Hi PS msmm wsm mmmam Just Muse Mrs. M. McNamar V Class J3SaS^2l5!! Book A a 7 7 ^(2? rmpv-rightF )Q/9 CDPifRIGHT DEPOSni JUST MUSE and OTHER POEMS BY MRS. M. McNAMAR 'I (Copyright 1918 and 1919) McNAMARS, PUBLISHERS Cottonwood, Calif. ^-i^^" K^^ iJt.L It) i9l9 INTRODUCTIVE YERSIO. Then permit me to revel in the wealth of all verse, And forbid me no part of their themes; For the poets have written, their thoughts to disperse, That others might share in their dreams. [n words gracefully framed thej^ the topic define, With soft language that ebbs and flows; They bear me away on the bosom of rhyme To the land of Peace and Repose. Perhaps it may be in the majestic lines Of the grand old masters of song; In their heavier themes that my spirit finds Strength, as my tranquil mood they prolong. They hold sweeping power, my mind to immerse, Like the tide that engulfs where it flows; They bear me away on the billows of verse, To the land of Peace and Repose. (2) JITST MUSE. MIDNIGHT UNDER CALIFORNIA SKIES I sleep and I dream — That I sail the sea of deepest blue, Where all the stars are mirrored true. And the v/aning moon is reflected too From the depths of iVi calm stiJl face. On this sea that touches no cliff or shore. That has no breakers to rock and roar, Like a phantom my ship is sailing o'er. As sm.oothe as if gliding through space. On the deck I repose in my steamer chair And I feel the touch of the cool night air. As I view the fairy like scene from there, Through the masts of my own flying bark. Other phantom ships go sailing by With never a sound as their way they ply, And never a message or a signal fly, As they go seeking some distant mart. Those phantom ships are all white or gray. And they are all sailing the self same way, Not one of them lingers or cares to stay Her speed till the journey's complete. But my ship is not painted white or gnay. And I sail in the opposite way from they, Neither do I tarry or pause to say One word to that flying feet. And now I behold a wreck on the deep — A frail little bark that had failed to keep Pace with the othei^ ships of that fleet Disappeared from the fairy-like scene. But another great ship met a fate much worse, "V\nien, heedless of danger, she steered her course (3) Right onto the shorfes of a rock bound coast; The shock startled nie out of my dream. Ah ! It wasn't a dream, I was wide awake, I was only allowing my fancy to take Me sailing- away in its own wild wake, On the breast of the midnight breeze. The sea, in my fancy, was the great blue sky, The ships, the white clouds that go sailing by. And my deck chair, the cot upon which I lie Out under my own iig trees. The masts of my ship was a giant branch, The sails wero the leaves that toss and dance. And they appear the part in the careless glance, That it pleases my fancy to give. That rock bound coast was the mother cloud's breaat, Where all the little clouds fly to rest. Now long before this I know you have guessed The land where I've chosen to live. HI^AYENLY GLIMPSES. Down deep in the blush of the rose 1 see A picture from another v/orld given, I cannot decide just what it can be. Unless 'tis the sunrise in heaven. On the petals of the lily there seems to gleam The purity of immortal things, Must be the reflection of some heavenly scene, Perhaps 'tis of the angels' wings. But in a little child's smiling, innocent face Shines a vision far more fair. Than in anything else of terrestral grace. For heaven, itself is imaged there. (4) LIFE'S GREATEST MOMENTS Life's greatest moments spent with a friend — With some dear soul, whose musing and mediation seem to blend And beat in harmony with those of our own, As a sweet song and its melodious chords are one in tone. Life's dearest moments spent with a friend — With some loved one whose sweet companionship seems to lend Inspiration of soul food for mated minds, Our thoughts move in unison, our desires one in kind. Life's sweetest moments spent with a friend — Some loved companion we've known long since, or then Perhaps 'tis an erstwhile friend who feels This atonement of spirit, and a compact of fellowship seals. Life's choicest moments spent with a friend — Just a day or an hour of sweet communion that trends To lead upward and onward to a loftier throne Of inspiration and thought than we'd reached had we striven alone. Life's greatest moments spent with a friend — Some ne'r forgotten person whose fellowship will not end With parting of ways, for we've lived the divine. And deep impressions of kindred minds are not siibject to absence or time. TEUTH. Man, in his unstable building. Places timbers that decay and fall; Nature in her infinite mercy. Drapes and shields for the eyes of all. Man wanders apart from the pathway That leads to the perfect and right; Truth, divine, silently follows In his wake, and wipes out the blight. (5) THE CAGED LION. To and fro, to and fro, Those iron bars are but prison walls; To and fro, to and fro, The great out-doors to his spirit calls, In his solemn, ceaseless and nervous tread, He seems to avoid some hidden dread; He is all unmindful of the curious throng, That views him the whole day long. T^p and dov/n, 'round and 'round, From this prison he longs to escape; Up and dovrn, 'round and 'round. Would that providence could ope' the gate. Can any who look at him fail to see That he was never meant for captivity; In appeasing the restlessness of his soul His body is paying the toll. Out in the free, it was his to be, Without caution or fear he walked alone; Over the bramble, and over the lee, The forCvSt trees were the walls of his home. And he ruled that home in all majesty, None ever disobeyed his excellency; For then he was king of the wonderful wild, But now he is a broken exile. How is it man places a ban Upon the freedom of the least of this land? How is it man places a ban. And defies the work of a mightier hand? Would that humanity saw no pleasure or pease, Except in the comforts of the greatest or least, Would that forever the will of man Ceased the opposing of nature's plan. (6) DEATH. With his poisonous wand, Death sweeps the world on wings That carry him swiftly, and far; Under his devastating power all things he brings, His presence, no region can bar. He turns toward the arid plains of the desert wild. Some victim falls at his quest; In the frozen steppes of the north his hands have defiled What pleased his fancy the best. He is an unwelcome visitor, none can seek to evade, He comes at noon, at night, at morn; The sea&, the vales, hills and mountains are his to invade. He spots a victim as soon as 'tis born. He dares to lay hands on the most precious things we hold. He takes a little, he takes our all; We are powerless to resist him, he is a burglar t)old, We, ourselves, must come at his call. No lily is too fair and lovely for his deadly clutch. No flower that he will not slay; No palm tree so high and stately that he will not touch And spoil it with grim decay. Yonder hill held its monument, seemed a gift of time, From its destruction all would refrain; Yet, Death laid his hand e'en, to that graceful pine, And the cones never grew again. Lo in his ruthless devastation he dared to touch Even the brow of the Holy Christ, The very earth trembled with awe that he dared so much, And for a moment that touch sufficed. But it was the prophets of old, who, in their w:sdom had said "Dissolution the Christ shall not see" They looked and beheld Him— the Christ was not dead, But He lived— and He liveth through eteniity. (7) "I am the Resurrection and the Life," sayeth He — "I am victor over death that all men may Cometh into eternal life by me," And "My word shall not pass away." Though Death has despoiled and laid waste his myriads of things, In the Holy Writ this promise we find That, which is not subject to his venomous sting Is the Immortal Soul of mankind. MY ADORABLE NEICE AND HER BEAU 'A cozy chair, and a book, of the story-land kind, A foot-stool and chocolates, myself all re.=?igned To an afternoon "comfy" by a raised window blind. To rest, read and dream at sweet will. No, not at sweet will, for out there on the lawn Sits two happy creatures, as fresh as day dawn. Detracting my thoughts, and, oh, how I long To peek over the window sill. Desire, always persisive, I yield to the will, A scene so enchanting, a stone heart would thrill, I enjoy and admire, till perch on the sill Comes a monster with eyes of green hue. Out there my niece and her beau, ('tis her very first) In their isle of seclusion — what villain would durst Break into that haven of bliss, all unversed? But the monster's obstructing my view. But why this monster at all, when I, too, have had All the pleasures that trend to make the heart glad, And honor and prestige — now I know it is bad For that creature to be sitting there. Not because of worldly goods those two children own, For they sit in my chairs, on my lawn, at my home. And not because I am sitting here quite alone: I'm not envious of a friendship so fair. (8) The truest of friends have always been mine, Nor do I begrudge that pair of their idle time. Or of fairness of forms or faces so fine, I'd not covet in a manner so tame. I envy not that boy of a smile justly earned. Or her the fend one that he gives in return, Ah me! It is wicked, but still I discern The rrifonster sitting there just the same. Another stolen glance, and there now comes to me The reason for that stab of mad jealousy, Revealed in the blushes I chance to see — Blushes experience will never improve. Blushes, born or hearts so free from all care. Before sorrow or wisdom has had any place there, But innocence, only, of the young and the fair. That shyness time alone will remove. 'Tis the joys of youth that I see in each face. Adorning them both with charm and with grace, 'Tis the felicity time will so swiftly out race, Seems the flight of my own was all wrong But where did it, when did it, how did it go? 'Tis another mystery, none of us ever will know They have theirs now, my adorable niece and her beau, I look again and the monester is gone. BIDE A-WEE. Suppose I should be called on a journey, To a land far over the sea; There would be no joy in the plannini.c. If none say to me "toide-a-wee." None to have part in the prepaiation. No loved one, no comrade, no friend; There would be sadness in the embarking. No matter how pelasant the end. (9) Or if I should sit in the evening tide, List'ning to bells of gray twilight: There would be no melody in their chiming. With no friends to wish me good-night. If I must be a solitary listener, The bells will bring feelings forlorn; And there will be a chill in the twilight, No matter how glorious the mor*n. Then when I approach the autumn days Of this one fleeting life year; There will be no joy in the yule-tide, If no loved ones hover near. When the last day and the hour cometh. There will be an uncertainty. If no dear one is near to comfort me, And wish me a "bide-a-wee." Then give me a friend — a companion, Who will watch for my coming bark; And listen for the bell that will summons. When the twilight succumbs to the dark. There will be no sadness, no loneliness, In the close of that day for me; With a dear one near to sustain and soothe, And say to me "Bide-a-wee." PEOPLE WE ALL KNOW There was a man of wonderful successes. By his striving he had won a great name; The world shouted his ston% It wrteathed him with glory. And clamored tc share in his fame. But the same man made many failure. Which, to the world were all unknown, Nor did any one care His disappointment to share, Those failures were all his alone. (10) A lady, Iby her deeds of great kindness, Scattered happiness and sunshine abroad; At her feet the world bowed, It proclaimed her aloud. And each deed it made haste to applaud. But the same lady met a great sorrow. Which shrouded her life like a pall, The world claimed no part, In the brief of her heart. Had no place in the mourning at all. We know the man of wonderful successes, We know the lady of good deeds well done: And they both have (been glad That the whole world has had A share in the honors they've won. We know the man who made many failures, We know the lady with the sorrows unknown; Because the world never knew They were glad of that, too. They had rather suffer the trials alone. WHAT'S THE USE I have an honest debt to pay What's the use? When so many others say What's the use? Just to have no man to fear, Just to keep a friend sincere, Just to feel my conscience clear; That's the use. We may strive to do the right, What's the use? So many treat it light. So what's the use? Just to know we've done our best. Just to feel we've stood the test. (11) Nor am I satisfied with less; That's the use. I "hitch my wagon to a star," What's the use? It may never get me far, So what's the use? Though my dreams I never realize. It will be a joy to strive For the highest goal or prize; That's the use. THE DESERT'S OWN 'Tis a place not meant for mortal to tread, WJiere man has stalked without fear or dread; Right into the wild and wilderness waste. And strove to conform himself to the place. He has failed, in this land forgotten by God, Are mysterious paths no man should have trod: And though he may strive in harmony to be. Never a part of the desert land is he. Foreign to him is that shifting sand. That, at the whip of the wind, defaces the land: Covers his path as if a flood had surged. And all traces of land-marks submerged. Resolation and drought are the chief of charm. Excepting the mirage, and that brings him harm; Consumates death in the bed of a sunken sea. And gives the body to its own as a fee. But what is its own — what belongs to this waste? 'Tis a thing of the desert, with the desert's taste. Like the desert, he spots his prey 'ere 'tis dead, Begins destruction soon as life-breath has fled. As desolate a the lands are his dismal howls. Over the arid and sun-baked sands he prowls; In the heart of this wasteful, wilderness wild. Lives th€ coyote, truly, the desert's own child. (12) MY PLACE IN LINE Twixt the trend of the ages that's vanished. And the ages of all future time; Comes the age of the present, I wonder, Why I'm permitted to call it mine. Can it be said it was just happening, To be brought to my earthly estate In the present, instead of the dim, dim past. Or reserved for some future date. For in all the world and its workings. As it majestically moves along; There can never be found in existence, One atom has been placed awrong. Perfection molded in all its immensity In its substance, its time and its pose; Completed in thousands of details. As a leaf is complete, or a rose. Like the chapter unfolds in the story Time ushered in the present age, Among its innumerable characters, I am a dot on the printed page. But a dot may complete some sentence, (Nor stationed amiss in the line) T, too, for some reason am given A place in God's plan divine. So whither I stand with the greatest, Or the lowlier place falls as mine; I am part of the wonderful everything Planned in beginning of time. I cannot fail to see the magnanimity. At its consummation my soul does appall; Nor will I fail to bow down and worship The Creator and Giver of all. (13) BLESSINGS, THINE AND MINE There is a light, a silvery light, Coming down from the moon in the silent night; With fairy hands it touches the lands. And scatters the gloom from the sea; This light is shining for me, for me, 'Tis shining for thee and me. There is a note, a twittering note, Flung to the breeze by a ruffled throat; It has a part in gladdening the heart, Perched high in the old apple tree; This bird is singing for me, for me; 'Tis singing for thee and me. There is a day, a lovely day. It may come in mid-winter or balmy May; A jewel in line set by Father Time In the crowd of years given to me and thee; 'Tis this day that has dawned for me, for me. This day that's for thee and me. The flowers, the grasses and trees; The rivers and mountains and seas, The bees and the birds, The fields and their herds. The heavens above. The friends that we love. The rhythms that 'rote Of song or of note. Or just the laugh of a child in its glee. Are some of God's blessings for me, for me, God's blessings for thee and me. (14) LOVE Like the flight of the carrier pigeon, A messenger has flown throughout all space; Into remote and most boundless regions. And there was never a halt in the pace; Neither did it return from the distant wanderings, Till it gleamed for man the secret that he bade it bring. Like he tryst of the carrier pigeon. The messenger returned from a distant place: With the deepest theme of a mighty religion, Snatched from a pedestal where it poised in space; This, the message, gleaned from earth, and all heav'n above. That the greatest thing in all the universe is love. THE DESERT RAT (The quest for gold) He was a prospector, bronzed, stiffened and thin, William Baily, his common place name; "The Desert Rat" was the "nick" that just fitted him, His persistence had earned him the same. And although "Bill" was now well up in years, He still heeded the lure of gold. Desert life, to him, held no terrors or fears, But griped with a grip that would hold. In the fruitless years that he'd haunted the land, In statue, in mind, in desire he grew To be typical of the eternal sand. His vitality as enduring too. Few friends were his and fewer he sought. His faithful burro was the most true; He cared little for comforts, for pleasures naught. As he traversed the desert through. (15) Weeks spent in the heart of the waterless waste. With the Jinny trudging at his heels; Meager his wants, and more meager his taste. Scanty his drink, and more scanty his meals. Bill saw little of animal, less of vegetable kind, * Side-winders, the only enemies he'd meet. Although the sun beat down, he did not mind When sands reflected an intolerable heat. His one desire was the desire for gold, That mine — fabulous wealth he must find; The incontrollable lure has often laid hold And destroyed a much stronger mind. Undaunted by failure Bill always planned On the "luck" he would "soon" realize; But the coveted treasure always just beyond hand. One more trip and he'd land the prize. In time the prospector becomes the Desert Rat, And lose his ambition or change his will; He would still remain, but he deems not that The desert sands would know him still. It has power to charm and the victim hold. For that fascination there is no cure; The Rat may count it but the passion for gold. The desert, itself, has become the lure. But there are times when even the burro will fail Her master, and refuse his fate to share: And to toll her away from the unbeaten trail, Moisture scented from — God knows where, Their wanderings led farther than ever before, When the prospector chanced to look back; A deep sand wash, bushes of sage, nothing more. Hiding jinny and her bunglesome pack. ♦Side-winders is the name given to the rattlesnakes in the southwestern deserts of the United States. (16) "Hello! Jinny, stealin' a march on a feller? An' 'tain't like ye, ol' gal, not a bit; Desertin' of yer pal, an' I was strikin' a color. But I'll find ye, now don't ye fergit. No wonder the ol' gal was all out o' sorts. Should o' give her a drink, while ago, When I stopped to examine them specimans o' quartz, Come to think, that water jug's runnin' low." "Never mind, now. Jinny, ye'll be livin' in clover, When — when— funny I dont' see her tracks!" But the burro heard not, she was staggering over The desert, water jugs strapped to her back. "Wtell, I reckon I can find ye, things lots worse Happen me than losin' of a burro like you." And 'twas odd that the prospector shifted his course Just as the wind would be shifting, too. "Strange, I must be gettin' mixed up, I swear I was facin' that wind 'while ago; Must o' turned clean 'round 'stead o* half, I declare I'll be gettin' daffy, first thing I know." There were hills to the left, and hills to the right, Two rows, as like as two rows of peas. And the floor of the desert under the glare of light. Unmarked, as the breast of the seven seas. "To them that ain't got no sense o* direction. It may be kind o' mysterious like; You bet I've got it all down to perfection — Funny Jinny took a notion to hike." Comes a twinge of remorse when the Desert Rat feels Perfect knowledge of "where" slipping away; But he must hasten on for fate often seals A destiny, almost in a single day. Four and twenty hours, spent in the unspeakable heat. Without drink, man's reason hangs by a thread; 17 Now tli3 prospector had rambled far ofr his beat, Tottering and uncertain was his tread. * Ah, come on now, Jinny, it's time for a drink, Here's to ye far luck — What! not comin' to me? Oh! I recollect now — I can't seem to think, An' somehow I don't seem to see." And — "Ye may f^^hift where ye Will, ye can't get me. No diiToreiice y^here the ol' wind blows; I hnow 'bout where f am, yes — sir — ree. You bet, cl' Bill Biily always knows." But the prospector's laugh was now a mere cockle, His gate was that of the blind; Under his feet the baked sand crackled. He was wandering like in his mind. It wa^, not strange that one with an eye so trained, Eve)i in this plight should recognize That bronze-black stone, in deep yellow stained. And instantly know that he'd found the prize. A frenzied moment, he drove his pick through the stone The cry of "Gold! Gold'" fell from his parching lips; Those fragments of rock revealed to his eyes alone A fortune. "Ha! I knew I'd find it this trip!" The half dnzed man threw himself on the ground, Gathered those stones in his trembling hands; He cuddled them, hugged them, laughed, laid them down, Snatched others from the crumbling sands. Staring fixedly at them, to that fever mad brain Those specks of gold became as stones in size: Those stones became boulders, and again and again He estimated the value of his prize. Bid I say "fabulous wealth?" 'Twas beyond the man's dreams, Half the hillside was a ledge of that stone; For this the Desert Rat had given all, it seems For a moment to call it his own But the second day. without drink, in this land (18) A drop of water is more than i.'clies untold- But the desert offers none, it givss only yand, And taunts with its treasures of :;old. Now, even in this hour of physical distress, V\'as no thought that he'd lost his way: Withal he was blinded and drunk with success, Heeded not the price he was soon to pay. With a body so strained, the mind could not hold. It wavered, it rersted on a brink, "Come now. Jinny. I've found a mountain of gold, I can buy— I can — I'll buy us a drink." A precious stone held in the outstretched hands "Come, Jinny, ye can have a few sips," Then the stone fell to the ground, a handful of sand Was conveyed to his own swollen lips That, too, cast aside, for a beautiful lake Appeared, with its palm studded shore; With a struggle, the prospector managed to take A Step toward it, then beheld it no more. "Ho. I don't want a lake, I'm a rich man now! I'll buy an ocean, eh. Jinny, jes think — No' I remember now, I'm — you're lost, but I vow I'm goin' — Jinny I'll give ye a drink. An' I'll find ye, too, jes as 1 said I would Get located when I see the north star; Ye'll be glad too, Jinny, your ol' pal's made good. 1 know ye haven't strayed very far." A last feeble step, the prospector fell with a cry Before the mountain of Lifelong Desire; Though I/eth?an depths £-parkled where e'er he cast his eye, It Rooth-^d not the thirst, now burning fire. As it was yet high noon on that arid plain. The man thought of his burro no more; Nor again of his gold, but of his thirst and pain. And in the moment of the passing o'er — (19) His childhood hcr,ic, its fields of waving grass, A cottage, his mother stood in the door; 'Twas just a fleeting glimpse of the long dead past, And years since he'd thought of it before. Once again hs became a tired, thirsty child, Turning to mother, who would know his need: Faithful to him, but now she not even smiled, She v;as siienl and seemed hardly to heed. It v/as odd that in that last thought he would see li'is little mug in her outstretched hand; But it v/as the irony of fate — perfect mockery She, too. offered him a cup of sand. As the sun sank behind the low hills in the west The shadow crept upon a corpse, how strange That the Desei-t Rat found his eternal rest In the shadov/ of the Funeral Range. There war; no funeral, that, nor the following day, F'or the desert offers no shroud, no pall- It softens net the event by a floral display, There is just death and oblivion, that's all. And with the lar^t drawn breath, the work is co^nplete. The monument is a cactus, straggling, old; But 'tv/ill endure for ages, and at the prospector's feet, A broken stone, biilliant with settings of gold. IF I HAD A MILLION BUCKS V/ell now, let me just see where I would be If I should drop heir to a million bucks, Don't think that I'd cry if grand "unkie" should die. For by that he would pass me my luck. I'd go in for a spree, one grand jubilee, Just as long as I rattled that mon' My pals and I. we'd sure live on pie. And you bet we'd play second for none. (20) I'd see the old planet and all there is in it, Before I run through with them bucks; And old Johnnie D. would have nothing on me. For I'd ride — Overland, De Luxe. And no old conduc' could hustle me up, Or make me jump quick when he speels "All aboard!" Oh fudge, I'd not have to budge. I'd own the old palace on wheels. I'd travel by boat, the biggest afloat; Built speedy and fitted up mighty grand, With a fancy saloon and a big dancin' room. Servants, sailors and a classy brass band. And no old sea chap, not even the cap' Could order me 'round, fore and aft, You bet', by heck, I'd boss the old deck, I'd be ownin' the whole dog-gone d craft. I only would go to the classiest show, "Big hits" of the season I'd see; And them smart usher guys, a lookin' so wise, Wouldn't dare to say "gallary" to me. That Rockiebuilt bunch would sure get a hunch, And off up the stairs they'd scaddocdle. My pals I'd treat to the very best seat, And we'd take up the v.'hole caboodle. I'd order some diners that sure would be winners. That four hundred gang I'd outshine; And up at the Astor they'd hop around faster When I took my gal up there to dine. Just as long as my dough held out I would go For a high old time — but. Oh shucks. No use to blow for there ain't no show Of me gettinn' them billion bucks (21) ETERNAL DESIRE Up, up the mountain of Eternal Desire, With its shadowy, winding trail; A pedestrian will stand at the foot and aspire The height of the summit to scale. Solitary is the peak, lone is the trail, Individul the one to admire; Then start the ascent, and never be content On the mcuntain of Eternal Desire. At first it rose up, just a smooth little hill, All grasses and ferns and flowers: Then the pathway led through a thatch by the rill, On upward neath green leafy bowers. All this passed through, still it grew and it grew, There were ledges with bramble and brier; V»Tien that, too, is climbed, a pause but to find. What a mountain is Eternal Desire. But up 3'onder ahead lies a pleasanter solpe, And to reach it a hastening on; With never a falter, not a doubt in the hope. That the summit will appear before long. The trail, tedious, rough, there's crag and there's bluff, Yet none was ever known to tire Or to tarry or stay, or to fall by the way On the mountain of Eternal Desire. One more rugged steep to be mounted with might, One more terraced slope comes to view. Life-long the ascent, inaccessible the height. Scenes along the path ever new. But the trail is lost when the rivers' to be crossed, Not rill then will ambition retire; Death — the river that's found to be flowing around ri:o base of the mountain of Eternail Desirf'. (22) A COMRADE, TRUE Tensed, and faces drawn with emotion, The little group stood on the front walk; There v/ere only a few moments left them, But it seemed difficult to talk. Dear daddy, so proud, but now thoughtful, To clasp tightly the hand of his boy; And then came his dear little mother, He, the light of her life and her joy. And sister, she'd forgotten his teasings, She now beheld him, a hero grand; And little Joe, how he, too, longed to go. Endless years before he'd be a man. All gathered to say a fond farewell To the tall soldier boy so fair; And one other — but no, he could not, At least not right then, or there. As the lad turned aside in departing, They all strove their emotion to hide; But Jack receiving no farewell pat Took his place at his masters' side. "Here, Jack Here, Jack! You come right back! See here now. you must not go!" Those moments had been such trying ones Nobody could speak but Joe. The old dog halted reluctantly, Then looked into his master's face. No word — in wisdom the answer sensed, He proceeded to move on a pace. "No, Jack! Now you must stay right here!" Jack marched on like a soldier grand; He took orders from no "subordinate," When a "superior" v/as in command. On down the path, dog and master (■23) XVjalking so briskly, just those two; And the reason of the master's silence None but the little mother knew. As the gate clanged too behind them, The boj^ felt never a doubt or a fear; Nor thought that it had closed forever Upon him.self and his loved ones dear. On down the dusty road he hastened, In the tears he could no longer hide; Nor did he care, there was none to see them new Only Jack, pacing along at his side. So it has ever been in all history, A man facing his fellow man. Will stifle all semblance of weakness, But old Jack hv would understand. They turned the curve, then passed from view, And a full twenty minutes had flown Ere the poor old dog came sauntering back. Again appeared at the saddened home. As he came up the path the bright sunlight Fell full on his big shaggy ears There was glistening, something like crystals, That was made by the falling of tears. Happened it Jack hadn't shaken them off, But they had clung, like drops of dew; None but the little mother saw them there, And none but the little mother knew. Jack sought his place 'mong the shady vines. Very soon he was fast asleep; All unconscious that he had revealed The secret his master wanted to keep. "Wlien the sun hung low o'er the western hills Jack roused, sauntered down to the gate. The usual place for waiting his master, Came he early or came he late. But this time the master did not return. And it was just a year and a day (24) Till they received the sad, sad message Saying their loved one had gone to stay. They ceased the waiting and watching, They grieved but each of them knew That old Jack was vigilantly keeping A compact made by comrades true; When dovvn by the gate he takes his place And will each evening to his dying day, He is waiting the return of his master, And nobodv ever calls him away. WHAT'S TRUMPS In the contest around the table "What's trumps" is the question asked, 'What's trumps" is all important, In this world's gigantic task. In which clubs represent law, hearts represent love diamonds represent money and spades represent labor. I am clubs — I'm trumps — I have reference not to such little things As decks of cards with queens and kings. But of a power that holds and sways A people to its stringent ways. I am law for subjects all, I send for them at my beck and call. Whether of state, religion, home or school, 'Tis law that wields controlling rule. Law. by right and honor bound, Stretching the whole world around. No difference of what race or clime, I am the club that whips thinks into line. Respect me! King of Clubs is trumps. [■2o) Nay, nay, King Clubs, I'm hearts! I'm trumps- ■\Vh:it other power has ought to say When hearts are holding sway? T fipeak of love, of tenderness: All the world I've sought to bless; And a people heeded me Before law or state aspired to be. it was even through mj just dictations rh;it lav/' and rule became creations; And at ray bidding both have tumbled, Into dufit their castles crumbled. I am a higher power, but I place no bans, 1 murmur not, make no demands. •Greater I than court or king, I simply to the abstract cling. I'm Queen of Hearts, I rule the world. Honor me — I'm trumps. I am diamonds — I am trumps — Diamonds, though such little things, Vvlmt a weight of prestige brings. I speak of concentrated wealth. And T rule the world by stealth. In this glittering soul of mine The very essence of "value" shine. And no man as yet has turned me down, Not even for love of state or crown. Law — what is law? Who has not decerned That 'tis merchandise when I'm concerned? For the vehicles of law I've bought And sold, without a thought. And the populace is not deceived If value is not received Yea. even good Queen Hearts has fell Before my dazzling spell Forgotten her own just precepts. Yi'h^n our pathways intercept, Witi Irw and love 7 "play the douce," I appropriate without excuse (26) Their ideals for abase or use. Diamonds, whether great or small. Hold the highest goal of all. Attention! I am trumps. 1 am spades — I'm trumps — I speak of toil, back to the soil— A slogan that's forever droned, But a foolish people was ever known To follow precopts of such lowly cast, In loftier themes they have amassed Though law or love or wealth may rule, I — spades, have been the despised tool 'j et, patiently I've bid mv time, Nor have I been of idle mind; For diligently I've dug the graves Of all the world's most esteemed braves. While man has scorned my low estate, I've plodded on, but now of late — Guided by the human hand, I've dug trenches for most every land That law may exist, that hearts may beat. Money now lies at my feet. I've labored long without a sign, But now men hear my age old cry. They scoff not at the way I've trod They embrace me now and turn the sod; That a vine, a tuber, a stalk might grow. And the hungry nations know The comforts of a full repast, Lo I'm conqueror at last. Salute me, I am spades. Ace high! 9^ — -^ ♦• — »^ (27j DOWN DEEP IN THE WOODS AMONG THE PINES There is a quietness there that I love — And it isn't because the birds do not sing As sweetlj^ as can be through al Ithe long spring. It isn't because the bees do not hum, The nightingale trill, or the woodpeckers drum: It isn't because the squirrels do not chatter. As on whirring wings the quail will scatter; It isn't because there is no cooing dove. For song comes both from the earth and skies above- The cricket is low, but the eagle flies high. And from perilous heights resounds his cry; There is all this to charm and I wonder why There is a quietness there that I love. Thore is a quietness there that I love — And it isn't because the leaves do not fall And rustle response when the breezes call: It isn't because the brook is still, For all day long there's the drip of the rill; It isn't because there is no fairy tap Of the rain drop as it falls on the leafy mat; And it isn't because the herds do not low Through all the long evenings when soft winds blow; And the same winds waft sweet music to me, 'Tis a gentle moan from those lofty trees^ All this, and I wonder how it can be There is a quietness there that I love. There is a quietless there that we love — High up in the mountains among those pines, 'Tis a blessing to come and linger a time, In this heav'n given spot for a tired mind. Where we leave earthly trials and woes behind. Here v/e escape the rush of a weary throng That throttles and jostles the years along; (28) We forget the future, the past lies dead, We live the fullness of the "now" instead; Here among these hills, magnificently dressed, In the splendors of forest nature did her best, We can stroll at v/ill or we pause and rest, For there's a quietness there that we love. THE ASPEN LEAVES Oh, ye glimmering, shimmering, shining things. Suspended in air by your fiber strings; You are tremenlous with unrest all the day through, Was anything ever as unstable as you? All powerless to resist the least pressure brought, How you vibrate with life if any is v/rought; You are the soul of vivacity through and through, W>as anything ever as high strung as you? You delight to respond to the least breath of air, And impatient with the bonds that holds you there: You are impulsive, sensitive and nervous too. Was anything ever as emotional as you? Inactivity or calmness your heart never knows, You court agitation, you shun all repose; Nothing is like you unless it may be The throbbing, eager masses of humanity. As I sit in admiration, a sad mishap — One of those leaflets fell prone into my lap; The breeze became angry because they annoyed, And smote with a lash that destroyed. I was sorry that a thing that had lived so intense Should be thus stricken down and never hence Respire again the life passionate breath, Surely it was an untimely death. 20 ) Bat I Icok for the vacant place on the tree, I discover none, neither do I see One single companion of that fallen leaf That has refrained from levity for grief. And that, too, is like the great humanity — After all 'tis as nature willed it should be; For death whether in season or an untimely decease, Is naught buc the wisping away of an aspen leaf. THE SONG OP ALL SONGS In the hush of the evening I sit by my door, As the sun drops over yon hill; My hands are now idle, for the day's' work is o'er, And the stress of all labor is still. I long for something simple, my mind to enthuse, Something peaceful and soothing and calm; In the quiet of the hour there comes to amuse A little songster, and he sings an odd song. 'Tis the hallowing tones of the gray whippowil, In regularity and with reverence his call Rings over the vale or the crest of the hill, The benediction of the day seems to fall. Seme say he is sad and he makes them feel lonelj% Like their happiness had met some defeat; But not so with me, he brings to me only A feeling that's peaceful and sweet. Though melancholy is his theme, 'tis in sweet accord With the setting of place and of time, If he sings for a reason he finds his reward When the echo comes back like a chime. He sings the broken chords, 'tis in a broken scale That the accompaniment is set to his song; 'Tis the tinkling of bells, it seems they never fail To join, and the soft rhythm prolong. They retire from the scene with the coming of the moon. And as their last pathetic tones are gone, (30) I feel that evening bells play the tune of all tunes, The whippowil sings the song of all songs. Then a little later when the dark has closed down, And those tinkling bells are all still; When the deeper shadows have fallen all 'round, And hushed is the whippowil; Then another songster comes onto the stage. Solemn and profound is the song he sings; He is accurate, devout, his voice hollow as with age, And to the deep minor keys he clings. Sung in the baso clef the song is not light. It tells of the sad and the grave; It belongs to the dark, it is part of the night, Seems it echoes through the vaults of a cave. As the songster delves to the deepest of themes, 'Tis a dirg that he sings without tune; And down in my soul I feel that he means To remind me of death and the tomb. The accompaniment, too, seems weird and old. For 'tis played by the breath of the winds; It is softened by use, for through ages untold It has blown through the trunks of the pines. Now it rises to a pitch in a grand prelude. Now it sinks to a wail or a moan; 'Tis wonderfully harmonious with the songsters' mood. The sounds mingle in marvelous atone. As they touch the deep chords of the nocturn, there looms >3efore me, visions of things long agone; Then 1 think that the winds play the tune of all tunes, And the owl sings the song of all songs. As the last doleful sound of that dirge dies away, A wealth of melody comes to m5' ear; Some silvery tongued songster in his beautiful lay. Softly, sweetly, yet wonderfully clear. In the light, the fantastic, the fairy like strains 'Tis pure rhythm that falls on the air; The very essence of harmony is in the refrain. (31) The warbler's notes are select and rare. In the choicest of senates he seems to delight, He is eloquent to the extreme, Ho hi enchanting, yet retiring, his fancy takes flight In only the sweetest of themes. With the cool balmy night he is fully in tune, And he sings his most charming lay In unaccented measures, he seems to commune With the spirit of the departed day. The murrauring brook plays the solo part, By it the gentle chorister is led; It commands the list'ner. 'tis a master of the art. And the harp, its own pebbly bed. It dashes off the variations in various styles, It ripples through the measures with east; Even the blithe little singer it charms and beguiles. Shrewdest critics, such classic would please. My entertainers have chased away all the gloom Of the night, and they to their rest have gone; Then I know that the brook plays the tune of all tunes. And the nighingale sings the song of all songs THE CONTEMPTIBLE LITTLE THING Two lovers wandered, they parlied and pondered Along the pathway that led through the wood; As true lovers always find they have plenty of time, They loitered as true lovers should. He w^as somewhat confused for fear she'd refuse If the all important question he'd ask; For any man to propose it is hard, goodness knows, But for this one 'twas a terrible task. She was so prepossessing, 'twas high time he was pressing His suit, there was a chance that he'd lose her; Tho he couldn't make haste, he showed excellent taste When he decided in his heart that he'd choose her But excited? Not she. she was calm as could be, Seemed she was never ruffled in her life; Her composure was inspirable, it made her so desirable, ro2) What a deligtful characteristic in a wife! She had a wealthy of brown hair, her face was so fair, He knew there was no powder or paint; Her eyes, dreamy blue, her name, suggestive too, For "Cecelia" could be applied to a saint. Her smile was all sweetness, she was a model of neatness, Justly proud, and quite fastidious you see; And as for her dress, it was model de less, "^^ich means the neck was cut down in a vee. She was modest and meek, and whenever she'd ppeak Her voice was lew and somewhat sympathizing. And because of that vee, the lover could see A throat and a chest that was most tantalizing. Her hand, dimple and white, so slender, seemed quite As if they had only the strength of a child; With her grace and dignity, there was no wonder that he Was in love with this maiden so mild. In a cool and shady grott was surely the spot. With a green mossy bank for a seat; A made to order back, was a log and alack. This lover was now ready to speak. He was trembly as could be, but (a glimpse of that vee) He ventured — "Dear Cecilia T love you, If you will be mine I'll worship at your shrine, This world will hold nothing above you — He was pausing for breath, when a look most like death Came over the maiden's fair face; No dreaminess there, but a maniac stars That recorded no person, no place. He hadn't ment to offend, he'd apoligise, but then Behold the poor girl had gone mad; And right at the time when he'd managed to find Courage to tell of his love — how sad She leaped to her feet, she was white as a sheet, As if suddenly possessed by a spell; A soft voice, have I said? She near raised the dead When she let out that ear splitting yell. In maddening haste she began to tear her waist (33) Gone her dignity, her meekness and repose Any one could see she was crazy as could be, For she ripped off part of her clothes. "What's the matter, dear child, you're acting most wild? Do tell me for goodness sakes! I an here, don't you see? Don't undress before me! Tell me, have you been bitten by a snake?" He tried to hold her hand, but she managed to land A terrific blow on the side of his nose; That hand though so slender was a capable defender, Who'd ever dream she could strike such a blow? She continued to scream in a manner that seemed Twould penetrate for miles around; In the stress and turmoil her hair loosed from the coil And some of it fell to the ground. Her raving, terrible to witness, 'twas surely not fitness For the companion to be obliged to survey; Through pure modesty, respect and courtesy To avoid her ill conduct he turned away. I'm not casting reflections when I say her complection Was badly smeared, and she stood in a daze; When fiinally the calm fell like a balm, A sorry sight met the young lovers gaze. "Heavens. Never again." thought he — but then On her face such a dejected look; Love and consideration when he saw the pi: J^ocation Of her plight, a new aspect things took. Now, as the question's arose, what do you suppose Was the cause of all that commotion? A little green frog that had sat on a log Became inspired by that lover's devotion. And now you will know that froggie wasn't as slow As that lover, and too, you'll agree That it was most very rude for him to intrude By hopping down into that vee. (34) THE CHIPMUNKS I take ray book and stroll down the glade, I settle myself in some spreading shade. But ere my thoughts to my story have gone, A little visitor comes scampering along. Up over the log it pokes two tiny ears, Then a soft little bunch of fur appears; With stripes of gray and brown and black All running lengthwise down its back. Now on her haunches, primly erect, My least sound or motion her eye will detect; Therefore I am silent, I want her to stay. If I move she will scurry away. Ah! now you see me, I couldn't fool you. And here comes your mate he is a wise one too. But he has no stripes, he's all gray but his head. And that bigger and round and red. They both chatter and sauce as if plainly to say "See here, now Missus, you go right away," And by their curt actions I know well and good I'm not wanted 'round this neck of the wood. Mrs. Chipmunk she scolds in her most terrible way, And Mr. Chipmunk he sanctions all she has to say; But if the were half as brave as they think they are Surely neither would stay away quite so far. "But now Mrs. Chipmunk, remember that If I could catch you I'd give you a real love pat, And you too, Mr. Chipmunk, but I know you'd resent, For to receive love pats you never was meant. A Hip, a leap and a bound he is gone, Another flip and a leap and she follows along. -Says I to myself, as I sit in the shade "They're the most cunning things God ever made." THE DEER He is as swift as an Indian arrow. He is as lithe as a willow-reed. He is as graceful as any sparrow. Beauty is his so fate has decreed. He is as timid as any lambkin. He is as harmless as any dove; Yet he llees like a frightened birdling From the hand that would give him love. He is nimble, sure-footed and hardened To the pathless way he pursues; Through he would grace any park-way or garden Solitudes of the wilds he will choose. In his own state he is chiefest of rangers, The mountain or plain knows his tread; In all nature he fears not a danger. Though a creg or a cliff be his bed. A thousand years has been his to ramble, A thousand years has been his to roam. Over mountain or meadow or bramble. Throught the haunts of his God given home. He has withstood the torrents that rages. He has weathered the heat or the storm; His kind has come down through the ages, 'Twas God's plan that none do them harm. But what is his aim or his mission? I search and the answer I find; In this world he's to fill a position, (36) Be a feast for the eyes of mankind. Then why not leave him to his duty. Why don't man respect him I say? Admire him alone for his beauty, And not seek him to slaughter and slay. THE BROOKLET "The brooklet and I are fn'ends," say I, Now me thinks I hear that wee voice which provokingly will say — "How be it, for age is old and grim but youth is young and gay How can a thing of youthfulness care to court or pay Friendship to a thing of age, 'tis a mystery I pray? When one revels in happiness the other always sad, forlorn; The one breathes out his gladness, the other seemingly lives to mourn. And the youth is ever laughing but the aged will, only scorn: And no harmony between the two is e'er conceived or born." "But the brooklet and I are friends'," say I. "Ah,, the brooklet and you are friends, you say? And yet a thousand years, or more, perhapr,, to him has come and gone Since the brooklet, in his infancy, sang his youthful song, And mimicked much or scoffed at them — the countless teaming throng That tread his banks or loitering played where he gaily speeds along. Yet the brooklet and you are ft i ends? Ah me, good friends j'ou, for sooth — And long, long since he's had his age and you still have your youth. Don't let him mock or tantalize or court or speak you smoothe, His tones are highly bewitching, but his flattery holds no truth.*' "But the brooklet and I are friends," say I. (37) Yes the brooklet and I are friends — good friends, 'Tis to liim I go if I feel a dread or the day is sad and drear. As yet liis soothing has not failed, he bid me be of good cheer; Or if I know the gayer hours he too, will lend an ear, He gives to all my changing moods, he as a friend sincere. "A friend sincere indeed — " again that wee small voice finds vent, "And all these years have idly flown, in foolish prattle his life is spent. Now he is old, but you are young, take not his motto of poor intent. His time is waste, but the future yours, employ it for better- ment." "But the brooklet and I are friends," say I. Yes, the brooklet and I are friends — true friends. And to this friend, for council I deem it a privilege to go. How oft' I seek his confidence, 'tis comforting to know That I have one of such ability and experience, for lo A thousand years he has conciled others in his cetseless ebb and flow True, he has his age and I, have yet my period of time, His voice is still all cheerfulness, I heed his merry rhyme, And in his continual babbling I hear a theme, so fine, 'Tis faithfulness and constancy, they are frienship's gifts, sublime. Yes, the brooklet and I are friends — true friends. Oh brooklet we are friends — real friends! Now undisturbed and peacefully we council, just we two. With no wee voice to chide me or bid me be untrue; For years have swiftly vanished my alloted period lived most through, And in my confirmed unstableness I turn again to you. Now I see. O murmuring brooklet, 'tis you that's young, so young, In the trend of age and ages, your life has just begun; And I, it is, that's old, so old, my course is almost run, Yet, in all my stupid soliloquy, never a taunt you've flung. Oh brooklet, we are friends — real friends. (381 PARODIC. (With all due apologies to the authors of the original lines.) THEN OR NOW ? I think when I view those grand portraits of old, When our grandsires were here among men; In their outlandish garbs they were sights to behold, I should like to have been living then. Modest ladies in bodice, tight sleeves and hoop skirts, In cocked hats and knee pants, all the men; Buckled slippers, powdered hair and those beruffled shirts, I'd sure like to have been living then. But when I view the curt damsels of the present day, As they sally forth with their skirts cut so short; In their flimsy furbolows there's a grander display Of "crural" shapes of all sizes and sorts. And I'm sure I speak the sentiments of all men — Tho they, themelves, dress more sensible I'll allow. In the choice of feminine fads of the "now" and "then," They're all glad they live in the "now." UNAVAILABLE The story is done and the scratching pen falls From the hand that writes. As the sledge hammer is thrown downward By the smithy 'long toward night. I sea the delight in the editor's face As he scans the pages of that scrip; And a feeling of gladness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist. A feeling of gladness and triumph That is nigh akin to pain; And will depart from me only When he sends the MS back again. (39) THE SPORTSMAN. This is the primitive man, civilization feign Would for centuries have tamed. To him its virtues sings Around him a net-work of laws its flings, That draws him onward, upward toward higher things, Thus he is attracted and will find Content and pleasure in its precepts only for a time. The web of binding laws slightly unfurled Into a tumult of desire his brain is whirled. It burst asunder from the cell. Where in the hum-dum life, he had bid it dwell, And strove to conform it to a more stately shell; Before him lies revealed The quenchless fires of savage passion now unsealed. Useless then to try, this curbing of his soul, For as the open seasons roll Rf^solutely he sets out For bruin, roe-buck, ducks, geese or trout, And not until he slays will he turn himself about; Thus he gratifies his will In the antics of the cave man, for he is a cave man still. PRICE-$4.99 Be still poor man and cease repining. In your old gray coat she has stitched new lining, Your fate is but a common fate of all, You never get any new clothes "a tall;" But wify must have her silk stockings. THE TOE DANCER Tripping, Tripping, little star Dancing beauty that you are; As you whirl and twirl and flip and fly. Pray how can you kick so high? (40) MOVIES-MOVE-US . (A Modern Thanatopsis) To one. who in the love of the movies, seeks. To enter her mj^sterious realms, she speaks A serious language: for his more honeful hours She has a voice that calls him a thrill, She is eloquent with confidence; and she glides Into his darker moments with that mild And sweet assurance that steals away The dissappointment ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter prospects come like a blight Over thy spirit, and the sad image Of grim despair, thwarted plans, gloom, And the breathless longing for the slightest chance, Makes thee to shudder and grow sick at heart, Go forth into the movie park, and list the Director's teachings, wiiile from all 'round — The park drives the lakelets and the depths of Shrubbery comes his loud, thrill voice. Yet a few Hours and thee, the all beholding spectacle shall see No more with all its discourse; nor yet on this Trampled ground where the senseless scene Was enacted with much ado, nor in the embrace Of galleries, shall exist these actor images. Dramas that thrilled them, shall claim Their talent to be as null and void again; And lost each movie trace, surrendering up Their individual costumes, they shall go To mix forever with the common herd; To be a brother to the uncultured smith, And to the sluggish tramp, which the rude farmer Turns away from his door and thus scorns upon. The Manager will send new talent down to confiscate The roll. Yet not unto this eternal private life Shall one retire alone — or could one wish A life more uninteresting. Thou shall retire With the brave patriarchs of the infant reels, with :4i) stars, the comedians of the art, the bad, the good, Successful boobs and failures grand of former shows, All in one forgotten caravan. The hills. Trodden and paraphernalia strewn where they parlled Long, the vale stretching in clever camouflage between. The make believe woods, the rivers that move when The camera moves and the artficial brooks that Completes the muddled scene and pours out from The nozzle of some dilapidated hose; Are but the solemn commemorations all Of the great grief of the left-outs. All that tread The movie stage are but a handful to the tribe That clammors for admittance. Take the wings Of morning, the Mojave Desert pierce. Or lose thyself in the continuous sands Where rolls the Sunset Limited, and hears no sounds Save its own rumblings — yet the movie man is there; And millions in those solitudes since first The art of films began, have hovered near For a last look, dead hopes reign there alone. So shall they all fail; but what if thou should retire Unnoticed by the manager and no fellow candidate Take note of thy great ambition? All that aspire Shall share thy destiny. The amateur will strive When thou art gone, the solemn brood of applicants Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase Hi|s favorite pantomime. Yet all these shall leave The scenes of their employment, and shall came And meet their fate like thee. As the Icng trend Of tape is rolled around, the child of craze, the youth In his ambitious age and he who preforms In the full strength of his dramatic days, the maiden Old maid the grizzled aged, the speechless babe, whose Mother alone knows the superior talent of its innocent Life, shall one by one be gathered to thy side. By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live in hopes, and when thy summons come^ to join The unenumerable caravan that wends its way (42) To that unavoidable end where each shall take His chamber in the crowded hall of failure, Thou go not, like the great majority, Crestfallen to thy doom, out substained and soothed By a lingering faith in thyself, approach thy certain Destination, like one who wraps the drapery of His fancy costom about him and sails out before The lens. (45) OTHER POEMS. WHEN THE CHILDREN SAY THEIR PRAYERS 'Tis a sacred moment, almost holy. When each head is bowed with care; With lisping lips and hands clasped They offer up the bed time prayer. 'Tis a moment when High Heaven Looketh down and then prepares With approving smile and gladness, To receive the children's prayers. Faltering not, nor hesitating, Not a doubtful thought assails; Pure of heart and humble minded, Sincereity and truth prevails. Attitude that's all impressive, Eloquence and strength is there; Yet sweet simplicity controlling Voices of that evening prayer. Perfect confidence, and trusting, Absolute their childish faith; Faith that passeth understanding, Such must reach the throne of grace. Earnest and with contrite spirtt, Devotional worship such as theirs Brings the earthly nearer heaven When the children say their prayem. Temples chosen by a Sovereign As the earthly dwelling pla^e; In the children (God's Own Kingdom) Is revealed his heav'nly grace. Ah, it seems to me the Holy Angels Lingering on those golden stairs, Pause with reverence and listen WJien the children say their prayers. (46) YOUTH— THOU ART GOLDEN Youth, thou are golden, Youth, thou art fair. Feign would we tread that primrose path anew, Where no clouded skies or taut winds blew, But bloom and mourning dew Alone gave fragrance to that balmy air, And placed no shadows there. Youth, thou art golden. Youth, thou art fair. Forbidd'n thy flowery path, we look back and review Thy pleasant scenes, thy happy hours and friends we knew; Unseen the hand that drew In silence and between that vail of years. Bringing sadness — tears. Youth, thou art golden, Youth, thou art fair. Encircled by a softly tinted glow art thou, As in dimmer realms, and fast receding now, Naught doth time allow In the distant scene that our memories lend But shades that blend. Youth, thou art golden. Youth, thou art fair. Each new day a mile stone, length'riing years that intervene, Yet memory clings and still thy vision seen. Now as if in a pleasant dream, On other faces thy joys and lips thy voice of glee Bids us happy be. FROM OUT THE DEPTHS (The Quest For Knowledge) A tiny gem, man first drew unto himself from (47) out the depths. The shapelGss brain could recognize The valued Pearl of Prize. He cast, and cast anew But naught he drew; As the Platonic ages rolled away- Guarded in dark vaults of mind, a single jewel lay. Another age unfolds, another cast for gain — man won. Then a second Pearl lay Beside one of brilliant ray. Each fitted the preordained cell As the oyster to its dingy shell; Nor lost them in the deep cavities of mind, Each jewel numbered, and not difficult to find. Plied now with vigor, the still uncertain quest pursued. The endless search for more Added value to that meager store. Reluctantly the boundless deep Gave up each pearl 'twould keep; And the less dim shores now patrolled By a frail and slowly moving fleet — but bold. Still other periods of time to witness the tireless research. As the lighter ages dawn Far greater treasures drawn. Cells in countless numbers used, Those once dark vaults infused By the gleam of gems, mingling old and new; Slowly and steadily the store of knowledge grew. Yet the future holds deep seas of mother-pearl .i8; unexplored. Comes laden ships from distant shoals, Naught but the hand of time controlls The quest complete, and when Each brain ceil holds a fitted gem. From out the depths all knowledge hc^s been drawn, With perfect mmd comes perfect age for man- Millennial dawn. THE HEART THAT ADMIRES City, beautiful, nestling mid avenues and promenades, ^liat splendid sunlight falls and bathes thy marble palasades. Here a terraced garden, there a crystal lakelet lies. Reflects the grandeur of an arch or tower to azure skies. If ownership of these would lend less luster to the view. Then I would count the number of possessions none or few; I would rather see the beauty of a gothic court or spire, Look upon thy peerlessness with no thought but to admire. Beauteous ships that sail all ocear's gray and endless waste. In giving to its restlessness reveals thy stately grace; Whether speeds thy course, or safely moored, thou art swept by tide. And rides the beating waves like mystic phantoms in a glide. Had I power of purchase for all or any of thy kind, I would count no fragile bark or armoured cruiser mine. (49) If in love of revenue lost the beauty of one plyer, Rather watch thy stately swaying with no thought but to admire. River, ever wending, from blue vailed hills to valleys low, Neath bower and vine where lily pads stem thy milder flow; In thy swifter plunge each mossy bank receives thy cooling spray, In each glassy pool a picture, a song where eddies play. Could I bridle up that current and turn a fortune wheel. Yet see no grandeur in thy power, then rather would I feel The rapture of thy splendid flow, hear the music of thy lyre. Watch thy purling, whirling, swirling, with no heart but to admire. O meadov/s, blooming meadows, dotting plains and valleys deep, Perhaps thy luxuriant verdure spreads where vales and forests meet; When gentle breezes frisk in play, grasses dance before its sweep. Comes fresh'ning dews or sunny skies thy flower? will always greet. Were it my lot to hold the wealth of all thy grand expanse, Count the value of that high estate as gain, but never hence See beauty visions of thy glow, far more would I desire To look upon thy budding bloom with no heart but to admire. (50) MY MILLION DOLLAR STATUE Posing at the foot of the balustrade, Where falls the uneven, flashing shade Of flickering fire-light beginning to fade, And scarcely those walls illume; Through half closed eye-lids, now surs'eyed. To my mind no sculpturer has ever made A statue of a higher text or grade Than that of this favored room. Crowned is that graceful image there With a woman's head and a woman's hair, The figure of maiden-hood budding fair, So delicately cur^'ed, and slight: Yet childhood I see in that dimpled pair Of arms, and me thinks that naught can compare With the statue posed at the foot of the stair In the fading flare of the light. Bewithching babyhood perched on the nose. The lips play in smile that girlhood knows, Every year between outlined in the pose Of form, drapery so slightly conceals; From the crown of the head to slippered toes The past, the present, the future impose Their presence, mingled in visions that 'rosp Up 'round it and over me steals, And now in my dreams it leaves the stair To come and stand by my deep armed chair, Never a figure or a face so fair As this placed in my trust and keep; Falls a gontle touch and a loving stroke On my drooping head, I quickly awoke, 'Twas then my million dollar statue spoke, "Dear daddie, have you gone to sleep?" (51) THE ANGLER BOLD Down deep in the heart of the tanglewood, Down deep in the dark and cool; Where the babbling brooklet ever sings To the fish in the crystal pool. The banks of that sparkling streamlet Patrolled by an angler bold; Followed by the All Adoring One, Contented the bait can to hold. Equipped for the grilling conquest With — rod, cost ten bucks an a half; A reel, the price was two fifty. Three ten, the line with which to cast, Five dollar basket swung by a halter, Net — four plunks — in the strong firm hand; And to the eyes of the All Adoring One Was there ever a man so grand? Over and over the incessant lashing Fell full on the breast of the stream; In the hours of tedious tramping, Patience would be waning 'twould seem. Ever and anon as the Brave One cast He was watched by the Adoring One; At last the silken cord snared him — A trout, and the conquest won. Proud and boastful the Brave One stood ther^ Ween not that I estimate wrong; Squirming at the feet of the Adoring One. A speckled beauty, six inches long. The Brave One, gazing in admiration, Commanded, as only a "brave one" can; "Woman, behold thy hero!" And she answereth "Wonderful Man!' (52) CONJUGATION He was the galant age of twenty-one, And she was just sixteen; Under curious gaze they were, defining, The verb "to love" I mean. "Present — I love, you love, we love," said she, "Do not say 'we,'" said he; "Just 'I love, you love' is singular, 'We' is the plural you see." "Past — I loved, you loved ,we loved," said she. (A confusing thing is a verb) "I say 'you need not say "we" loved'," said he, A tittering was plainly heard. "Future — I will, you will, we will love," said she, "Just leave out that 'we,' " said he, "You say 'the "we" belongs to the plural' There are two of us," said she. A giggling, now both faces flushing. Two brains beginning to whirl; For he was the handsome young school teacher. And she was the "biggest" girl. IF MAN WERE THE ONLY CREATURE If man v/ere the only creature God created v/ith brawn and brain Of ingeniousness he might be proud, And shout of belated fame. There flitted a tiny linnet, And sang to a Brazilian spring; Till the far, far north sent a call for song And a birdling sped on the wing. A fortnight later the same sweet lay Fell full to the Greenland skies, Nor did the tiny pilot mistake his way. (53; At the speed no airship flies. There lives a paddling beaver, In the heart of the northland cool, And diligently toiled to stately build A house in the deep, dark pool. When winter's frost had forbidden His haunts on the ice bound shore, There snugly neath the periscope hidden. In his house v/ith a submarine door. Marooned was a tiny spider On a reef and the danger rife. And he was not unaware of his peril, Nor lost for means to save his life. Immediate action, a line soon swept In space t'was upheld by the breeze, When anchored to shore the refugee crept 'Long his cable to hide in the leaves. If man was the only creature God ever chose to create. Of ingeniousness he might be proud, And boast of himself as great WHAT USED TO BE. 'Twas the home cf the friends of my childhood, Where oft I have spent the day; Within the shelt'ring walls that made welcome Now deserted and fall'n to decay. The peasantry says it is haunted. Me thinks I will go and see; I have no fear but the old home dear Will be just as it used to be. (54) AS I approach the broken paling, There nodding a greeting to me; Roses bob in the wind, in their faces I find Visions of what used to be. When I drew near to the broad stone stoop Tendrils, like hands, give welcome to me In the clinging vines that over it twine. Are images of what used to be. When I enter in a little gray squirrel Is disturbed by a stranger like me, In his hasty retreat the pattering feet" - ' Echo the what used to be. More reminiscent still, that shattered bur, In the litter he left I see The toy strewn floor, that open door, Reminds me of what used to be. At the rear door, an old water wheel. Where the spray onco prattled in glee; Tho the stream never more will over it pour, It tells of the what used to be. Yes, the peasantry says it is haunted, And 'tis strangely visited I see 'Round each familiar thing there seems to cling The sririt of wh it useu to be. MY HIGH ESTATE. What matters it to me who owns — That broken expanse of hill and vale. Outlined on yonder blue; Where deep scallops in the horizon Lets the infant morning through. (55) Or in the sunsets glow those peaks arise To kiss the clouds above; What matters it to me who owtis They are mine to see and love. What matters it to me who claims — That great and massive forest land Where dwells the virgin pine; Where shades and shadows chase and rule The scanty ray that shine; Where branches clasping branches spann Like arch\vays high above; What matters it to me who claims I walk them through and love What matters it to me who holds — A.n interest m that mountain torrent Where surging waters boom; And tremors earth, and gores its v/ay, And widening gorges loom, To proclaim its power the thundering voice Rebounds from crags above; What matters it to me who holds I see and hear and love. What matters it to me who comes — To walk mid this earthly grandeur And see with mortal eye, When molds my clay on slope or crest My view continues from on high; And premitted I a grander scope, Be this my heavenly state, I would class it as eternal joy. And wish no greater fate.