PS 572 .E5 P6 Copy 1 •0m? lEmpnna l^ra? William Allen White D. A. Ellsworth M. R. McCabe A. R. Taylor Walt Mason Vernon Ijoviis Parrington l^ottie E. Crary .lohn Madden E. Ij. Pinet I). Sophia Doniea I'^ugenia C^.hapnian Gillett Laura L. Kirk^vof>(l t 1. Do lie Int. . Tyix-. Piii I'll. l.T llio SupiTvi.si) .1 . H. iH)wi:i{s nt.-.l iiikI I:.u <^ (^.pyiifiht, ]91(), by .J. 11. POWERS €/'CUmxav Bot'ml (Drtnte 2fi, IBB5 This is the Husker's night. The ears of gold await his coming. The soft moon's pale light Creeps up the distant gloaming And bids him meet his comrades here. Husk and throw The ears just so! Don't you know The way they go? Ho! Ho! Ho! Husk and throw The golden ears just so! Welcome to thee, bonny bird! Blessings on thy little he'd. Thou hast come to nestle in A hame that's warm and true. Thou'rl a lucky chap, my bonny brid. For to come just where thee did. Blessings on thy little he'd! B. A. EU0m0rtlr (3nn m Slinr Httlt iah If I could be a boy again. On the wings of fancy loose. Free from the cares that make us men. In my dear old dad's caboose; Of all there was I now recall That made my boy heart glad, I wish that I might go again. Over the line with Dad. Chums with the brakeman, laugh and joke. Ride on the engine a while. Washing away the grime and smoke. Standing up straight in the aisle; Climbing up on the counter high, O. what a treat for a lad! Coffee, sandwich and custard pie — Over the line with Dad. Sit way up in the lookout, too. With an eye on the jostling cars. Climbing there in the height to view. The way of the lanterned stars: Snuggled close to the truest friend. That ever a fellow had, Wishing the trip might never end — Over the line with Dad. I grudge no one the train de luxe. With its splendid woods and brass, For fond I keep in memory's book, A record none may surpass; Ah, could I only by magic ruse, Take any trip to be had, I'd rather ride in that old caboose. Over the line with Dad. The old caboose has gone long since. And its crew has whistled the sky. Fancy still with its radiant tints Illumines the days gone by; And when God's caller comes round for me. My heart shall be far from sad. If only I know that I'm to go. Over the hne with Dad! There's a little room at the head of the stairs, That has always been known as the Boys' ; It would hardly seem right not to call it theirs. When you look at the books and the toys. The drum brooding there in the silence alone. And the fife that shall never more thrill; Though many the years that have come and gone. Yet we call it the Boys' Room still. As a pilgrim come at the close of the day, To this ?hrine of the long, long ago; And lo, as I kneel in the silence to pray. There are whisperings fond that I know. My heart gives itself to the visional thrall. While the twilight dies out of the west, — The drum may not summon, the fife may not call. Yet I keep with the phantoms their quest. With Robinson Crusoe Im waiting again. While the years break as waves on the strand; With Sinbad the Sailor I'm watching for them. And I hearken with Robin Hood's band. The Lorelei sings in the shadowy swirl, And Alladdin with magic is fain; The Knights of King Arthur their pennants unfurl. But the voice of the herald is vain. The Pathfinder comes from the trails of the west, And the Deerslayer stalks in the dark; Now sallies Don Quixote in roisterous quest. And here lingers fair Joan of Arc. The Minutemen hiding their signafing gun. While the Witches ride fast in the air; The Crusaders whisper to me, "Will they come?" And my answer is always a prayer. O, the little room at the head of the stairs. It shall always be known a? the Boys' ; For it wouldn't seem right not to call it theirs. When you look at their books and their toys. The drum that is brooding in silence alone. And the fife that shall never more thrill, — O, many the years that have come and gone. But we call it the Bovs' Room still! uln i'laif All Niglit I like to go to my Aunt Jo's The most of any place, Cause she don't never twist my nose To just rense off my face. And she won't scrub my neck uphill. Nor squeeze my chin down tight. And I just eat until I'm full And stay all night. First time I went I felt all right. Until the sun went down. But soon as Aunt Jo lit the light I cried to go to town. And Aunt Jo made their dog shake hands And speak for every bite. And I helped Aunt Jo scour the pans And staid all night. I like to stay there now to scare The calves and see them run, And shoo the chickens here and there. But guineas is mcst fun. The old big gocse, he don't hke me. And acts like he might bite; The turkeys fly up in the tree And stay all night. There ain't no httle boy there now. But there's a boy's room though, With picture books and one about Old Robinson Crusoe. And there's a drum they let me play. But I must beat it Hght, 'Cause it's a boy's who's gone away To stay All Night! My heart, a pilgrim worn and gray. Peti'rns to that far shrine to pray; .to know once more, in vision fair. The angel of her presence there. Sweet mother, how your memory still Doth hallow as with prayer the hill; The meadows fair, and skies above. Whisper me ever of your love! The lark's high-winged ecslacy Seems sweeter, for your memory; The path that threads the orchard glooms Your sometime presence still illumes. The very flowers in fair excess Have something of your tenderness; The evening dews, methinks, might be The tears you one time shed for me. There was a rose that bloomed for you. Close by, a shrub you planted, grew; And once the trellis knew a vine. Your kindly hands were wont to twine. Now they are gone, sh.rub, vine and rose, As filmed mist and crystaled snows; One with thy dust, O treasured store, One with the days that come no more. And though the years may fleeting fare, No oiher memory is there; As by the rose you did impart The wisdom ol the mother heart! What though the rose shall bloom no more. Nor vine that one time clusters bore; And when the shrub, wild grasses sway. Communion with thy soul, I pray. The fragrance of the rose far flown. The petals to the winds have strown ; 1 heir hues were blanched by rain and sun. All, all. with driven dust, now one! Heie, where the rose its fragrance shed, Alter long years my steps are led; And as m memory still it blows, I kiss the dust that was my rose! Olaua? Mb Waz Pore 'Fore we come to Kansas We lived back East, Pa'd bin to the Army An' hedn't th' least Thing at all t' show for it; So like lots more, We jest come to Kansas Cause we wuz pore! Ma didn't like a-leavin'. Her folks fur good. But Pa hedn't no love fur That nayborhood, — Sed they'd showed what they wuz. An' made him sore. The way they'd treated us, 'Cause we wuz pore! So we come to Kansas, Filed on a claim. Time our sod corn tassel'd Grasshoppers came; Didn't leave a nubbin, Et stalks and core. An we had to take aid, 'Cause we wuz pore! Course ev'rybody mor'gaged, An' we did too; An' there wuz lots of troubles; Some one mebbe 'd sue; An' Jimmy died of fever. Sick a month or more — Jest hed a plain coffin, Cause we wuz pore! But somehow or other. Alius pulled through; The dry years, mebbe Pa'd Fin' sumthin t' do. Or if he got down sick. Us boys'd chore; Never liked to ask tick, 'Cause we wuz pore! Now them times is over — Glad they are too — Can't help wonderin' how we Ever pulled thro'; Death, an' debt, an' drouth, an' A whole lot more — Guess God help'd us extry, 'Cause we wuz pore! Th' claim belongs to others; Pore Ma is asleep Way out on the pra'ries — No more to weep — Kneelm' there beside her, I love her more. Some way or other, 'Cause we wuz pore! An' someway after all, Ma's trials done. An lookin', on th' pra'riei Fair in the sun — I can't keep from bein' Glad it is o'er. An' we come to Kansas 'Cause we wuz pore! ni Mah (Eru Didn't mind the childern's Cryin' all day, All they're ever good at; I've heard Pa say. That 'f cryin' killed youngins. They'd jest hev ter die. But we'd alius be sorry When our Ma'd cry! Didn't cry so often. Only nov^ an' then; Mebbe hear that Gran'ma Was worse again — Uncle John would write That Gran'ma might die; When we'd git the letter, W'y, Ma'd cry. Sometimes when we's playin'. We'd happen to see That Ma was a-cryin'. Then, of course, we Would all git to cryin', An' we'd all try T' git her take her han's down- We'n Ma'd cry! Sometimes after workin' Hard all day long. Have somethin' or other Kind o' go wrong; If th' washin' all come down 'Fore th' things was dry. Or her bread run all over, Mebbe Ma'd cry! If the neighbors told her Her boys wuz bad, And they had bin a-fightin' — Sometimes course we had — Or anybody told her That George or I Had said somethin' wicked, Wy. Ma'd cry. Night time w'en we's prayin', An' we would come To "God bless Pa an' Will. An' bring 'em safe home!" If it was a-Hghtnin', And the wind was high. After sayin' "Amen," W'y. Ma'd cry! Th' angel come from Heaven, An' took Ma away; "There'll be no more tears," I heard The preacher say, "There'll be no more tears away Up in the skies," For God will wipe her tears away When Ma cries! Oh, I guess ev'rybody. As well as me, Recollec's how sorry They'd alius be; There isn't nothin', is there? Of the days gone by. We think of now so often. As when Ma'd cry! Oh, some way or another. It alius seems to me. There's nothin' I remember Of days that used to be, — Nothin' like the mem'ry To make me alius try To kind o' do better, As when Ma'd cry! Pillar 3?igl|tfi Filler fights is fun, I jest tell you! There isn't nothin' I'd ruther do, Nen git a big piller, An' hoi' it tight, Stan' up on the bed. An' nen jest fight! Us boys alius hev Our piller fights; An' bes' time of all Is Pa's lodge-nights; Whenever he goes, We say good-night, Nen go up-stairs fur A piller fight. Sometimes mebbe Ma Goes to the stiiirs, ; An' hollers up, "Boys, You said your pra'rs?" George'll hollar "Yes, Ma'am! He alius hez — Good deal of preacher 'Bout George, Pa sez. Mali say, "Pleasant dreams!" An' shut the door; If she's hs'enin'. Both of us snore — Soon's ever she leaves We light a light. An' pitch right in on Our piller fight! VV^ play that the bed Is Bunker Hill, George is 'Mericans An' he Stan's still — But I'm the Britush, So I mus' hit Hard's ever I kin To make him git! We played Bueny Visty one night. Tell yqu that wuz an Awful hare] fight. Hsld up our pillers Like they's a flag, Nen holler'd, "Little More grape, Cap'n Bragg!" At was the time 'at George struck the nail. You'd jes' orter seen Them feathers sail! I was jest covered As white as flour, Me 'n' him picked 'm off Fur most an hour! Next day when our Ma Seen that there mess. She was awful mad. You better guess ; Room was all muss'd up, Filler slips tore. Feathers jest flyin' All round the floor! Ma she told our Pa, An' he jest said, "You come right out here To this here shed!" Tell y'u, he whup'd us Till we wuz sore. Made us both promise T' do it no more! 'At's long time ago. An' now lodge nights. Or when Pa's away. We hev piller fights; But in Buney Visty, George's bound To see there aint nails Anywhere 'round ! Piller fights is fun, I jest tell you. There isn't nothin' I'd ruther do Nen git a big piller An' hoi' it tight, Stan' up on the bed. An' nen jest fight! 1. MrCdab^ The golden-rod's all a-bloom! I walked through the fields today And along the path, where feathery plume Waved graceful tendrils about my way. The golden-rod's all a-bloom! The golden-rod's all a-bloom! By roadside and meadow it blows. And under each sunlit spray, 'ere the gloom The lightning-bugs gather, and start their glows. The golden-rod's all a-bloom. Just to He on the grass in the sunshine, .Staring lazily into the blue. Where the branches o'erhead that entwine, Show ghmpses of azure sky, through; Just to lie there so drowsy and quiet. With the cool grass caressing my face While the bees and cicadas play riot With the exquisite peace of the place. 5j0u^utlt?r — April Leaden sky, With storm a-nigh. And bleak North Wind; Wild ducks a-wing. Cold raindrops sting. Dead leaves the gutters hne. Blue the sky, The storm gone by, A,.nd warm South Wind; Wild ducks a-wing. The robbins sing. Ah me! The world is kind! Autumn Days Autumn days. Misty haze. Purple sky a-shining; Flowers dead. Sumach red Woods and wayside lining. Garnered wheat. Bittersweet Its coral tendrils showing Shocks of corn. Frosty morn, Fresh'ning winds a-blowing. A 3propl)rrti The flowers will blossom again in May, The trees will leaf in the same old way. The rain drops will fall and dimple the dust. Smells of Earth, and the woods, will quicken us, just As in years gone by! The children will hunt for the first wild flowers, The plowman will scan the heavens for showers. The birds, in a chorus of songsters, a-wing. Will waken the world with an anthem, and sing That spring is here! Brrnnit Sjama Parrtn^tntt Strange are the ways of the marsh and strange is the jungle way; And strange the far path we have trod from out the ancient gray. Crawled in the shme of the reed-grass the hugest of loathsome things — Lord of the primal fens — a reptile with slimy wings. Found in the marshes a weakling, helpless for evil or good — A whelp that was suckled and guarded — beast of the mammal blood. Lusted to feed on the weakhng — wrapped him about in his coils; Held him thus for a moment in the grip that stifles and soils. Heard on a sudden a roar — the sound of a dam in cry. That seeth her whelp m danger and v/ill not let him die. The one she hath licked as he suckled, that cried as she gave him birth — Hers is the helpless thing, alone of the creatures of earth: Fought for him there in the reed-grass, madly with tooth and nail; Felt a wild rage at the heart lest the thing of slime pre- vail. Crushed were the reeds and trampled, stained with the slime and blood — The dam was mangled and torn, but the whelp escaped to the wood. So was the battle fought in the primal murk and gray; Nameless the one and the other, creatures that live for a day. And the mother Hied in the fighting and the reptile ate of her flesh- Yet I say in that moment of anguish the race was born afresh. No more shall the marshes prevail and the law begot of slime ; The Word of the L.ord is gone out and shapeth the newer time. Saith, Leave ye the ancient ways! have done with the lust of blood! Let the mother fend for her offspring, yea, die for the suckling's good! Unto her have I given the battle — the wounds and the bitter strife. For the law of the reptile is death but the law of the mammal is Hfe. Sorrow and wound-ache and death — yea, and joy perhaps for a time — Thereby she shall follow her lot, and fashion a race sub- lime. A race that shall smite the reptile and hold his ways in wrath ; Yea, give of its blood to cleanse the slime he hath left in his path. ^o in the elder time God spake in the jungle tongue; And the mother hearkened and heard, and gave her life for her young. Died that another should live, in the days of the primal fen — Mother no longer of beasts — her sons are the children of men. 3ln ^mnrk mxh 3Frnrk The day is gone from off the fields Where much was wrought and much begun And in thy presence. Lord, we stand To render count of what is done. The work was heavy to our hands. And scant the harvest that it yields. But thou dost know we are not kings But workmen toiling in thy fields. If we have built no lordly pile. Nor fashioned marbles of great worth. Yet have we toiled with all our will To make a nobler place of earth. Our huts are but for homely use And builded out of common brick. But thou wilt judge us how we loved Our weakling brothers, maimed and sick. And so in workman smock and frock We stand with all our ways confessed; Judge thou, if we have labored well. Or if we scanted of our best. 3ittI|o«t tl)r ($uUa A master-mason once, of cunning skill Beheld a vision as he walked alone; And vowed to build a minster on that spot. With soaring arches, bravely chiseled stone. Boldly he planned it, scanting naught of worth, That it should tower goodly in men's eyes, Where one might dwell as in a jewel's heart. With blazoned windows rich m mellow dyes. A glorious temple, rising bold and free. With cunning workmanship all overwrought; Reared in the faith that only strong men know For witness to the joy the years had brought. Bravely he labored, and the arches sprang. Bearing rich carven pendants as he willed; And then it fell — the travail of long years — It was too beautiful for man to build. From thr waste pile of broken masonry Some stones he took, unchiseled, rudely dressed; Made shift to build a lowly wayside inn For passing cheer unto the foot-worn guest. There we foregather for a little time — Pilgrims on whom the minster gates are shut — And tell old tales of broken hopes — and I Tell how the master-mason built this hut. Hotttf iE. Olrara Wavk The tiny seed in the black soil lay; Overhead the rain and the sun. Unheeded the days pass slowly by Yet Gcd counted them one by one. Day breaks! And behold the bare, brown field In soft green garments clad One says, "From the harvest's, yield. Shall a nation be housed and fed!" The seed, the sun, and the rain and dew — - These three — with the Master's aid! So in Heaven's own coin, for a faithful deed, Siu-^ll the humble doer be paid. A Jiiimau'a Uag Tiny Mary stood a-tbinkin,' Both her bright eyes shinin' bright; "Don't you fink 'at I'm a-cryin' When I shut my eyes up tight!" "Coz I aint! I'm just a-winkin,' Winkin* like this, don't you see? And o' course it's only think tears Keep a-pushin' back at me! " "Bill is gone to play at Carter's, Took my duck and teddy-bear; Said he wanted 'em his own self; Goin' to have 'em — he didn't care!" "But I'm not cryin,' only winkin,* Winkin' like this, don't you see? And o' course it's only think tears Keep a-pushin' back at me!" 30l|tt ifflabJi^n Soundless measure of some harper. Floating down from long ago Though the harpstring may be broken, Still the kindred touch, we know. Aye, 'tis soul, and soul is feeling Else the singer could not sing. So, I give the ancient glow hfe From the Harper's broken string. Phnhmmon stands, the sunset weaves His golden crown — his ancient crown, A crown as old as Cambrian vales. Before Caradoc flll'd his sails. Before he tighten'd on his greaves. To tear Rome's eagles down. The mystic bards who guard the grave. Where Prince Llewelyn proudly sleeps. Are but the soul flames that expire To light again, the Druid fire And weave the mantle of the brave. Where night in darkness creeps. Harlech!^ 'Twas a glorious field, A nation's star — a song born name. Here Cambrian valor held its own, ^"•^ guarded well a hero throne With sword of fire and ringing shield. And gave the world its fame. Old Snowdon, like a chief at rest. Looks outward o'er an angry sea, But, as the rnist falls from his face, He seems the stronghold of the race. And, as the barks glide to the west. He weeps their minstrelsy. The castl'd hills are ancient shrines, Where dark-eyed daughters sang of home They kiss'd the sod where fathers bled, 'Twas sacred soil, for blood was shed- Then wore the zone of mystic signs * To new lands o'er the foam. Land of the harps and tores of gold? Land of the battle flags unfurl'd! To you belongs the wond'rous strain — Of minstrel blood, where long had lain The Druid soul, in song foretold. To circle all the world. The Druid belt Alnitjj tl?c (Frail Along the trail the evening shades are falling. The landscape fades against a star-gemm'd sky. And wild prairie voices like brave men calling Seem like haunted echoes of a time gone by: Night grows beauteous in its summer glory. The Irail of Stars shines luminous and cold. The Past is gone, but not its story Of the rugged trailsmen of the days of old. Locked in the canons, the mountains keeping The soldier's death call, or his cry of pain Are the unmark'd graves of the ones now sleeping The stern, grim marchmen of the Cross of Spain. They fought for empire in the days now olden And sank to rest where wild flowers bloom Threw out their lines where the sun was golden And passed like shadows to the silent tomb. These broken trails are the prairie channels Where the waves of passion ran like flame. Though silent now, they are glorious annals That mark the pathway of a nation's name. The trailsman passing to the western ocean As strong in purpose as his old Norse sires Takes with him valor and that high devotion That build an Empire with its altar fires. Malgares was a distinguished commander in tKe ser- vice cf New Spain. He was a man of vast fortune and very generous in his disposition. He possessed a finished education, a high sense of honor, and was by na- ture and training a gallant and chivalrous soldier. With one hundred Spanish dragoons and five hundred mounted militia, of the province of Biscay, he invaded Colorado. In 1807 he captured Lieutenant Pike and his party, near the Peak which nov/ bears his name, and carried them prisoners to Santa Fe. Malgares was the possessor of those wild and vast baronial holds and keeps of the canons and mountains, and Colorado was, in truth, as well as in poetic fancy, his "Kingdom's Seat." Malgares! dusky-browed son of Spain, Colorado was once thy Kingdom's Seat; Here in the passion play of years, thy feet Have tracv-^d the canons, where long had lain Those mighty seams of empire, born in pain In the far off time, when earth's primal heat Surged thro' the mountains volcanic, and beat Flidden metal into each throbbmg vein ; Thou dids't test thy right to rule by the sword. And, under the flag of the Spanish Cress The blood of Leon and Castile was pour'd. Bloody the sacrifice, and great the loss. But greater the wealth in darksome niches stor'd Beneath the p;ne, the prism-rock and moss. Sleep on, Malgares, of the dusky brow. For ether men have enter'd thro' thy gates. And the golden glory of morning waits To b>.d them welcome! Colorado, now, Sends thee hail and farewell! She asks not how These new men came, or thro' what stormy straits Were blown their sails of passion, love or hates. Or adverse winds, that swept each deck and prow She only knows they came, as their Norse sires. Kingly rovers to conquer and to mold New commonwealths, and light new altar fires Where massive columns rise, to touch the gold. Of sunrise and sunset — cathedral spires Cast from the mountains in centuries old. 'Bma of tl}t iFratl 1 wind over hills and valleys Thro' a golden prairie land, Above me the soft wind dallies Around me the flowers are fann'd; And each vagrant breeze of morning. Still kisses the murmuring streams. Where violets grow, — adorning The warrior's home of dreams. I have felt the pulse of battle. And the rush of buskin'd feet — The charge of fierce wild cattle Mad with hunger, thirst and heat; I have seen the Indian fighter. Encircle my trailsmen bold. And the lines of blood grow lighter As the fire of guns grew cold. The wanderers of the Ages, From the olive groves of Spain, Are torn from my blood-red pages. And sleep with the nameless slain; The laughing sons of the waters, Fronri the vine-clad hills of France. Have kiss'd my fair maiden daughters. In the circling Indian dance. The blond Teuton, Celt and Saxon, With their armies, flags and guns. Have my green fields turn flaxen With the toil of fair hair'd sons; In the path of their plows and reapers I'm doom'd to be swept away So I dream, with my dreamless sleepers Of my olden, golden day. On the battlefield of Rosebud, so the Indian legends run, Saber-edg'd, and golden-blossom'd turning to the western sun. Is the heart flower of the soldier, with its crimson drop of life Marking well the trampled hillside, of that last unequal strife. To the touch, 'tis cold and clammy, and its curving saber leaves Drop their points to greet the sunset — while the twi- light softly weaves Figures, strangely wierd and ghostlike — shadowy shapes, and shadowy hands, Moving round the rocky ledges, in their close unbroken bands. In the center, fierce and brilliant, is the fatal drop of red; The purest, truest, greatest, of all the blood a hero shed — ;In that dread hour of anguish, when with kinsmen by his side He sank beneath the waves of war and like a chieftain died. Let the hand but crush it rudely, and the drop will leave a stain, That long days can never wear away of Custer cruelly slain On the battlefield of Rosebud in a western sunset land Where the heart flower asks no mercy, and defies each foeman's hand. Brave flower of war and battle, strong emblem of the dead; Stern sentinel of the bivouac, guard well the soldier's bed; Guard, grandly true thr? crimson drop, that marks the hid- den span Where life must end and death begin, when part the soul and man. Turn thy sabers to the sunset and let each point sink low, While angel troops dip colors to salute the brave Keogh, While gold-dyed pennons of the west, the mountain shadows part And warrior swordsmen greet thee, true flower of Cus- ter's heart. Hae ye heard the pibroch callin' Highland laddies wi' the tartan? Do ye ken our comrades falHn' And the dool and grief of partin'? Harken, to the summons clear. Sweet to every Scottish ear, Bringin' back the memories dear. Of Sterling and Dumbarton, See, the ground is red vvi' slaughter; A' our front is in disorder; Highland bluid must run like water To dislodge the Indian warder. Sweep the crest of Dargai Hill. As we swept the Tyne and Till, In the days cf Belted Will, Along the t-'nglish Border Flcar the wounded piper playin,' Stretched upon the hillside gory; Rush, brave lads, to bluid and slayin,' Kilted men of raid and foray; For the pibroch of command Calls the Gordon heart and hand, — Bayonet and whirlin' brand, Scottish men and Scottish glory. See our flag is proudly flyin' On the hill where killed Gordon Stands among his comrades dyin ;' Gun in hand, a plaided wonder. Strong the strain of Highland bluid Strong as Ettrick's ancient mood — Border men with border fued. Around bold Scott of Harden. lEttung Sound, Lcchaber! Lucknow stands. Grim memorial of the Clan; Still our "thin red line" commands — Balakava, Inkermann! Coronado, a commander in the army of Cortez, in 1542, led a hody of Spanish, knights from Mexico in 'search of the "Kingdom of Quivera." Headed by an dian guide, he broke the Western World, and traversed mountains, streams and prairies, following out the fate- ful thread of dream of empire. From the mountain tops he scanned the valleys for the river, bordered by trees of beautiful foliage, within which hung tiny bells of silver and gold, swinging in each passing breeze, filling the land with music. It was all a dream. It was full of harsh- ness and rigor, marchings and counter-marchings, starvation, blood and battle. Yet, this dream of the Spaniard lives Tm hits valor and in the glory that fell Hke sunohine from his banner. It lives in the warm blood of youth and in the wealth of romap.ce that song and story cast around the "Kingdom of Quivera." There is a land where the heart grows young. And the soul is strong and free; Where the haunted waves of silence break On the shores of an inland sea; Where the River of Peace rolls on, and on, Touched ever by mystic spells. That Hoat like dreams on the water's breast, To the music of tinkling bells. Musical bells of silver and gold. Touched by an angel hand. Wooing nymphs of the mountain bold To dreamy Quivera Land. The spires are shafts volcanic cast; And the castles, with walls and keep, Are the sighs and throbs of the mountain's heart, Where the gnomes of the quarry sleep. They stand hke wardens on marches placed. And frown as the twilight falls; The moonlight shines on each chieftan's casque. As he moves through the ancient halls. Musical bells of silver and gold. Touched by an angel hand. Hidden away in ihe foliage old. In castled Quivera Land. The valley is sweet, where the wild flowers grow. And full of the breath of May, The mavis sings in the jasmine shade, Through the hours of a happy day. The dusky m.aid and her hunter bold, With is quiver and spear and targe. Give a dasn of life to enchanted fields That slope to the river's marge. Musical bells of silver and gold, Touched by an angel hand. Swinging and ringing uncontrolled In mystic Quivera Land. The Spaniard came, in the olden time, With his banner and plume and lance. And the smiling land, like a virgin mild. Shrank back 'neath his haughty glance; Her hunters came; the flowers grew red With the blood of the stranger foe; The River of Peace roared fierce and wild In the rush of its crimson flow. Musical bells of silver and gold. Touched by a foeman's hand. Rang wierdly harsh, in days of old. In Spanish Ouivera Land. It is not all a dream, this land of mine — A brave Spaniard's splendid dream? It lives in the soul when life is young. Like the flow of a hidden stream. That kisses the shores of the early years. When the blood runs warm and strong. And youth and love touch the golden days In thr* power of a passion song. Musical bells of silver and gold. Touched by a lover's hand. The beautiful dreams of love unfold In lender Quivera Land. Walt Mmm Hilial ICnir? 4la Hike Whal love is, tongues of man can never tell. For words have ne'er expressed this thing so sweet. So true, so infinite. But yet 'tis meet For UP to say what love is like, for well We know the likeness of its wondrous spell As when the sombre night the sunbeams greet And morning lays her largess at Earth's feet, Waking to life the mountain and the dell. Love's like the sun — that great Hyperion That tips the lofty peaks with crests of gold. And lights the dewdrop in the Hly's heart, Thus love in joy makes Heaven and Earth at one, And in its rays our souls in bliss unfold Knowing in holy gifts God gives us part. A ^uttBft PatltnB While all the Western windows flame and glov/. And sunset land lies fair before my eyes — I raptly gaze through portals of the skies Upon the new Jerusalem, and go In spirit fancies where the Christ palms grow Close by the throne where crystal waters rise. I see those dear ones who, with earth drawn sighs, Passed over Jordan, Ah! how long ago. The dark enfolding shadows, cold and gray. Remind me that the night is drawing near And by the wayside I must sleep. "Our Father" takes the beckoning lights away. And all his children rest without a fear. Knowing that He each trusting "soul will keep." "Farewell," I said, to the friend I loved, and my eyes were filled with tears; *'I know you'll come to my heart again, in a few brief, hurried years!" Ah, many come up the garden path, and knock at my cottage door, but the friend I loved when my heart was young, comes back to that heart no more, "Farewell!" I cried to the gentle bird, whose music had filled the dawn; "you fly away, but you'll sing again, and when the winter's snows are gone." Oh, the bright birds sway on the apple-boughs and sing, as they sang before; but the bird I loved, with the golden voice, shall sing to my heart no more! "Farewell," I said, to the Thomas Cat, I threw in the gurgling creek, all weighted down with a smoothing iron, and a hundredweight of brick. "You'll not come back eth no delight. Over the plain the flail of silver rain Has flashed, and left me to my dreams again,— But nivi heart it knotveth no delight. fflalt MuBm Coup M Ctk? What love is. tongues of man can never tell, For words have ne'er expressed this thing so sv*reet. So true, so infinite. But yet 'tis meet For us to say w^hat love is like, for well We know the likeness of its wondrous spell As when the sombre night the sunbeams greet And morning lays her largess at Earth's feet. Waking to life the mountain and the dell. Love's like the sun — that great Hyperion That tips the lofty peaks with crests of gold. And lights the dewdrop in the lily's heart. Thus love in joy makes Heaven and Earth at one. And in its rays our souls in bliss unfold Knowing in holy gifts God gives us part. While all the Western windows fiame and glow. And sunset land lies fair before rny eyes — I raptly gaze through portals of the skies Upon the nev/ Jerusalem, and go In spirit fancies where the Christ palms grow Close by the throne where crystal waters rise. I see those dear ones who, with earth drav/n sighs. Passed over Jordan, Ah! how long ago. The dark enfolding shadows, cold and gray. Remind me that the night is drawing near And by the wayside I must sleep. "Our Father" takes the beckoning lights away. And all his children rest without a fear. Knowing that He each trusting "soul will keep." Kansas dhx iHi&Bnutmer From glossy hedgerow pipes the timid quail. To its sweet mate that 'mid the stubble gleans. And from neglected nooks the sunflower leans His golden head., and smiles adown the dale; O'er vast blue seas the stately cloud ships sail. Casting cool shadows o'er the happy scenes. When prophet's word nought but some blessing means As harvest songs are echoed o'er the vale. The starry campion blooms in shady woods. Tall, gay, frilled cone flowers crest the grassy waves. And sleepy catchflies nod to vagrant bees; Thus nature, in her bright sun-cultured moods. Makes glad the heart of him who wisely saves A. moment for her gentle ministries. The Sun, while taking a royal jaunt In his chariot of finest gold. When passing this way, dropped a score or more Of his chariot wheels, 'tis told. And these golden-spoked and bronze-hubbed wheels Took root and flourished in Kansas fields, A token, rich beyond compare. Of our sun-blessed acres and sun-brewed air; And the Sunflower now is the sign and seal, The living witness of Kansas' weal. A snow sprite flitting near my southern window. Just paused to tell this welcome news to me: How that, in passing yonder dim, grey woodland, He heard the spring elves chatting merrily. And saying that 'twas useless trying longer To hinder crocus or anemone From coming forth the great round sun to see. ICaura Id. iKtrkuionb A iCullaby Softly as the moonbeams fall. Elves of slumber to thee call. Rest, my sweet, the day is done. Dreamland has for thee begun. Cease that lisping, close thine eye, Listen to earth's lullaby. Nodding flowers and murmuring trees. Send good-night kisses on the breeze. Sleep, my sweet, till break of day. When slumber-elves will steal away; Open then thine eyes of blue. To Slumberland bid quick adieu. will? MvB lEarapf Her lips so tender Her eyes so blue Her waist so slender What could I do? A blush inviting A smile divine The chance not slighting I call her mine. But Papa hearing. No mercy knows; With boot-heal steering 1 he exit shows. L'Envoi It's a stern joy which Fathers feel, In suitors worthy of the heel. QIljp iEtprnal ¥m\mm What keeps a fellow in a whirl? Why it's girl, girl, girl. Turn him that way or this. He cannot miss a Miss. Love's young dream of bliss Is a man a cottage and a Miss. Then every man real joy should claim Whose life is such a miss-less game. I find earth not gay, not rosy. Heaven not fair, but grim of hue. Do I walk? The path is prosy. Do I stand and stare? All's blue. After Browning. J Things so rosy. Papa mosey. Nothing prosy. Everything frozy. Isn't it cosey? Then I mosey. Happy, Gee! Lonesome me! One copy del. to Cat. Div. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 017 165 459 2 • 1