and Etowah flow: 
 Far along through the hill and the lowland. 
 
 Even down to the verge of the spray. 
 Are the graves that we cover with roses. 
 
 Are the graves of the dead of the Gray. 
 
 'Neath the blooms of the land of the orange. 
 
 By the banks of the broad Tennessee, 
 Over all is a mantle of sorrow. 
 
 Is a stain of the blood of the free; 
 There are blooms that will blossom for Morgan 
 
 ('Twas the sweep of the storm and away) ; 
 There are tombs 'mid the hills of Kentucky, 
 
 There are tears at the graves of the Gray. 
 
 137 
 
Where the tide of the deep Mississippi 
 
 Rolleth on with the might of the main, 
 In the folds of the flag they are buried, 
 
 On the field where the battle was vain. 
 Where the broad, fertile prairies of Texas 
 
 Billow on to the sunset away. 
 Where the moan of the v/ind is the lonest. 
 
 Are the graves of the dead of the Gray. 
 
 There is left but a banner in tatters. 
 
 But a few that defended it then; 
 There are scars, there are sleeves that are empty, 
 
 There are snows in the locks of the men: 
 And the sweep of the sickle is falling. 
 
 And the bravest are passing away, 
 As the sobs of the mourners are sounding 
 
 'Round the graves of the last of the Gray. 
 
 But the oak that has breasted the tempest, 
 
 And the kings of the forest, must fade; 
 And the crag to the breast of the billows 
 
 In the scheme of the ages be laid. 
 And the spring with its grasses shall cover, 
 
 And the frame be committed to clay, 
 Yet the fame of the fight is immortal, 
 
 And the ages shall tell of the Gray. 
 
 And the hands of the maiden shall garland. 
 
 And the roses be scattered above, 
 And the tears of the future shall mingle 
 
 With the blooms in the labor of love; 
 And the years with their glory shall brighten 
 
 As the stars through the flight of the years. 
 And the smiles of the spring and the roses 
 
 And the sighs and the falling of tears. 
 And the rose of the festal and banquet 
 
 With the wreath of the laurel to-day, 
 Mingles bloom with the beauty of sorrow, 
 
 As we garland the graves of the Gray. 
 
 138 
 
MANASSAS. 
 
 There was gladness beside the Potomac, 
 And the music of swift-moving feet, 
 
 And they talked of the war and the army, 
 As they dreamed of the South in retreat. 
 
 On the morning the hosts they would gather 
 
 In the field for the trial of war, 
 And the ladies were loud in their pleading. 
 
 Just to lunch and to see it afar. 
 
 On the steed, and afoot, in the carriage. 
 In the morning they wended their way, 
 
 Both the old and the young with their jewels. 
 And both the sad and the glad and the gay. 
 
 Moving out for a frolic that morning. 
 For the hosts of the North were between — 
 
 'Tween the belles of the North and the Southron, 
 As the luncheon was spread on the green. 
 
 There was dancing and music and laughter, 
 And the jest floated wild through the air, 
 "Follow fast on the Southron to Richmond, 
 And we doubt if they halt even there. 
 
 "Hear the tramp as the armies are moving. 
 Let the shock put the Southron to flight; 
 Let the flag that is floating so boldly- 
 Let it furl in dishonor to-night! 
 "They are blooming, McDowell, the roses. 
 And the wreath of the laurel is done; 
 There are songs, there are smiles, for the hero. 
 As he comes when the battle is won. 
 
 "Go and plant in the camp of the Southron — 
 Plant the star-studded flag of the North; 
 Let the storm try the wings of the eagle. 
 Set the flame to the wings of the moth. 
 
 139 
 
"Is it true? Are they coming to battle? 
 
 Do they dare? — It's presumption to dare; 
 See, the crow wages war with the eagle. 
 Look; the column of flame in the air. 
 
 'Is it true? They are fighting like tigers, 
 Charging onward like demons they shout; 
 
 And the hosts of the North? They are flying 
 Like the winds in their panic and rout. 
 
 'Righteous God of the land! are we dreaming? 
 
 Flying on like the tempest they speed — 
 Leave the music and laughter and dancing. 
 
 Lay the whip and the scourge to the steed. 
 
 'Hurry onward, ye gallants and ladies. 
 Hasten on with the speed of the wind, 
 
 For the flag of the Southron is moving — 
 Speed the flight, for he follows behind. 
 
 'To the winds throw the things that encumber — 
 Leave the plate, leave the silver, and go;" 
 
 For the Southron had dared — it's presumption! 
 And the eagle has fled from the crow! 
 
 FARMER JOHNSON'S WAR RECORD. 
 
 Thar's a crowd o' gals and wimmin 
 
 'Mong the boys upon the square; 
 Thar's a rattle and a tootin' 
 
 Of the music in the air; 
 Thar's a view of Farmer Johnson 
 
 Just a-tyin' o' his gray, 
 For the band's a-got ter playin' — 
 
 He's around to hear 'em play. 
 
 Thar's a snatch of "Yankee Doodle" 
 An' the "Banks of Bonny Doon," 
 
 An' a part of "Annie Rooney," 
 When the horns is out of tune; 
 
 An' the bass is 'bout a quarter 
 Of a line before the flute, 
 140 
 
An' the tenor keeps a-losin' 
 Bout a quarter of a toot. 
 
 They're a hittin' "Dixie" heavy — 
 
 We've a hearty rebel yell, 
 An' the farmer's got to tellin' 
 
 How he give the Yankees h 1; 
 
 An' his mare she's got a panic. 
 
 An' the rein is but a straw — 
 She's the habit of retreatin', 
 
 Gotten chronic in the war. 
 
 An' she waves her tail at partin' 
 
 But a moment — an' away; 
 In the range of "Yankee Doodle" 
 
 She was never taught to stay — 
 But the farmer's just a-lyin' 
 
 An' a-workin' of his jaw, 
 That he killed a score of Yankees 
 
 With his pistol in the war. 
 
 THAT UNIFORM OF GRAY. 
 
 (Written on Seeing an Old Confed. in a Parade.) 
 When Uncle Peter gets his clothes, 
 
 His uniform of Gray, 
 The bugle horn more sadly blows, 
 
 The bands more sadly play; 
 That uniform is filled with tears. 
 
 As faded roses hold 
 The fragrance of the flying years 
 
 When winter suns are cold. 
 
 I see within that honored Gray 
 
 Ten thousand matrons weep. 
 Ten thousand orphans cast away: 
 
 Ten thousand maidens keep 
 Their nightly watch beside the door, 
 
 Perchance to watch in vain, 
 For those that may return no more — 
 
 I hear their sobs of pain. 
 141 
 
I see a flag that furls in grief 
 
 Around a nation's tomb; 
 I see in flames the home, the sheaf. 
 
 The years of dismal gloom; 
 I see the tears and empty sleeves 
 
 Within these suits of Gray; 
 These faded coats are golden sheaves 
 
 I would not cast away. 
 
 I hold them dear for all the train 
 
 Of thoughts that sadly rise; 
 They tell of grief — of years of pain — 
 
 And tears bedim my eyes; 
 A sacred rev'rence clings around 
 
 That naught could cast away, — 
 And faded blooms of hope a re bound 
 
 Within these suits of Gray. 
 
 SPECK, ABE, AND MISS PRIMROSE. 
 
 Speck was a gentleman of color, or, to be correct, want of 
 color, for Speck was black — b-1-a-c-k. 
 
 Abe was also smoky, and Miss Primrose was slightly more 
 than deep chocolate. 
 
 Speck was courting Miss Primrose. 
 
 And Abe was also courting Miss Primrose, while the lady 
 "warn't jess 'pared fer ter say which she lacked de bes'." 
 
 Speck worked in the fields. 
 
 And Abe ran the wagon, while Miss Primrose "nussed fer 
 de white fokes up to de big house;" but when the day was 
 over and the summer shadows fell longer and longer, while 
 the whippoorwill complained to the cotton blossoms of his 
 treatment, any evening, you might see Miss Primrose stroll- 
 ing down the lane with the missus' baby carriage and the 
 missus' baby out for an airing and as regular as the evening 
 glories along the fence corner opened their eyes they were 
 sure to see either Speck or Abe approach with a low bow 
 and polite greeting, and, turning, act as escort and protec- 
 tion to the missus' kid "sence hits done got late," while 
 
 142 
 
alongside walked Miss Primrose on her way to the big 
 house. 
 
 Speck, Abe and Miss Primrose all regularly attended 
 church. Miss Primrose had long since quit being a "sinner" 
 and "jined." Speck and Abe still lingered outside the fold, 
 and incidentally saved many dimes that would have under 
 ordinary circumstances gone into the "sallery;" but under 
 the powerful pictures of the fiery pit, while the house 
 swayed as the members rocked in unison to the chant of 
 the sermon, while the sinuous, serpent-like body of the 
 preacher, taught by a thousand generations of the voodoo 
 dance, caught the time of the subtle stamp of frenzy in the 
 congregation, and played on the flame until it leaped and 
 surged in shrieks and shouts, the day came when Abe be- 
 came a seeker, and later after telling how an angel flut- 
 tered down and giving him a new heart told him to go in 
 peace and sin no more, was received into the church. 
 
 The day came also when the order went out for the mem- 
 ber girls to "quit soshatin' wid de sinner boys an' go wid 
 dem whut belongs wid de chosen of de Lord." 
 
 And Speck was as the lost sheep of Israel, for Miss Prim- 
 rose was a member and Abe was a member, and Miss 
 Primrose turned her smiles on Abe, while she turned her 
 back on Speck. 
 
 To the one who had scoffed as Speck at religion, the 
 change was a bitter pill, but the little conjure ball of red 
 flannel and the chicken bone and the wish that he made 
 over it while the moon was full, and put under Abe's steps, 
 failed to amend matters, and, as any good general would do, 
 it became the purpose of Speck to try new tactics. 
 
 As the lazy lawrences danced along the long cotton rows 
 and the white banners of the open bolls waved a welcome 
 to the wind as it came laden with the spoils of the honey- 
 suckle, shaking the bees from the pink and creamy cotton 
 blossoms. Speck was thinking — thinking — thinking. Think- 
 ing of the hard fate that forced him to see Abe walk by 
 
 143 
 
with Miss Primrose as they entered the church, while he 
 stood outside; thinking of the inexorable decree that kept 
 him from her side while she crooned her weird chant and 
 shout, and at last overcome with excitement rested her head 
 upon the bosom of Abraham, while no hand kindly offered 
 the sweet consolation of forgetfulness to him; but defeat 
 was foreign to Speck's nature, and at last the veil was 
 lifted from his eyes, and his tongue was loosened and mer- 
 rily again rang out his song, 
 
 "De June bug got de golden wing, 
 De lightnin' bug de flame; 
 De bedbug got no wings at all, 
 But he gits dar jess de same." 
 And once again happy Speck worked hard enough to earn 
 at least half of his wages. 
 
 The mourners' bench for at least a week was full of 
 others, but among the seekers was Speck. While Sister 
 Primrose knelt by his side and pleaded with him to turn, 
 and the preacher with loud amens whispered in his ear to 
 turn from the wrath to come, all the time into the ears of 
 Speck came the echo of the song, 
 
 "But he gits dar jess de same." 
 Then at last while the halo of the dust of many stamping 
 feet dimmed the flickering lights. Speck confessed conver- 
 sion. 
 
 For hadn't it come to him while he was picking cotton, 
 and didn't a star fall from heaven, and burning out all of 
 his sins sink into his heart, and hadn't he "fell down in de 
 rows like a dead man," and when he waked he was in the 
 New Jerusalem, "walkin' around wid a golden crown an' a 
 harp of gold;" and then Brother Speck "jined" and became 
 a member and Miss Primrose had no reason to shun his 
 "sosashun." 
 
 « « « ^ H: « 
 
 The lights streaming out of the open door of the church 
 when the service was over might have shown the burly 
 
 144 
 
form of Abe with his head hung down, but at any rate in 
 their full glare walked Speck and Miss Primrose on their 
 way home, and as he passed close to the former rival, a 
 listener might have heard Speck remark for the benefit of 
 Abe, "Reckon some other folks kin git 'ligion 'sides dat 
 d n lazy nigger!" 
 
 145 
 
Coon ^Uni 
 
 When de Lawd finished people dey skin wus white, 
 But de cuUud man rombled de woods at night, 
 Wid 'is dawgs on de coon an' de 'possum track. 
 An' de smoke fum de torches is painted 'im black! 
 
LA WD DRIVE DAT HANT AWAY. 
 
 When cor win's blows an' storms dey howls, 
 Den hants is out, den hootin' owls 
 Ses, Hoot-ty hoot, an' Who dar— who? 
 Who stolt dat cow? I knose hit's yu; 
 
 An' den I ses. Good Lawd, fergive 
 De po' ole darkle bleeged ter live; 
 Oh, save me now, good Lawdy, do, 
 I didn't knewed hit 'fended you. 
 
 But when de win's dey starts, so plain, 
 I hears dat hoot owl keeps er sayin', 
 Who stolt dat cow? I knose hit's yu; 
 I ses onct more, Lawd save me, do! 
 
 An' den dat hant he set an' smile, 
 An' ses, Yu is a sinner vile; 
 You stolt dat ooman's chickens, too, — 
 I ses, Lawd he'p, I p-r-a-y-s ter yu. 
 
 But den dat hoot owl hootin' so, 
 
 I props de bed agin de do'. 
 
 An' falls down on my 'umble knees. 
 
 An' ses. Oh, s-a-v-e me, La-w-d-y, p-1-e-a-s-e! 
 
 I never knewed de 'fense I give. 
 But den, us darkies bleeged ter live. 
 I'll work — I will — I'll plow an' hoe, 
 Lawd, drive dat hant off fum dat do'! 
 
 DID YU CALL HIT STEALIN, DEN? 
 
 (An Old Tale in Rhyme.) 
 "Stand up, Billy Mason," sternly 
 
 Said the judge, "and answer now 
 To the charge the State is bringing. 
 
 That you stole your neighbor's cow; 
 Are you innocent or guilty? 
 
 Answer now, and make your plea." 
 "Massa Sammie, dis is Billy 
 Is yu done fergotten me? 
 149 
 
'Hain't us played as boys tergedder 
 
 When I use ter b'long ter yu? 
 Massa Sammie, I remembers 
 
 Massa ole an' Missus, too; 
 Don't yu 'member 'bout de pantry, 
 
 Us a-sneakin' in as still 
 As a mouse an' stealin' custard — 
 
 How us 'vided, yu an' Bill? 
 
 'Don't yu 'member Massa's apples- 
 How I dumb de bigges' tree? 
 
 Massa Jedge, yu did de watchin' — 
 Den yu 'vided up wid me; 
 
 Wus hit wrong fer us to pilfer 
 All de aigs fum Uncle Ben? 
 
 Massa Sammie, yu an' Billie 
 Didn't call hit stealin' den. 
 
 'Massa Sammie, does yu 'member 
 
 When yu went ter go ter war 
 Wid a sword an* fight de Yankees, 
 
 Dat yu carried Billie dar? 
 We wus fightin' dar togedder, 
 
 Massa Sammie, yu an* me. 
 In a ditch in front er Richmund 
 
 Heppin' Massa Robert Lee. 
 
 'Does yu 'member how de Yankees 
 
 Cut de ration waggins short — 
 How yu mos'ly had er plenty 
 
 Wid de pigs dat Billie caught? 
 How he foraged fer a livin', 
 
 Ef he brung yu in a hen 
 Whut he foun' a-roostin' keerless, 
 
 Did yu call hit stealin' denf 
 
 Massa Sammie, when a bullet 
 Split yo' face below de eye, 
 
 When dey lef yu stunt an' bleedin' 
 On de battlefiel' ter die, 
 
 150 
 
Do his arm wus broke an' shattered 
 
 "Wid a minie bullet — still 
 Warn't he found a-totin' Massa? 
 
 Am yu done fergotten Bill? 
 
 'Don't yu 'member 'bout de cabin, 
 
 'Bout de fever in yo' brain, 
 When yu thought yu seen yo' mammy. 
 
 Ravin' dar in mortal pain? 
 How he sot an' watched an' tended — 
 
 Ef he axed de Lawd ter len' 
 Massa yudder folks's chickens, 
 
 Did yu call hit stealin' den. 
 
 Massa Sam, I took de yellin' 
 
 Billie's ole an' crippled now. 
 Bent an' broke wid ills an' ailins. 
 
 Powerless ter hoe an' plow; 
 Bleeged ter live an' keep a-gwine, 
 
 Ef he took a yellin' when 
 Soul an' body nearly parted. 
 
 Would you call hit stealin* den?" 
 
 Bent the judge's head — and slowly 
 
 Rolled the tears adown his cheek; 
 Love has thrown the gage to duty 
 
 (Is it blood the law would seek?). 
 And the charge upon the docket 
 
 Blotted is with falling tears. 
 While the judge's heart in roaming 
 
 Through the meadow of the years- 
 Plucks again the boyhood roses 
 
 From amid the thorns of life, 
 Dreams again the peaceful visions, 
 
 Hears again the fearful strife, — 
 Till at last his tongue is loosened, 
 
 But the teardrops freer flow 
 As he speaks in but a whisper, 
 "Billie Mason— you can go. 
 
 151 
 
'Massa Sam is sworn to justice. 
 
 But he still may pay the fine; 
 Seven months or fifty dollars — 
 
 Mr. Clerk, the record sign; 
 Though it wasn't wrong to forage, 
 
 Yet it's wrong to steal a cow — 
 Mr. Sheriff, here's the money — 
 
 And we call it stealing now." 
 
 WHEN DE SUN GITS HUNG. 
 
 Ain't yu nebber bin a-plowin' 
 
 When de grass is in de crap. 
 When yo' feet is jess a-draggin' 
 
 An* yu feels about ter drap — 
 When de tunes is whistled over, 
 
 An' de songs all sung. 
 When de shadders git ter stretckin' 
 
 But de sun gits hung? 
 
 When ee jess above de bushes 
 
 An' a-hangin' in de Wes', 
 When yu bleeged ter keep er plowin' 
 
 An' yu gotter take a res'; 
 When de whipperwill's a-whoopin' 
 
 An' de plow drags roun', 
 An' de sun's a-gittin' redder. 
 
 But ee won't go down. 
 
 Ain't yu nebber bin a-quittin' 
 
 When de shadders 'gin ter fall. 
 When de grub is in de cabin 
 
 An' de mule is in de stall; 
 When de pone's a-gittin' browner 
 
 An' de meat's got done? 
 Yu's erbleeged ter set an' whistle, 
 
 An' de work's all fun. 
 
 Dar's a kinder ressin' feelin' 
 In der risin' er de moon, 
 
 152 
 
When de banjo jess a-ringin' 
 
 Wid a Hallyluyer tune. 
 Ef de cotton keep er growin', 
 
 Den yu may be po', 
 But yu gwine ter git a livin' 
 
 An' yu don't need mo'. 
 
 Ef yu hafter keep a-dreamin', 
 
 When yu got a lot er gol', 
 Dat yu gwinter git er killin', 
 
 Gwine ter git de money stole; 
 Ef yu bleeged ter keep a-sweatin' 
 
 When de gol's all won, 
 Ain't a nigger jess as happy 
 
 When ee ain't got none? 
 
 When de pot is jess er bilin' 
 
 Wid de collards an' de meat. 
 An' de taters in de ashes, 
 
 An' de syrup mighty sweet; 
 When yu's got er plug er 'bacco 
 
 Out de white man's store, 
 Whut's de use ter keep er whinin' 
 
 Fer a big sight more? 
 
 DID YO LEF YO PAPPY WELL? 
 
 (Sam Small's Tale in Rhyme.) 
 There were circus bands parading 
 
 In the peaceful streets of town. 
 With the biggest Barnum circus 
 
 And the foolest funny clown; 
 All the country darkies dropping 
 
 Work, and plow, and axe, and hoe. 
 Straggling in to see the "succus," 
 
 For "dey bleeged to see de show." 
 All perhaps, but Uncle Isom, 
 
 Toiling on at home alone. 
 Singing, "Jesus, come in glory," 
 
 In a softened undertone; 
 
 153 
 
Never thinking of the music 
 Of the "Journey to the Moon," 
 
 Of the flying lady yonder. 
 Of the man and his balloon. 
 
 'Jesus, come again in 'glory, 
 Wid de brightness er de sun; 
 
 Jesus, please fergive er nigger 
 Per de evil whut he done," 
 
 Uncle Isom sang, repeated. 
 Sang it o'er again and spat 
 
 On his hands and kept a-hoeing — 
 "Lordy Massy, whut is dat?" 
 
 For a monstrous shadow flitted 
 
 Down the middle of the row; 
 Uncle Isom, glancing upwards. 
 
 Lost his balance on his hoe. 
 Staggered, reeled and caught his footing. 
 
 Trembled in his aged knees. 
 Muttered, "Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, 
 
 Save er humble nigger, please!" 
 
 Fear alone withheld his flying, 
 
 Save perhaps the rheumatiz; 
 Something spoke, the Lord is coming 
 
 And perhaps the thing is His. 
 
 Praying loudly. Uncle Isom 
 
 Sidled up to where it lay, 
 Stopping ev'ry other moment. 
 
 For of course he had to pray. 
 As the aeronaut approaches, 
 
 Uncle Isom from afar 
 Greets him, "Mornin', Marser Jesus! 
 
 Is yu well — an' how's yo' Pa?" 
 
 BETTER KEEP DE FUBRER. 
 
 Dunno what's a-comin', 
 Cotton high er low, 
 
 154 
 
Lord'U keep pervidin' 
 (Whoa, mule, whoa! ) ; 
 
 Corn is all a-goin', 
 Mule a-gittin' pore. 
 
 Ribs is all a-showin* 
 
 (Grass begin ter grow). 
 
 Better keep de furrer, 
 
 Lord'U keer fer me; 
 Sing an' keep a-goin' 
 
 (Gee, mule, gee!); 
 Clothes a-gittin' thinner, 
 
 Lord de summer sen'; 
 Needin' meat fer dinner, 
 
 Ketch a rabbit den. 
 
 Better keep de furrer. 
 
 Better shun de law; 
 Songs is better'n cussin' 
 
 (Haw, mule, haw! ) ; 
 Dunno whut's a-comin', 
 
 Lord'U 'tend ter dat; 
 Pattidges a-drummin', 
 
 Chickens gittin' fat. 
 
 Shadder gittin' shorter, 
 
 Horn begin ter blow; 
 Dinner gittin' ready 
 
 (W]hoa, mule, whoa!) ; 
 Nebber wus a 'possum 
 
 Dout a 'Simmon tree; 
 Bees'll git de blossom, 
 
 Lord'U keer fer me. 
 
 MAGINATIONS MITEY HEALIN. 
 
 Fokes dat alius keeps complalnin' 
 
 Qlts a habit atter while; 
 Mule's a-ressin' while hits ralnin', 
 
 Needn' grumble, better smile; 
 
 115 
 
When yu sees a man dat's porely. 
 Cheer him up a bit an' say, 
 
 'Yu's a-lookin' better shorely, 
 Gittin' fatter every day." 
 
 'Magination's mitey healin', 
 
 Monstrous good to cuore or kill; 
 Give a man a better feelin', 
 
 Mebbe save a doctor's bill. 
 When a feller's blue as blazes, 
 
 Mopin' roun' when cotton's fell, 
 Brag about dat corn he raises, 
 
 Tell him meat an' taters sell. 
 
 Roads whut folks is got to travel — 
 
 Smothes' ones is rough an' long; 
 Shortest way to hit the gravel 
 
 Wid dat Hallyluyer song. 
 When a feller's mule an' yellin', 
 
 Levelled on an nary hog. 
 Monstrous lot of good in tellin* 
 
 Whut is in dat 'possum dog. 
 
 Gittin' on's a mitey riddle, 
 
 Gittin' harder every day; 
 People whut kin tune de fiddle, 
 
 Rawsom up dey bow an' play, 
 Never keers about de gravels 
 
 Siftin' through dey sorry shoes, 
 Shakes hit out ag'in an' travels, 
 
 Never thinkin' 'bout de blues. 
 
 DIFFRUNT FOLKS HAS DIFFRUNT NOTIONS. 
 
 Think yu's better fokes than others. 
 
 Stuck up sorter, mister man; 
 People better live as brothers, 
 
 Never come to understand 
 How hit wus a paper collar, 
 
 Patent shoes, and speckled vest 
 
 X56 
 
Flashy scarf and jingled dollars, 
 
 Made er nigger 'iDOve de rest. 
 Bv'rything is good by natur', 
 
 Make 'em bad — an' we's ter blame; 
 Mornin' glory, sweet potato. 
 
 Cousins, most'ly jess de same. 
 One may have a brighter blossom. 
 
 Glory in a brighter dress, 
 Yudder fatten up de possum, 
 
 Kinder think hit much de bes'. 
 
 Simply kase a man's in power, 
 
 Not a reason wrong ter do; 
 Cabbages and cauliflower 
 
 Brothers same as me an' yu. 
 Simply kase a feller's dirty 
 
 No excuse fer bein' rude; 
 Offen in a better shirt he 
 
 Better-lookin' den a dude. 
 
 Diffrunt fokes has diffrunt fancies, 
 
 Diffrunt ways and diffrunt whims; 
 Man dat love de Lord and dances 
 
 Good as one dat sings de hymns; 
 Man dat whistle in de meadow, 
 
 Plowin' whar de grass is rank, 
 Offen just as good or better 
 
 Man dan feller owns de bank. 
 
 Diffrunt fokes has diffrunt stations, 
 Stupid, wise, and high and low; 
 
 Seasons, seas and men and nations 
 Move as God would have them go. 
 
 TAKE ME BACK, YU KNOSE ME WAYS. 
 
 Marster Willium! Marster Willium! Here Ise journeyed 
 
 home ag'in. 
 An' de po' ole darkey's hungry now an' col'; 
 How I sighed fer dear ole Georgy in de country whar Fse 
 
 bin! 
 
 157 
 
Marster Willium, take me back — Ise growin' ole. 
 Take me back — yu knose mer ways, 
 Take me back ergin, I prays; 
 
 Dey's a love fer dear ole marster seems ter draw 
 Dis ole heart where'er I go — 
 Marster Willium, never more 
 Will I leave the farm I loved afore de war. 
 Marster Willium, how Ise missed yu — yu wus alius kind an' 
 good, 
 How I longed to see yu sence I went away; 
 Marster Willium, don't be angry, — ^how I wish yu only would 
 Take me back upon de farm, an' let me stay. , 
 Take me back — yu knose mer ways. 
 Take me back ter end mer days; 
 
 Dey's er little cabin yander seems ter draw 
 Tears ter stain de ole man's cheek — 
 Marster Willium, only speak: 
 Must I leave de farm I loved afore de war? 
 Marster Willium, let me linger 'side the graves of all I love; 
 
 Marster Willium, how I alius longed ter come! 
 I could hear the chillun calling, calling, calling as I roved — 
 How the po' ole darkey wants ter stay at home! 
 Take me back — yu knose mer ways. 
 Take me back ter end mer days; 
 
 Let me rest beneath the trees when life is gone; 
 Marster Willium, dig mer grave 
 Whar de sweet magnolias wave, 
 
 'Mid de soil upon de farm whar I wus born; 
 Take me back — yu knose mer ways, 
 Take me back ter end mer days, 
 
 Dey's a little cabin yander seems ter draw; 
 Marster Willium, only speak — 
 Tears are streamin' down your cheek — 
 Must I leave de farm I loved afore de war? 
 
 DE LORD KNOWS HOW. 
 
 Never worried 'bout de rain, 
 Lord'll fix it fine; 
 158 
 
Lord'U let de cotton grow, 
 Lord'll sen' de shine. 
 
 Never grumbles 'bout de heat, 
 
 Fear'd de Lord'll call 
 Wid a mitey rushin' win', 
 
 Takin' house an' all. 
 
 Alius thankin' Providence, 
 
 Happy on de way; 
 Happy in de cotton patch, 
 
 Happy in de hay. 
 
 Happy when de cane is sweet, 
 'Simmons ripe and brown; 
 
 Happy when de taters jess 
 Crackin' up de groun'. 
 
 Lord'll git de seasons up, 
 
 Lord'll send de quails; 
 Fokes dat keep de furrer clean 
 
 Never fills de jails. 
 Foolishness a-grumberlin' — 
 
 Sun's erbleeged ter shine; 
 Mitey nice when grass an' weeds 
 
 Wliltin' 'long de line. 
 Master's job to run de worl', 
 
 Mine ter run de plow; 
 Needn' try ter give advice — 
 
 De Lord knows how. 
 
 A MOSES WANTED. 
 
 A doctor claims that laziness is caused by the hook worm 
 and proposes to vaccinate against it. 
 
 When de niggers starts a-readin' 
 Whut de papers writes about. 
 How to shuffle off de lazy. 
 
 Is a nigger gwine ter shout? 
 Kin a nigger be a nigger 
 Ceppin' lak a nigger's made? 
 159 
 
When de grass is jess a-growin', 
 Ain't a nigger needin' shade? 
 
 But de doctors' gittin' smarter 
 
 Every single college term, 
 And dey say de lazy nigger 
 
 Got a little lazy worm, 
 Jess a little uncinaries, 
 
 Lak a kittin's full of fleas — 
 Dat a lazy nigger lazy 
 
 Kase he got a heap er dese. 
 
 Now de doctors' gwine ter doctor, 
 
 Gwine ter try ter fin' a way 
 Fer ter work a lazy nigger 
 
 Whar he hired by de day; 
 An' a gwine ter docteratin' 
 
 Fer ter make de niggers go; 
 Gwine ter makin' labor better, 
 
 Gwine ter murder niggers shore. 
 
 'Fore de Lawd de nigger's gittin' 
 
 Whar ee bleeged ter git erbout; 
 Bleeged ter keep de plow er runnin', 
 
 Bleeged ter drive de lazy out; 
 'Fore de Lawd de day's er comin' 
 
 When de nigger's bleeged ter fight 
 Fer de chanst ter ress er little — 
 
 Ain't de lines a-gittin' tight? 
 
 Am de nigger gwine ter suffer— 
 Gwine ter linger, gwine ter wait? 
 
 Ain't ee gwine ter start a party? 
 Ain't ee gwine ter emmygrate? 
 
 Ain't ee gwine ter fin' er Moses? 
 Ain't ee gwine ter do 'is bes' 
 
 Fer der right er bein' lazy? 
 Ain't ee bleeged ter hav er res'? 
 
 Ain't de plegs a-gwine ter foller? 
 
 Ain't it gwine ter be er case 
 
 160 
 
Fer de Lawd ter get a-thinkin* 
 How ter save de nigger race? 
 
 Ain't He gwine ter move de water 
 In de bottom er de sea, 
 
 Dat de niggers may be movin', 
 Marchin' back ter Aferkee? 
 
 WHEN AUNT DINA FIRST HEARD OF THE 
 AUTOMOBILE. 
 
 "Yessum, ma, I seen succus. 
 An' hit sho wus mitey fine, 
 Wid de tagers an' de monkeys 
 An' de loudes' roarin' li'ne. 
 
 "Orter seen de funny doin's. 
 
 Clown der shoe ter mak' yer laff; 
 Gals er straddle er de bosses, 
 Funny double-headed calf. 
 
 "An' de music wus er playin' 
 
 While a man he skunt de cat; 
 Jess er lot er yudder doin's — 
 
 Double ooman, think er dat! 
 "Den er buggy 'dout a critter, 
 
 Runnin' round', hit nearly flies!" 
 "Yuse er foolin', lazy nigger, 
 
 Tuse er gone a-tellin' lies. 
 
 "Hain't I read hit in de Bible 
 Nuthin' new aneath de sun? 
 Ef er critter ain't er pullin'. 
 How's er buggy gwine ter run? 
 
 "Lies hit is yuse tellin', nigger, 
 Sees hit snappin' out yer eye; 
 Hain't er tried ter raise yer fittin' 
 Fer de mansion in de sky? 
 
 "Dar's yo' brudder Ben desarted 
 Er de Lawd an' gone ter town, 
 
 161 
 
Sayin' dat de sun is standin* 
 While de worl's a-turnin' roun', 
 
 'Den ee keep a-gittin' wusser, 
 Gittin' wusser tell ee said 
 
 WJien hit's turnin' people often 
 Jess a-standin' on dey head. 
 
 'Den I slapped dat lyin' nigger — 
 Bigges' fool of all ter tell 
 
 'Bout de worl' a-turnin' over 
 While de water's in de well!" 
 
 162 
 
f assetip linsleg 
 
 Need a Cracker go pinin', a-cravin' the moon, 
 When the torches are blazing, the fiddle's in tune? 
 If the Violin fails us a classical air. 
 Let us dance to the Fiddle and ''Ole Mollie Hare." 
 
MY DADDY WAS A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Jim Richardson, Jim Richardson, why do you shiver so?" 
 "The flying snow is in the air, the weather ten below." 
 "Go cut the wood, Jim Richardson, you've wood upon your 
 
 land;" 
 "I'd ruther freeze ; I never keered to be a nigger hand; 
 My daddy was a gentleman, a man of high degree, 
 He had a cane, a coach and six, a man of qualitee; 
 To stoop so low, Jim Richardson is not the man to be— 
 
 The equ'll of a nigger fer a warmin'. 
 "Jim Richardson, Jim Richardson, the crop is in the grass; 
 It's got the corn, it's got the cane, it's got the garden sass; 
 The engineer will try to do and get the train to go. 
 The other folks'U watch and tell the things you'd like to 
 
 know." 
 "My daddy was a gentleman, a man of high degree, 
 He had a cane ,a coach and six, a man of qualitee; 
 He managed other folks' affairs — it's good enough for me; 
 I alius lets the niggers do the farmin'." 
 
 "Jim Richardson, Jim Richardson, you wrote a year ago 
 You'd come at once and settle up, at once, if not before; 
 We've baited you, 
 
 We've offered you 
 
 To split the note in half; 
 We've waited you 
 
 And proffered you 
 
 To take a lousy calf; 
 Your daddy was a gentleman, a man of high degree. 
 He had a cane, a coach and six, a man of qualitee; 
 He lied perhaps for cash or time, but you're a-lyin' free, 
 You equ'll of a nigger fer a lyin'!" 
 
 THE TEACHER'S PROPHECY. 
 
 I could never like the shadows 
 If the sunlight filled the fields; 
 
 Never listened to the organ 
 'Mid the summer thunder peals; 
 
 165 
 
For the painted roses never 
 
 Sparkled bright with morning dew; 
 Never rainbow on the canvas 
 
 Bright as truth— or sky as blue. 
 
 I could never chain the starlight 
 To a strain of music sweet, 
 
 Gazing upwards crushing daisies 
 In the dust with careless feet; 
 
 Never delved in dingy volumes. 
 
 Seeking useless olden lore, 
 
 When the mocking birds were singing 
 To the roses at the door. 
 
 Never learned the dates of battles 
 
 Or the numbers of the slain; 
 Though I tried to please the teacher, 
 
 Yet I found the struggle vain. 
 For the task was soon forgotten, 
 
 And with absent-minded air 
 I was humming bits of music 
 
 To the roses in her hair. 
 
 Never learned the chief productions 
 
 Of a kingdom or a clime; 
 Never learned the bounds and borders, 
 
 For they never seemed to rhyme; 
 Never got a problem ready. 
 
 Never drew a map to scale, 
 If the golden wheat was dancing 
 
 To the whistle of the quail. 
 
 I was but a foolish pupil. 
 
 That the teacher never pressed. 
 That he deemed too dull to study. 
 
 Lagging far behind the rest; 
 Just an easy, lazy fellow, 
 
 Never would amount to much; 
 Hardly half the understanding 
 
 Of his neighbor, Billy Futch. 
 
 166 
 
Billy Futch could tell the answer 
 
 Of a sum as quick as light; 
 He could read his Latin lesson 
 
 Very nearly off at sight. 
 Had the records of the armies, 
 
 Knew the victors in the wars; 
 Figured out the equinoxes, 
 
 Took the distance of the stars. 
 
 And the teacher smiled upon him 
 
 As the brightest boy in school; 
 Hardly worth the trouble thrashing 
 
 Ugly me, the village fool. 
 Billie Futch would rise above me— 
 
 Well, I knew it all along; 
 Let him study, pore and ponder, 
 
 But I knew the crickets' song. 
 
 Heard the mockingbirds and thrushes 
 
 In the sweet magnolia trees; 
 Learning sums was made for Billie, 
 
 But I took to none of these. 
 So I'm plowing in the meadow, 
 
 Where the cotton blooms are bright. 
 Red and pink and crimson blossoms 
 
 Creamy-tinted— pretty sight. 
 
 And I'm singing in the furrow 
 
 As I used to long ago; 
 I would never mind the weather 
 
 If the wind would never blow; 
 Happy now without a dollar. 
 
 Never did amount to much; 
 Teacher often said I wouldn't; — 
 
 What became of Billy Futch? 
 Billy rose above us, stranger, 
 
 As the teacher, said, of course: 
 Didn't take 'em long to hang him 
 
 When he stole his neighbor's horse! 
 
 167 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 It has in the past, and for all we know, may In th« 
 present, be the custom when a bright gem of poesy was 
 about to blaze upon a startled public to illumine the firma- 
 ment of literature with its effulgence, to dedicate to some 
 man of note and standing. Our "pome" below will be dedi- 
 cated to our dog DoDo because he is a gentleman of a con- 
 siderable variety of notes and considerably more standing 
 than a three-legged dog. We are sorry for him at times 
 because of his ineffectual manner of chasing fleas off his 
 curtailed appendage. He has never had the show of longer- 
 handled dogs, but has always done his best for his chances, 
 and at times has transformed himself into a whirling der- 
 vish in the vain pursuit of large purple-top fleas who sat 
 upon the end of his tail and mockingly wiggled their fingers 
 over their noses at him. But never an orphan flea went 
 his way but what his compassionate heart was stirred and 
 would take him in for lodging. When he dies we mean to 
 build him a monument 145,673,241% miles high out of the 
 skull bones of the disconsolate and weary fleas that he has 
 helped to warm lodgings. Here's to our short-handled fice, 
 who has barked at the moon whether it was shining or not, 
 since it ought to have been there and he would not shirk 
 his duty but stuck to his post. Here's to the heels of the 
 many niggers' britches he has spat upon the ground after 
 vainly endeavoring to chew: Here's to DoDo. 
 
 MY SHORT HANDLED FICE. 
 
 We've a robert-tailed fice. 
 
 He's a property dog; 
 He is frightened at chickens, 
 
 And scared at a hog. 
 But we never could sell him. 
 
 We haven't a price. 
 And he's not on the market. 
 
 Our short-handled fice. 
 
 168 
 
He's our short-handled fice, 
 
 And we think it is nice 
 When he fills us with fleas. 
 
 Does our short-handled fice. 
 
 He can sit at our window, 
 
 And bark at the moon, 
 Every day of the year. 
 
 From December to June. 
 If the night should be darkened 
 
 He hasn't a care; 
 If the moon isn't shining, 
 
 It ought to be there. 
 'Tis the same through the clouds and 
 
 The rain and the fog; 
 He's the job to keep barking. 
 
 Our short-handled dog. 
 And we think it is nice — 
 
 He's our short-handled fice — 
 If we sleep half the time 
 
 For our short-handled fice. 
 
 THE WORL AINT AS BAD AS HIT USEN TO BE. 
 'Bout a mile from the town wus my grandaddy's farm, 
 To the lad of a boy it wus as big as a world; 
 In the deeps of the noon when the weather wus warm 
 An' the heat like a stove and the cotton wus curled 
 Did my grandaddy sit in his split-bottom chair 
 With a wheezenish pipe an' a cloud in the air. 
 Should the folks in the house, an' the neighbors begin 
 Fer to pry into all of the scandal an' sin. 
 Through the years come the words that my grandaddy 
 
 spoke 
 As his pipe gave a wheeze) from a column of smoke 
 Pluck the beam— let the motes of the others alone; 
 Fer the world all the better an' better is grown 
 (An' a pillar of smoke, an' a wheezin' an' he) 
 Thought the world "Jist as good as hit usen ter be." 
 
 169 
 
When the cotton wus low an' the people wus blue 
 An' the craps in the grass an' the rain wudden stop, 
 Then my grandaddy waded the water to view 
 All the stuff in the fields, he wus sure of a crop, 
 An' he'd whistle a "hime" as he'd smilingly say, 
 "When the rain is the hardest, the surer the hay." 
 
 When the craps was a wiltin' a-needin' the rain 
 An' the times wus the bluest , he whistled again. 
 An' he cheered up the man with the sorrowful eye, 
 "When the yield is the lowest the prices is high." 
 
 Better trust in the Lord for the rain as of old. 
 Better wait till the harvest is gathered an' sold 
 "When I thinks of the craps of the past," reckoned he, 
 "All the craps aint as bad as they usen to be." 
 
 "Fer a man gittin' drunk an' abusin' his wife 
 Fer a wife running off with a lover — ahem! 
 Thar's a thousand a-leadin' a peaceable life 
 But the folks aint a printin' and scandalin' them; 
 When a man starts ter jedge of the harm of a sin 
 Better look at the lights of his cabin agin' " 
 (An a puff, and the circles in phantasies spring); 
 
 "Better think of the rocks that the others can ning. 
 Better sweep at the front of his door" (an' a wheeze 
 Of the pipe) ; "It's the people a-loafin' what sees— 
 Whut the folkes is about— an' the people that go 
 With an eye an' a nose fer a scandal that know 
 An' a house 'thout a corner fer raggedy clothes 
 Is a house where the folks never stay, I suppose. 
 
 "Leave the closets of life ever closed if you can, 
 There is good in the vilest, the sorriest man; 
 Thar is bad in the best an' its needless ter try 
 Fer ter straighten out things an' at skeletons pry; 
 Fer the throwin' of salt never bettered a man" 
 (An' a puff) "fer a salve is a much better plan; 
 Better seek fer the goodness, a-huntin' the bad 
 Is the sorriest bisness a man ever had; 
 
 170 
 
Fer the worF that is sotted and spotted with sin 
 Is the best sort of worl' that we ever wus in" 
 (An' a puff, an' a wheeze of his pipe) "you'll agree 
 That the world aint as bad as hit usen ter be." 
 
 FARMIN DON'T PAY. 
 
 'Kain't make nothin'," sighed Thomas Jones, 
 
 As he shifted his quid a bit; 
 'Kain't make nothin'," in doleful tones, 
 "Blame farmin', I'm ready to quit 
 For the niggers won't do 
 And the truck won't grow 
 And hits further and further behind in the fall 
 And the figgers look blue 
 On the book at the store 
 And hit takes all the cotton, and needin' lots more. 
 Farmin' don't pay at all." 
 
 Then he hitched up his horse and he started to town 
 And he stayed and he talked till the sun went down, 
 And the hands took a tree in the field for the shade 
 And they slumbered and slept, and they slept and stayed 
 Let the grass in the cotton crawl. 
 
 'Now, a-farmin' don't pay," muttered Thomas for shore, 
 
 Shaking sleep from his gawky legs; 
 And he ambled around in the hunt for a store 
 WMere the waters of joy from their faucetings flow, 
 Where you ever have riches and never feel poor. 
 And he hunted a dozen eggs 
 
 And a platter of butter, a canteloupe, 
 And^ a rasher of steak, and a bar of soap, 
 And a smidgen of cheese, 
 And a bushel of peas. 
 Piece of meat and a bushel of meal, 
 And a couple of pans, 
 Lot of peaches in cans, 
 And a spoke for his wagon wheel. 
 171 
 
Then a peck of potatoes, a cabbage or so, 
 Now the farmin' is blue and the craps won't grow; 
 And the niggers: old Sammie and Billie and Joe 
 Air the devil a-takin' up goods at the store, 
 An' a drag gittin' 'bout in the field. 
 
 Then he talks and he talks, and he tries to fix 
 Up a slate for the world with its politics. 
 While the waters of pleasure and Thomas do mix 
 Till the dial spins round to the nine or the six. 
 
 And the houses are dancing a turn; 
 And he rises again. 
 And begins to complain 
 That it's farmin' in vain when it never does rain 
 And the farmer that planted expecting the grain 
 
 Wouldn't git half his seed by a durn. 
 
 DEVIL SIMON. 
 
 (Ye Ballade of Ye Marshal Brave.) 
 
 Devil Simon back in town, try and run him in 
 Shot a dozen niggers down, heavens what a sin! 
 Devil Simon take your time, ride the houses through, 
 Ev'ry other sort of coat, not a coat of blue 
 
 Into town when Simon comes, all the houses close 
 
 Out of place when Simon comes, all the cops are flying. 
 
 Into town when Simon comes, shut are all the stores. 
 
 Out of holes when Simon goes, coppie comes a lying 
 Ef er had 'er bin'er roun,' I'd er made him smoke 
 I'd er smashed his rowdy head, I'd er got the bloke 
 Gone ter hunt a nigger down, bust his ugly face, 
 Simon better thank his stars, I wus out'er place. 
 
 Smashing loud the windows go, bullet at a light 
 Close the shutters, bar the door. Devil Simon's tight 
 Flash of flame and flight of lead, handy thirty-eight. 
 Sheriff sick at home a-bed, cops absquatulate 
 
 Round the town when Simon comes, quick the message 
 flies 
 
 Got in himmel vhat a men, all ter beebles scatter 
 
 172 
 
When he leaves the marshal asks, full of great surprise 
 
 What on earth the racket is what is all the matter 
 Has he bin a cuttin' up? — ^Wish'er had'er bin 
 Close erroun his ugly hide, Fder run him in. 
 What a lie you're tellin' now, Think a man's a goose, 
 Had'e a huUet proof yourself, used the calaboose. 
 Devil Simon took the town, an' twenty drinks of corn 
 Folks have all begun to ask, "whar's the marshall gone?" 
 Where, oh where's the marshall gone, folks begin to shout 
 Guardin' of the calaboose, keepin' Simon out 
 
 Slam the door an' bar hit well. 
 
 He's raisin' lot of h 1. 
 
 Guard hit well an' hold hit down; 
 
 Simon wants to take the town. 
 
 Never let him have the use 
 
 Of the people's calaboose. 
 
 CUCKOO SHALL NOT CROW TO-NIGHT. 
 
 (From ScotVs Emulsion Smith of Pig Skin Prescinct.) 
 
 England's private sun was setting. 
 
 Far from home South Georgia style. 
 Angelina's father's homing, 
 
 Quininized and full of bile. 
 All day long had niggers tried him, 
 
 Still, but two hands had slain. 
 Sorry day for coons he murmured. 
 
 But perhaps I'd best refrain. 
 Swings the gate ajar to enter. 
 
 Mounts the steps and madly spies 
 Angeline and Percy Gloaming, 
 
 Hammock style. And fiercely cries: 
 "Percy Jones, I need to tell you. 
 
 Both yourself and Angeline, 
 You must hike away your carcass, 
 
 Just as cuckoo warbles nine. 
 Gloaming Gloams is making Angle 
 
 Pale and sallow having chills. 
 173 
 
Get you gone at nine, or Percy, 
 There may be some surgeon's bills. 
 
 Angeline is never feeling. 
 Well enough to sweep the floor. 
 
 She's a dark brown taste of morning. 
 When she gloams the night before." 
 
 Turning, father's moistened finger. 
 
 Squelched his "she roots" glow and then 
 
 Placed it where 'twould be convenient, 
 When he'd want to smoke agen. 
 
 In the eyes of Angelina, 
 Blazed defiance brave and fine, 
 "Think I ain't a fool," she murmured, 
 "Cuckoo shall NOT crow at nine." 
 
 Softly this she murmured speaking. 
 
 Just below her daddy's ears. 
 Daddy's deaf, and Angelina 
 
 Knows he hardly ever hears. 
 
 'Percy," Angelina whispered, 
 
 "Since it's thus, it's up to you. 
 If you'll gloam, we'll keep a gloaming, 
 As of old till after two." 
 
 Moving hands and grating movement, 
 Swaying chains and falling weight. 
 
 Startled Angeline and Percy, 
 Count the crows, it's only eight. 
 
 Speeding moments caution Angle, 
 (Why, oh why, thy tress resign,) 
 
 Cause its lodged on Percy's buttons. 
 Cut it quick, its nearly nine. 
 
 'Tiptoe gently, father's sleeping, 
 
 Hustle quick, and get a chair, 
 I've resolved to beard the cuckoo, 
 
 Somewhere close around his lair." 
 
 174 
 
Quick she sprang, her fingers holding 
 Round about the rising weight. 
 
 Swung as swings the varied fortunes, 
 Of some rising candidate. 
 
 Up and up those cruel movements, 
 
 Angelina's fingers drew. 
 Cuckoo nestled at the doorway. 
 
 Ready for his next debut. 
 
 Up and upward Percy gazes, 
 
 What alas must Percy do? 
 Quick he springs and seizes Angie, 
 
 Just above her dainty shoe. 
 
 Upward still those cruel movements, 
 Upward, upward, Angie feels. 
 
 Cog wheels chew her golden tresses, 
 Cuckoo orders stop them wheels. 
 
 Maids and men are sausage makers, 
 Dogs ye still may grind, and cats, 
 
 If they come are welcome ever. 
 Cuckoo draws the line at rats. 
 
 Years have speeded Angie, Percy, 
 Kids and all are thriving fine, 
 
 Anti Chinese cuckoo never 
 Mustered heart to murmur nine. 
 
 THE SPRING OF WISDOM. 
 
 Through the deeps of the ages 
 
 The seers and the sages. 
 For the seeds of true wisdom have sought, 
 
 They were happy forsooth. 
 
 If the gleam of a truth, 
 All the years of their study have brought. 
 They were wasteful of wit, they were foolish and weak 
 When they squandered their time, when they started to seek 
 For the things that have often heen settled before, 
 By the fellows that loaf at the grocery store, 
 
 175 
 
Thar is Tommie and Jim, 
 
 Thar is Sammie and Tim, 
 Thar is Cephus, and Silas and Abe, 
 
 Thar is Bennie and Joe, 
 
 And a lot of folks more; 
 Even Alex, and Peter, and Gabe 
 With the tireless tongue, and the ball-bearing jaw 
 Who can pass upon politics, physics and law — 
 Tell the weight of a cow, or the coming of snow 
 Like a wink if you'll ask at the grocery store. 
 
 Now it's folly to strive. 
 
 We can never arrive. 
 Though we delve through the cycle of years 
 
 At a wisdom, as ripe, 
 
 Let us kindle the pipe. 
 Draining deep from this fountain of theirs, 
 All the problems that merit a serious thought, 
 When the crops should be sold, or the stocks to be bought 
 When the stage of the moon that the cotton will grow, 
 Let us learn from the folks 'round the grocery store. 
 
 THE LOAFER. 
 
 I can never like the fellow 
 
 Who is alius up in town 
 Cuttin* boxes for a livin'. 
 
 Just a-sorter hangin' 'roun' 
 Chasing golden dreams that nestle, 
 
 At the ending of the bow, 
 That he'd never find for loafing. 
 
 Cutting benches at the store. 
 Down at home his wife is sewing 
 
 For the things he has to eat. 
 If he paid her sewing money 
 
 He would hate to tote the meat. 
 And he'd try to raise a nickle, 
 
 Pay a coon to go and then 
 Moralize "A bein' porter's 
 
 'Neath the rank of gentlemen." 
 
 176 
 
In his garden is a tangle 
 
 Grassy row and yellow greens, 
 Morning glories kill the cabhage, 
 
 Coffee weeds devour the beans, 
 While the first at early morning, 
 
 To the whittled benches stuck, 
 He's a telling of the fortunes 
 
 Waiting folks a-raisln* truck. 
 
 He's the greatest cotton farmer 
 
 If you listen to his tale. 
 But a twenty-acre clearing 
 
 Is his limit for a bale. 
 Raisin' corn he beats the nation, 
 
 And he knows the way it grows, 
 But the only corn he gathers 
 
 Grows upon his loafing toes. 
 
 I can never like the fellow 
 
 Who is alius up in town 
 Cuttin* boxes for a llvin', 
 
 Just a-sorter hangin' 'round. 
 He is alius making fortunes, 
 
 Half a dozen ev'ry day, 
 But the dollar that he borrows 
 
 He can never think to pay. 
 
 MALINDA'S TOGS. 
 
 Miss Malinda's ma's a wido-^, 
 
 Very little, none to spare. 
 All around are signs of saving; 
 
 All the younger children wear 
 Odds and ends and hardly venture 
 
 Very much to go to town. 
 But you'd think Malinda's wealthy 
 
 Judging from her Sunday gown. 
 
 Silken cloth and satin ribbon, 
 Plaitlngs fine and pointed lace, 
 
 177 
 
Twenty-dolar hat that shadows 
 
 Sweet Malinda's pretty face. 
 Sweet Malinda's hands are snowy, 
 
 Never used to scrub and scour, 
 Miss Malinda's beau's a million, 
 
 Dress her well, her chance is now. 
 Tease him, coax him, sweet Malinda, 
 
 Flutter from him, practice arts. 
 Never harm to get a million, 
 
 Boot in swapping loving hearts 
 Broken, are we all, Malinda, 
 
 Creditors are bearing down, 
 Catch him, dear, our whole possessions 
 
 Sacrificed for Sunday gown. 
 
 A ROMANCE OF JIM JONES. 
 
 Jim Jones in June 
 
 Went out to spoon, 
 And the maid that he loved was fair. 
 
 A brow of snow, 
 
 And cheeks peach glow 
 And midnight shade of hair. 
 Was dressed in vest — 
 
 His very best, 
 And the swing of his coat was fine. 
 
 On silk cravat 
 
 A diamond sat, 
 You would not dream it Rhine. 
 
 He wooed and sued. 
 
 And billed and cooed. 
 And the maid that he wooed said nay. 
 
 And kicked him hard, 
 
 His heart was jarred. 
 And mad he went away. 
 
 Said he, and she 
 
 "Sot down on me. 
 What a fool of a gal. He cussed, 
 178 
 
And raved and swore, 
 And cussed and tore 
 
 At hopes like bladders bust. (Curtain.) 
 (Two Years Later.) 
 Jim Jones one June 
 Cum back to spoon, 
 And the maid of his love said yea; 
 And then, ah, she 
 Sot down on he 
 Another kind of way. (Curtain.) 
 (Part Three). q, 
 
 (Ten Years Later.) 
 
 Jim Jones now groans 
 
 And sadly moans 
 At the time that he came to woo. 
 
 It's frocks and hose 
 
 Fer Sal's and Joe's, 
 And Jim's when times is blue. (Curtain.) 
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW. 
 
 Let the caddies go gather their treasures 
 From the brush of the masters of fame. 
 
 They are half of them daubs and delusions 
 And the merit is only the name. 
 
 You may squander your thousands to gather 
 Pretty pictures for mansion and hall, 
 
 But the picture I quote, fills the treasury note- 
 It's the finest old picture of all. 
 
 You may sing of the sobs that are sleeping 
 In the passionate praise of the chimes, 
 
 Of the bells that are dowered with silver. 
 How the gold of their melody rhymes 
 
 With the song of the spheres and the sirens 
 As the notes on the waiting air fall, 
 
 But it does pretty well, does the old dinner bell. 
 And its tones they are sweeter than all. 
 179 
 
You may speak of the stars that are shining, 
 
 Of the nebulous comets that fly 
 Like a steed that has never a rider, 
 
 With a tail — on the dash of the sky, 
 You may talk of your Mars and your Venus 
 
 But the star that from plowing shall call 
 That, we see as a rule, from the rear of a mule. 
 
 Is the star that is fairer than all. 
 
 MY SLAB SIDED HOUND. 
 
 You may sing if you fancy of sweethearts and wives, 
 Of the girl that's the solace and joy of your lives; 
 They are petted and printed, their praises abound, 
 But the world has neglected the slab-sided hound. 
 
 When the cotton is poorest, and prices are low. 
 And the sheriff's expected to darken the door. 
 There is some consolation to wander around 
 On the trail of a hare and a slab-sided hound. 
 
 He's a picture of woe, but a solace to me, 
 
 And the snap of his teeth as he murders a flea. 
 
 Is a stimulus great and a lesson for all, 
 
 And the moral's don't falter for things that are small. 
 
 Keep the business rushing a lickity click, 
 For the chance never comes to the fellow that's sick 
 With the blues, an' a-pining an' mopin' aroun'. 
 There's a lesson to read from the slab-sided hound. 
 
 If the provender's scant he is out on the scout, 
 On the search of a rabbit a-nosin' about, 
 And the fancy bred dog from the fanciful town 
 Is a slouch by the side of my slab-sided hound. 
 
 THEM OLD TIME FEELINS. 
 
 I courted Sallie, got a No, 
 
 I tried to win her still. 
 But hopes grow vain, alas in woe 
 
 I cried, "A bitter pill!" 
 
 180 
 
For Bill, you see, had more than I, 
 
 Hit turned her head, perhaps, 
 To see him often driving by 
 
 While I must plow my craps. 
 He had a buggy, horse and farm— 
 
 A splendid catch, no doubt, 
 But I was poor and little harm 
 
 To cut a plow boy out. 
 She married him— that's what she did, 
 
 But things went wrong, somehow 
 She loved to ride about so much 
 
 It often stopped his plow. 
 Well, things went 'long, I plowed for Bill, 
 
 No wages much he paid; 
 I saved it slow, it seemed, but still 
 
 It grew and there it laid. 
 Till Bill at last lost all he had. 
 
 His farm was sold for debt, 
 One season when his crops wus bad 
 
 His mortgage wasn't met. 
 His lands, and mules I bought, an' then 
 
 I stayed at home besides. 
 The years rolled on, like other men 
 
 Have done before, Bill died. 
 
 She smiles at me so nice — that deep 
 Them old-time feelings stirs , 
 
 But then I'd hate to strain to keep 
 Th'^m sixteen kids of hers. 
 
 SWEET MARJORIE AND THE BUMBLE BEE. 
 
 Sweet Marjorie walketh her gardens fair, 
 
 And the rose is a-bloom to-day; 
 Sweet Marjorie walketh with graceful air, 
 In her curls do the breezes stray, 
 Where the green grass grows, 
 Sweet Marjorie goes 
 Sweet Marjorie readeth a book, 
 
 181 
 
Sits Marjorie sweet 
 
 On a grassy seat, 
 
 Never stops for the once to look. 
 
 Sweet Marjorie sitteth to read and she 
 
 In a trice is afloat again, 
 Sweet Marjorie masheth a bumble-hee 
 
 And the thought of it giveth her pain, 
 Sweet Marjorie blusheth when bumble-bees 
 And the grass and the trees are named; 
 Sweet Marjorie looketh and now she sees 
 Where she sits and she can't be blamed. 
 Sweet Marjorie 
 No more for thee, 
 Can charm in dewy shadows be. 
 The apple tree and bumble bee 
 All wait in vain for Marjorie. 
 
 YOU KILLED MY POSSUM DORG. 
 
 (The Mqdern Story of Cain and Abel.) 
 Eve and Adam struggled onward 
 
 Saving hay and mowing grain, 
 Took a prize on early squashes, 
 
 Sadly failed at raising Cain, 
 Hoping spite of all to conquer, 
 
 Abel be to own the green 
 Just to make the payment needed, 
 
 Eva needs a new machine. 
 Many years she waited longing, 
 
 Blooming hope anew of late 
 Surged within her bosom, Abel 
 
 Hoped at last to graduate, 
 Cain had proved a failure farming, 
 
 Abel meant to try the street, 
 Learn to shear his lambs as neatly 
 
 As of old — and plunge in wheat. 
 
 Rolling time rolled onward, onward, 
 
 Bonds and stocks and houses grew, 
 
 182 
 
Under Abel's magic fingers 
 
 First a million, later two. 
 Bulled a score of millions quickly, 
 
 Turning around became a bear 
 Later built a palace reaching 
 
 Ninety stories througb the air. 
 
 Adam on his porch was reading 
 
 Funny column, from afar. 
 Spies the limited a leaving 
 
 Splendid style of palace car, 
 Strolling to the station joining 
 
 Other rubbernecks to view. 
 Hears the voice of Abel calling 
 "Father, father; is it you?" 
 
 Poet's patent tears are falling. 
 
 Customary tears of joy 
 Mother Eva sees and speeding 
 
 Loudly cries, "My Boy, My Boy!—" 
 Abel's stay is sweet and shortened 
 
 Time is cash to him, — but Cain 
 Eve and Adam, simple trustful. 
 
 Learn he means to corner grain. 
 
 Onward roll the days and Adam 
 
 Mortgages his house and farm, 
 Sorry Cain has raised a little 
 
 Pledging uncle watch and charm, 
 Mother Eva's butter money. 
 
 Chicken change that every year 
 Grew a little, now its helping 
 
 Brilliant Abe to feenawncier. 
 
 Onward rolled the years and Abel 
 Slowly tramping home again. 
 
 Stopping just to rest a little. 
 
 Hears the weary voice of Cain, 
 
 Calling: "Gee you mule, confound you. 
 Plowing rocky rented land, 
 183 
 
Swearing at the corn and cotton 
 Rusting, dying, half a stand. 
 
 "Durn a mule, git up that Balaam, 
 
 Wonder if hit means to rain 
 Rents is doubtful case it shouldn't"— 
 
 Abel speeds and cryeth Cain: 
 "I am Abel, Brother Abel, 
 
 Gladly once again I view 
 Scenes where boyish toenails vanished 
 
 Cain, I'm come to live with you." 
 
 Wilder waves of passion struggled, 
 
 (D— n a fool), the breast of Cain 
 Heaving like a motor engine 
 
 Shrieks, you'd better comer grain. 
 Pulled my leg, you have a plenty. 
 
 Years agone you stole my pies, 
 Made my daddy thrash me often 
 
 When you went and told him lies. 
 
 All of this I might forgive you, 
 Take you homeward kill a hog, 
 
 Give a barbecue and welcome. 
 But you killed my possum dog. 
 
 Fierce and wilder grew his passion, 
 Fierce and fiercer, still till he 
 
 Up and slew his brother Abel. 
 (This was with a single tree). 
 
 Chilly winter weather blusters. 
 
 Smiling spring and soaking rain 
 Hiding from the sheriff wanders. 
 
 Crying madly wildly, — "Cain' 
 Hard are laws that make a fellow 
 
 Hide around in hollow log 
 Want I jectified to kill him 
 
 Sence he kilt my possum dorg?" 
 
 184 
 
I DONE LIKE RICH FOLKS DO. 
 
 That man I serve has lands and gold, 
 
 Plague take his ugly mug, 
 When he gets drunk hit's never told, 
 
 But I git in the jug. 
 The sheriff sends him off to bed 
 
 And says he's sick again, 
 But me — he whacks me on the head, 
 
 But me—he runs me in. 
 For thousand dollar bets he plays. 
 
 Some little game of chance, 
 A cent a throw I tried his ways, 
 
 I now wear striped pants. 
 Confound them all, the courts and laws 
 
 I've cussed them black and blue, 
 I'm working out a term because 
 I done like rich folks do. 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN LEE. 
 
 Not a pang in wintry bluster, 
 
 When the Christmas times have come 
 In the land of Lee is plenty. 
 
 In the humble cabin home. 
 When the Northern lands are cheerless 
 
 When the fields are white with snow. 
 Then the trees of Lee are greenest. 
 
 Then the sweetest roses grow. 
 
 There is syrup in the kettle, 
 
 And the crib is full of corn, 
 There are straws to beat the fiddle, 
 
 When the sunny days are gone; 
 There are partridges to whistle. 
 
 And the squirrels chatter so, 
 Never lonely sitting, fishing, 
 
 Where the lillied waters flow. 
 185 
 
There are strings of fragrant sausage, 
 
 There are turkeys running wild, 
 There is work for every worker. 
 
 There is play for every child. 
 When the crops have all been gathered. 
 
 And the taxes settled, we 
 Lock the bailiffs in the cellar, 
 
 As we frolic down in Lee. 
 
 Northern breezes never linger , 
 
 Mid the sunny Southern day, 
 Violets in bloom at Christmas, 
 
 Just as lillies, mid the May, 
 Green are still magnolia branches. 
 
 Mid the smilax, trailing o'er 
 Festal hall with holly branches. 
 
 Hangs a sprig of mistletoe. 
 
 There are laughing girls that never, 
 
 Can remember it is there. 
 Boys are boys the country over. 
 
 If you see the tangled hair. 
 If from out the hall at Christmas 
 
 Comes a startled — *'Let me go" — 
 You may know she has forgotten, 
 
 Where she hung that mistletoe. 
 
 TH£ SMILING MAN. 
 Wonder how he keeps a smiling, 
 
 When the cotton crops are cut 
 Fully half by parching weather. 
 
 And the corn a failure, — but 
 He is always smiling, smiling. 
 
 Sure to take the time to stop, 
 Just to show a darker picture 
 
 If there wasn't any crop. 
 
 Wonder how he keeps a smiling. 
 When the storm has thundered on 
 
 186 
 
When the house and all the buildings, 
 
 Like a summer dream are gone. 
 But he pauses just a moment 
 
 With a smiling face to tell, 
 That it might have done him damage 
 
 Had it thought to take the well. 
 But he's smiling in the evening. 
 
 In the morning, at the noon, 
 As the turner splits the furrow, 
 
 He's a glad and happy tune, 
 Though the work is hard he's happy. 
 
 With a smile he's thinking how 
 He would ever raise the mortgage. 
 
 If he'd never learned to plow. 
 
 TAINT NO USE TO TRY. 
 
 My mind is curious to me, 
 (It may seem small to you) . . 
 It Aggers out, how things could be. 
 As plain as one and two is three. 
 And wonders I will do, 
 And plans I'll fix but sleep comes on. 
 An when I wakes the prints is gone. 
 It all seems like the leaves that grow, 
 And makes a tree look green, 
 As soon as frost is come they go. 
 And sober reason comes to show 
 How green my plans has been; 
 To think they's any yuse to try 
 When one likes sleep as well as I. 
 Whut yuse to plant a tree whut needs 
 A dozen years to grow, 
 Whut yuse to pay for garden seeds, 
 They've got no show with grass and weeds, 
 An weeds is boun' to grow 
 An then Tom Smith'll raise a heap 
 01 all such trash, and sells it cheap. 
 187 
 
But then my mind is queer somehow, 
 
 And thinks of this and that. 
 
 Suppose Tom Smith should stop; and vow 
 
 That he'd a mind to quit the plow, 
 
 Then where would I be at, 
 
 Oh blast it all — thar's time to do 
 
 All sich as this when Tom gits through. 
 
 And then I'd like to paint a scene, 
 
 A maiden fair and young 
 
 Whut meets her luv in woods of green, 
 
 With downcast eyes a beauteous queen. 
 
 And hair whut aint been bung. 
 Her face to paint, I need'en try 
 She's painted cheeks more better'n I. 
 
 Sometimes I plan to write a book. 
 An rise to fames' estate 
 But then my name would only look 
 So common like, an space is took, 
 By folks whuts done got great. 
 The Patent Office fokes you know. 
 Has wrote a hundred books before. 
 
 An onct I knew' at I cud build 
 
 A house whut fokes whut past, 
 
 Wud be with admerashun filled, 
 
 Fer one who wus so wise and skilled. 
 
 (But I aint built it fast) 
 
 Whut yuse to sweat and labor so, 
 
 Aint Jack done built a house before? 
 
 An while I thinks, ole Lou will neigh 
 (Confound that blame old mare), 
 She aint been fed at all to-day 
 She'll go till morning anyway; — 
 But taint no water there 
 I'd feed her now but cept I knew. 
 Napoleon went to Waterloo. 
 
 18$ 
 
But pap he sees I'm monstrous slow, 
 
 And confoun' lazy too 
 
 But paw aint schooled ernuff to know, 
 
 What cogs my thinks is wound to go. 
 
 And whut I'm mind to do, 
 
 Fer I'll be grate some day an go 
 
 An be a clown an run a show. 
 
 Ef unly all them clowns wus ded — 
 Whuts better'n me, then I'd go head 
 But whut the yuse to labor on? 
 They started out fore I wus born. 
 An taint no yuse to try. 
 
 TO A POMPOUS BOASTER. 
 
 A self-made man you say you are 
 
 When all of this is said, 
 A much more finished job by far 
 
 Had been a custom made. 
 
 A self-made man you made yourself. 
 
 I wont deny you did, 
 Pray keep the model on the shelf — 
 
 And keep it closely hid, 
 
 And go and have that job of yours. 
 
 To under go repairs. 
 To keep the shadow of a nose — 
 
 From other folks affairs. 
 
 Perhaps if you could add a lot 
 
 Of brains, a very few 
 The things, I know you once forgot. 
 
 When you were building you. 
 
 Perhaps if you could add a head 
 
 With sense enough to school. 
 It might, when this was done be said, 
 "He's slightly more than fool." 
 
 189 
 
IN THE CLASS. 
 
 I've a thousand pictures painted 
 
 Through the dreary fleeting years, 
 They are human hearts and feelings 
 
 Human sorrows, human tears. 
 They are paintings ever changing 
 
 Like the pictures in the coals, 
 Painted deeply in the sparkle 
 
 Of the wine are human souls. 
 
 Do you see a drunken father, 
 
 Reeling home with maddened brain? 
 In the wine the picture's showing 
 
 Fading out to come again. 
 And again, again the picture 
 
 Of a weeping wife is shown, 
 Clad in tatters, hungry, freezing, 
 
 Broken hearted all alone. 
 
 Do you see the picture changing? 
 
 There are orphans now instead. 
 Sleeping homeless in the gutter, 
 
 Begging but a crust of bread. 
 Dying babies, famished children 
 
 Come in shadowy design, 
 Passing, human hearts are pictured 
 
 In the ruddy glass of wine. 
 Do you see a finger tracing 
 
 In its capitals of flame? 
 "You've a ballot take and use it" 
 
 Lest you be alike to blame. 
 For a million dollar profit 
 
 Would you license grief and strife. 
 Could ye build your schools in honor 
 
 If it took a father's life? 
 
 IT ALWAYS CURED THE COLD. 
 
 I remember, I remember. 
 When I used to be a boy, 
 190 
 
Holy terror to the neighbors, 
 
 Father's pride and mother's joy 
 Roaming up and down the branches, 
 
 Leaving work for hook and pole 
 Getting wet and homeward coming, 
 
 With a labored croupy cold. 
 
 Mother scolded 
 Then enfolded, 
 
 Baby boy within her arms 
 Father fussed, he — 
 Nearly cussed me. 
 
 They were harmless — father's storms. 
 Greased my feet with mutton suet, 
 Or at least he made me do it, 
 Built a fire, 
 Chucked it higher. 
 
 In a dozen blankets rolled. 
 Its my truthful recollection 
 I was roasted to perfection. 
 But the pleasing retrospection 
 
 Is, it often cured the cold. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 When I used to go to school. 
 When I'd fool my mother groaning, 
 
 And complain of being cool; 
 Make her let me miss a lesson, 
 
 Just to seek a marble game 
 With the boy around the corner. 
 If perchance my daddy came. 
 Then I banished 
 Play and vanished 
 
 To a hole beneath the hay. 
 Little sinner, 
 Missing dinner 
 
 Sorter feeling bad to-day, 
 But he waited time abiding, 
 Caught me sleeping in the hiding, 
 
 191 
 
Got a paddle 
 Or a saddle 
 
 Furnished piece of leather old. 
 It's my truthful recollection 
 I was roasted to perfection 
 But the pleasing retrospection 
 
 Is, it often cured the cold. 
 
 TILLIE. 
 
 Pretty Tillie at the seaside 
 
 Silken dress and gauzy lace. 
 Rosy cheeks and golden tresses, 
 
 Hazel eyes and pretty face. 
 Parasol a little tilted, 
 
 Tillie spies a splendid man. 
 Wonder if he's brave and gallant? 
 
 Pretty Tillie drops a fan. 
 
 Courtly bow and smiling greeting, 
 Pretty Tillie smiles her best; 
 
 Gallant gent her smile returneth, 
 Little cupid does the rest. 
 
 Rich he is reported, Tillie, 
 Finds a chance to drop a hint, 
 
 Father's got a lot of houses. 
 Lands and bonds without a sting. 
 
 Rich he is reported truly , 
 
 Still he needs at present cash. 
 
 Love and lucre often mingle. 
 Pretty Tillie makes a mash. 
 
 Takes her driving, writes her letters 
 
 Carries pasasol and fan, 
 Homeward Tillie speeds, and homeward 
 
 Speedeth Tillie's, handsome man. 
 
 Looking up her father's ratings 
 Making inquiry to know, 
 
 192 
 
Learns the banks have lots of papers 
 
 Pressing Tillie's father sore. 
 (Scene seaside. Time year later) 
 
 Pretty Tillie at the seaside, 
 
 Silken dress and gauzy lace 
 Rosy cheeks and golden tresses, 
 
 Hazel eyes and pretty face. 
 Tilts her parasol a little 
 
 Wonders if that other man. 
 Wouldn't ask her father for her 
 
 If she dropped her pretty fan? 
 
 LEEDLE IGEY. 
 
 Slowing down the sun was setting, 
 
 As it often did before 
 Leedle Ike and Isaac lingered, 
 
 Mid dot scheap goots pargain sthore, 
 Isaac thinking of the morrow 
 
 When he'dt selldt pelow der cost, 
 Telldt dem folks he makes der profit 
 
 Cause he sell'dts much goodts der most. 
 Footfalls reach the ear of Isaac 
 
 Unt der nurse com'dt down der sthairs. 
 Saying dochter bringth Repecca 
 
 Splendit poy, undt Isaac's heir, 
 "Leedle Igey, he's your brudder 
 
 Vhat vas come to blay mit you." 
 Quickly little legs were moving 
 
 Quickly up the stairs he flew. 
 Gazing at the baby features 
 
 Toothless mouth and hairless head, 
 Reddened face and legs so crooked, 
 
 Sadly leedle Igey said: 
 "Selldt him fadder, didt you py him 
 
 Mid ter scheriff off ter plock, 
 Vhas he from ter pargain gounter 
 
 Fadder, he vhas damaged sthock." 
 193 
 
Joy fills Isaac's bushy features, 
 
 With delight he rubs his hands, 
 "Leedle Igey you will be one 
 
 Vanderbilter beesnees mans. 
 Mid dot school I sendt you, Igey, 
 
 Learns you how ter pooks to post, 
 Learn's you how ve gets der broflt. 
 
 Selling goots below der cost." 
 
 Slowly neighbor's boys were going 
 Schoolward as they'd gone before, 
 
 Books in satchel Leedle Igey 
 Joins them at his father's store. 
 
 Learns through summer days the lessons, 
 Boy and Baker learns at sight. 
 
 Till at last the teacher tells him, 
 "Ikey, you should learn to write." 
 
 Copy book and ink and paper, 
 
 Blotted greatly letters pale, 
 Leedle Igey writes the copy, 
 "Men should, never, never fail." 
 Father Ikey smiles at Igey, 
 
 Coming home from mit ter school. 
 Slowly reads the copy over, 
 "Vhat vas dis you leedle fool, 
 
 Vhen dot teacher teach you peesness. 
 
 Making goot his jobs vhas fair. 
 Still vhen dis vhas sample peesness, 
 
 Poys should sthay avay from dare, 
 Dis vould ruindt your peesness, Igey, 
 
 Teacher toldt von teacher's tale, 
 Igey father'U teach you petter 
 
 Peesness men shouldt learn to fail." 
 
 Finis. 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
 Ahi