\IJ 
 
 Class 11:0, 
 
 3 545 
 
 Book HSsLr 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
 "Vy'// W "^'> 
 
C o p y r i g li t 
 
 1902 
 
 by 
 
 Charles S.Whittem 
 
 THE LITTLE 
 
 uuuTT RHD ^^^t:^ 
 
 SCHOOL-HOUSE 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 Charles S. Whittern 
 
 <(^ 
 
 Illustrated by 
 
 THE L. S. & B. ILLUSTRATING CO. 
 
 Cleveland 
 
Trfr-LIBRARY 01- 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 Two Cowee Received 
 
 AUG. ? 1902 
 
 COPVniOHT ENTRY 
 
 CLASS ^XXa No 
 ^ S i t 
 COPY B. 
 
 !Proc4iv 
 
 
 £et'cy 'Ti^w tobaij in Garc-foot brcciuv^ 
 ^ovutv feafi^j Canc^ of tjoiitfi, 
 
 ^o ^vk<l^<l the Groofi ^nvcp ^oolfiuicifij 
 ^^:^ olutpfc i>oncj.A of I'riilfi. 
 
 C t C f c 
 
 c,c t,c 
 
 ^o ftccit. ib luniipfc:^ iovo 
 ' ' ' '"^l^ve tfv.i-iiWi of foucj acjo. 
 
 ''' '^t'^^Hiiciu \?Vr facc^ oivce cicjciiiv 
 ^Icffcctcb i»v tl^ poof, 
 gifie i^ue a^ cfvtfbxciv -u^cb ^:o bo 
 
 Wficiv i-rippiticj fiomc froMv ^cfiool 
 
THE LITTLE RED SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 A DREAM OF BY-GONE DAYS. 
 
 The little red school at the cross-roads, 
 The cord-wood piled up in the yard, 
 
 To warm our quaint school-room in winter, 
 The play-ground all trampled and hard, — 
 
The boys tugging wood for the master, 
 The roar of the old-fashioned stove 
 
 As the door opened wide to receive it, 
 And the figures portrayed up above, — 
 
 On the ceihng, and far in the corner ; 
 
 Strange images, awkward and tall, 
 Dancing recklessly upward and downward, 
 
 Like the hull of a ship in a squall. 
 
 Slam bang goes that door with a clatter, 
 The stove flushes red — now it's white, 
 
 And the urchins who came there a-shiver 
 Are thrilled with great warmth and delight. 
 
 And their faces wear hues like the lobster. 
 While their garments in places are burned 
 
 As brown as those buttermilk biscuits 
 
 That were baked after grandmother churned. 
 
Hear the bell ringing loud in the entry ! 
 
 See the rush thro' the aisles for the seats ! 
 In this stampede like herd of wild cattle 
 
 "Best one is the feller that beats." 
 
 Then follows the call of the classes, 
 
 There are readers first, second and third, 
 
 Coming fourth and the fifth in their order, 
 And the readers who can't read a word. 
 
 The reading is solemn and sing-song. 
 Not all in sweet accents sublime ; 
 
 Some running like horses at fair time. 
 But more beats a rythmical chime. 
 
 The arithmetic classes are charming, 
 
 Mental training par-excellent, yes. 
 For the quickness with which they solve problems 
 
 Would just keep you guessing, I guess. 
 
 •5- 
 
A man had two cups and a cover, 
 The first cup six ounces it weighed, 
 
 But the first with the cover upon it 
 
 Twice the weight of the second was made. 
 
 While the second when capped with the cover 
 Weighed three times as much as the first. 
 
 Tell us quickly the weight of the cover, 
 And the second cup too, for we thirst. 
 
 Such problems as this seemed as easy 
 To the mental arithmetic class 
 
 As the old elementary speller. 
 
 Or the breaking of eight by ten glass 
 
 To the average boy with a snow-ball 
 As hard as the rocks of the brook ; 
 
 As simple as Simple Proportion 
 As found in Ray's Practical book. 
 
 6- 
 
Now witness the long line of spellers 
 Toe a crack in the white ashen floor, 
 
 And hark to the voice of the master 
 Pronouncing hard words by the score. 
 
 Lymphatic, phlegmatic and phthisic, 
 Mnemonics and asthma and gnat, 
 
 And others more crooked than rams-horns, 
 But what cared we youngsters for that? 
 
 And to join in the spell-down at week-end 
 Was fun by the bushel and more, 
 
 For the contest tho' friendly, was earnest, 
 And compelled us to know corps from core, 
 
 Lest a youngster walk off with the pennant, 
 Spelling all of the taller ones down. 
 
 And our side get worsted completely, 
 And lose the much coveted crown. 
 
 -7- 
 
You have heard the geography classes 
 Singing capitals off by the string, 
 
 As swiftly and smoothly as glided 
 The brook by the old sulphur spring. 
 
 Oh, list to that far distant music ! 
 
 How it rings in our ears yet to-day ! 
 And those cities are fastened securely 
 
 By the moorings in Memory's bay. 
 
 The copies inscribed by the master 
 On sheets of great fools-cap so long, 
 
 Were precepts of force and large-handed 
 Short sermons both timely and stronpf. 
 
 "No excellence comes without labor," 
 "Bright jewels are days of our youth," 
 
 "Love of money the root of all evil," 
 "Great virtue is unalloyed truth." 
 
Oh, the cranes, and the pot-hooks, and wabbles, 
 
 The ovals and stems all awry ; 
 The loops "awful" fat or real lanky, 
 
 Were enough to twist out a cross eye. 
 
 The smears of black ink on the paper, 
 And more of the same on our hands, 
 
 With daubs here and there on our faces 
 
 Strolled around like the wild Indian bands. 
 
 Remember old Pinneo's Grammar, 
 
 And the parsing of eight parts of speech, 
 
 With the various loz'c conjugations. 
 Serving only small purpose to teach — 
 
 Close analysis well, or good English 
 Wholly free from syntactical flaws ; 
 
 Tho' it gave us a relish for study. 
 And limbered the joints of our jaws. 
 
 -9- 
 
For our tongues were so thick and untutored, 
 And our language as chock full of burrs 
 
 As the mane of a colt in November; 
 Not mournful like wind thro' the firs, 
 
 'Twas charged with right royal good spirit, 
 Over-full with the ozone of life; 
 
 Those voices would reach the far pastures, 
 While our whistling was clear as a fife. 
 
 The halloo^ the co-boss and sheep call. 
 And the shouting to boys far away. 
 
 So resonant were, and so lasting 
 
 That methinks I can hear them to-day. 
 
 The big girls orthography studied 
 
 From a book that was written by Wright, 
 
 And palatal, lingual and dental 
 Thev recited with jiasal delig"ht. 
 
rVJ almost forgotten the recess 
 
 With the nooning between twelve and one, 
 The first, with its high pressure frolic, 
 
 With the second, large lunches and fun. 
 
 Those baskets well-filled by, our mothers, — 
 Luscious mince-pie and bread spread with jam, 
 
 Large dough-nuts and excellent cookies, 
 With a nice piece of chicken or ham. 
 
 Great apples bulged out in our pockets. 
 Where a jack-knife lay hid just below, 
 
 Waiting summons to carve some in quarters 
 For the fellows who had none, you know. 
 
 Ah, Johnny is passing the water ! 
 
 Hear it purl down the throats of the boys 
 Like the creek gurgling on thro' the valley, 
 
 Giving soothing and exquisite joys ! 
 
The girls, with more modest demeanor, 
 Simply sip the cool liquid with care 
 
 With lips sweet and smiling as sun-shine, 
 Marking cheeks that are rosy and fair. 
 
 There's mischief off there in the corner — 
 Little boy with big jack-knife — a notch — 
 
 Crooked pin — awful trouble — a floggings 
 Good repute heretofore — wears a blotch! 
 
 Such errors have taught greatest lessons 
 To all who were anxious to heed, 
 
 Enabling keen men of all nations 
 To scatter rare Wisdom's good seed. 
 
 We boys all played "knucks" or ring marbles, 
 Or the ball-game we called ''Tzvo old cat," 
 
 While the girls sang "Ring round the rosy," 
 Mingling music with noise of the bat. 
 
The "Pull away" game was a good one, 
 The battle of snow-balls just fine, 
 
 The charge on the forts most exciting 
 Tho' made bv a much broken line. 
 
 The snow-balls flew round us like hail-stones, 
 Shooting out very swiftly and straight, 
 
 And woe to the lad slow at dodging 
 If he chanced to get one on his pate. 
 
 Oh list to the tremulous accents, 
 
 As the girls "London bridge" sweetly sing, 
 How it brings back the faces of playmates. 
 
 And renews their blest voices' glad ring. 
 
 The little red school has departed. 
 
 There's a modern one now in its stead. 
 
 Newest modes and devices within it 
 Meant to build up a two-story head — 
 
Holding- learning on all sorts of subjects, 
 Save the ones that are needed each day, 
 
 Such as reading, arithmetic, spelling, 
 
 Thoro' knowledge of which paves the way 
 
 To the fields rife with best information, 
 To the summits from which we survey 
 
 All the world in our circle of vision, 
 
 From the sun pluck its most brilliant ray 
 
 Could our master once more ring the summons, 
 Ring it loudly with softened refrain, 
 
 We would wish it might call our companions 
 To greet us as school-mates again. 
 
 ■ 14- 
 
THE DANDELIONS. 
 
 The dandelions woke this morn, 
 
 In all their golden glory ; 
 They smile o'er all the meadows wide, 
 
 Rehearsing soft the story 
 
 Of verdure new, and blossoms bright, 
 And warbler's songs unceasing; 
 
 Of balmy airs and echoing groves 
 And joyous days increasing. 
 
 They show a welcome to the sun 
 In all his morning splendor, 
 
 And glow in gladness ev'ry one 
 To weeping willows tender. 
 
 Their radiant faces sweetly yield 
 To children's chins bright yellow, 
 
 To prove that butter will they like, 
 And harvest apples mellow. 
 
 To make them laugh in careless glee, 
 And dance in childish gladness; 
 
 To drink the sunshine, joy and song 
 Without a thought of sadness. 
 
i 
 
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 I^_ 
 
 
 
 SONG AND BLOSSOM. 
 
 All the green has returned to the trees, 
 Lovely lilacs perfume ev'ry breeze, 
 
 While Bob Lincoln's song 
 
 Comes floating along 
 O'er the uplands, valleys and leas. 
 
 The box-wood's abloom in the field, 
 The beautiful tulips unsealed. 
 The king-fisher's scream 
 Resounds o'er the stream 
 Like the rasp of a sword on a shield. 
 
 -i6- 
 
For-get-me-nots dainty and sweet, 
 Quaint carpets have made for our feet : 
 See innocent cliildhood 
 Rnn, seeking thro' wildwood, 
 Spring's charmers in ev'ry retreat ! 
 
 The apple-trees, white as the snow 
 Are promising, row after row, 
 
 Abundance of fruit, 
 
 Of kinds that shall suit, 
 In autumn when branches hang low. 
 
 The mocking bird calls us at morn 
 With piccolo, flute and shrill horn ; 
 
 All swift in the race, 
 
 The black-birds, apace. 
 Swoop down on the new-planted corn. 
 
 Mr. Jay wears his suit as of old, 
 Just as saucily, dressy and bold, 
 And he talks in loud voice 
 To the schoolgirls and boys. 
 Till they call him a regular scold. 
 
The meadow-lark sings in the clover, 
 Weird melodies over and over ; 
 
 Hear the quail out of sight 
 Call the name of Bob White, 
 
 And the thrush try to mimic the plover. 
 
 The oriole's jacket of red. 
 
 Thro' the green maple leaves over-head, 
 
 Flashes ruddy and bright; 
 
 While his song of delight, 
 With the sun-rise comes to our bed. 
 
 The brook chuckles on very sweetly 
 
 In echo of songsters plumed neatly. 
 
 While the wren and the linnet 
 
 Interchange every minute 
 
 Fine harmonies 'cording completely. 
 
 As the ev'ning comes peacefully on, 
 And the last rays of twilight are gone, 
 
 All the birds go to sleep, 
 And the frogs sing "knee-deep" 
 Till the stars are all lost in the dawn. 
 
 -1 8- 
 
THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 Hark ! there's Mr. Bobolink 
 With his rinkle, tankle, tink ; 
 
 With his Hnk, go-lank, go-langle, 
 He's trying to untangle 
 That riotous triangle 
 Ending pink ! pank ! plink ! 
 
 Clear as tiny tinkling bells 
 
 Is his music as it swells, 
 And his merry, tipsy jingle, 
 Sometimes double, sometimes single, 
 Seems to sort o' intermingle 
 
 With the clover blossom smells. 
 
And the clover needs must know it, 
 For it lifts its head to show it 
 
 To this tremolo musician 
 
 With his voice in prime condition ; 
 
 Clover sweet in fields elysian, 
 O that scvthe should ever mow it ! 
 
 Hear his quavers on the breeze 
 As he tells the blooming trees 
 
 That his name is Bob-o' Lincoln ! 
 And he says "Now I'm a-thinking 
 That these meadows, rising, sinking, 
 Much resemble rolling seas." 
 
 There he trembles on a weed 
 While he dines upon its seed, 
 Still his airy music tinkles 
 O'er the meadows, till it sprinkles 
 All their undulating wrinkles 
 With the harmonv thev need. 
 
How it makes the girls and boys 
 Bubbling o'er with youthful joys, 
 
 Lightly trip to all its measures ! 
 
 So delightful are its pleasures ! 
 
 Rare as gift from golden treasures, 
 Or as fairy maiden's voice ! 
 
 Who would think this bird of song 
 Could become a. bon vivant, 
 Tidbit for the epicure ! 
 Go on gastronomic tour 
 Where the fields of rice allure, 
 Ere our summer half is gone ? 
 
 Like perverted human mind 
 Is this chap to feasts inclined, 
 This voluptuary gay. 
 Hastening on to swift decay ; 
 Woe betide the evil day 
 When excess shall blight mankind ! 
 
But we love you, Bob-o'Link, 
 With your tinkle, tankle, tink ; 
 When you trill your line guitar, 
 Matters little where you are. 
 Fancy carries us afar 
 Back long years to mem'ry's brink. 
 
 We listen to that tinkling chime 
 
 Come rippling soft like childhood's rhyme, 
 And falling sweet on pensive ears 
 Ot those who feel the weight of years, 
 Like healing balm it soothes and cheers 
 
 As melodies of olden time. 
 
SUNSET. 
 
 'Tis ev'ning, and day's golden orb 
 Falls fast beyond the western bound; 
 
 His disk so grand and gorgeous red 
 
 Seems hov'ring near the distant ground, 
 
 And sending forth its mellow rays 
 To color far-off somber clouds 
 
 In tints that mock the rain-bow's hues; 
 But, ah, his face he quickly shrouds 
 
 Behind a fringe of dark green trees, 
 Yet shoots reflections still afar 
 
 Thro' heaven's resplendent canopy 
 To welcome yonder ev'ning star. 
 
 Long may this glorious twilight last. 
 Subduing all in fading light, 
 
 Thus making simplest things of day 
 Look rich by contrast with the night. 
 
Now glides the day off into eve, 
 
 Becalmed by sweet and mystic powers; 
 
 Now blends old Sol's dissolving shades 
 With twinkling starlight's charming hours. 
 
 Pacific is the dying day, 
 
 Like peaceful passing of the Just, 
 When friends pronounce the requiem. 
 
 Of earth to earth and dust to dust. 
 
CHATTANOOGA. 
 
 In the Tennessee valley, near Lookout's great 
 
 base, 
 Lies old Chattanooga, renowned for the days 
 When Grant and Joe Hooker caused the Rebels 
 
 to run, " 
 
 And Bragg cease his fighting and surrender his 
 
 Sfun. 
 
 Toward the east stands the Ridge of the Mission 
 
 so old, 
 Up which the brave blue-coats charged fiercely 
 
 and bold 
 'Gainst the boys dressed in gray, 'midst a great 
 
 cannonade. 
 Retiring the grays to the wood's kindly shade. 
 
 Ten miles south and east, on Georgia's warm 
 
 soil, 
 There's famed Chickamauga, the scene of great 
 
 moil 
 'Twixt Rosecrans' men and Bragg's southern 
 
 corps. 
 Where Thomas stood firm and fought o'er and 
 
 o'er 
 
 -25- 
 
For the ground that he held, and commission he 
 
 bore, 
 And because of his stand 'gainst the terrible 
 
 shock, 
 He is called to this day Chickamauga's staunch 
 
 rock : 
 (Appropriate term for a man of his stock.) 
 
 Just west from the Ridge stands the old ''Or- 
 chard Knob," 
 
 Where Grant fooled the Johnnies and put up the 
 job 
 
 That lost them the battle way up on the hill. 
 
 Thus making them swallow an extreme bitter 
 pill. 
 
 Way back in November of sixty and three, 
 
 Joe Hooker's brave men crossed the big Tennes- 
 see, 
 
 And swinging to west 'round Lookout's great 
 head. 
 
 Surprised the Confed'rates with billets of lead, 
 
 -26- 
 
From positions above, under cover of fog, 
 
 And made them skedaddle from tree, rock, and 
 
 log", 
 And hie them away to a safer retreat ; 
 When famous Joe Hooker was victor complete. 
 
 At the end of the Ridge, three miles to the north, 
 Are the heights held by Sherman, from which he 
 
 looked forth 
 And saw Grant's brave army from valley below 
 Move up the long hillside and scatter the foe. 
 
 These points near Chattanooga, 
 
 This town of Tennessee, 
 Are fraught with deepest int'rest 
 
 To men of all degree. 
 
By reason of the conflict 
 
 Between the North and South, 
 And the valor of the soldiers 
 
 Who faced the cannon's mouth 
 
 On hill, in wood, and valley, 
 Who fought and bled and died 
 
 T' maintain a solid Union, 
 
 A Nation's strength and pride. 
 
This beautiful day 
 In the middle of Mav 
 
 /'fcfo Sets astir our poetical fancies ; 
 •Wwlllit Each low singing breeze, 
 
 Iwl W'ith faint humming bees, 
 
 Ani" Far surpasses best music of dances. 
 
 
Hear the caroling birds 
 
 Telling plainer than words 
 Of the joy with which they're o'erflowing; 
 
 Note the lowliest flowers, 
 
 Bro't forth by warm showers, 
 Mark the gladness that springtime is sowing. 
 
 Hark ! the croaking old frog. 
 
 With a voice like a dog, 
 Re-utters his groaning profound; 
 
 A sign of approval 
 
 Of Winter's removal. 
 E'en tho' a disconsolate sound. 
 
 See sweet, ruddy faces 
 
 Of children, in races 
 For "dandelines" bright on the lawn ! 
 
 Play on, little people. 
 
 The clock in yon steeple 
 Will soon say your childhood is gone. 
 
 You'll soon become workers, 
 
 We trust never shirkers. 
 In the good field of industry great ; 
 
 And, if you'll e'er measure 
 
 Right, labor and pleasure 
 For blessings you'll ne'er have to wait. 
 
 -30- 
 
THE EDITOR'S LAMENT. 
 
 Slender Scribo rushed into his sanctum, 
 From a tramp he had taken for news, 
 
 When telegrapher, printer and devil 
 On his face saw depicted the "blues." 
 
 ^'Boys," yelled the scribe in shrill accents, 
 "We've got to get news or go down. 
 
 For The Bugle has come in a-bo6ming, 
 And circulates all thru the town. 
 
 *'I used to get melons and pum'kins 
 
 From scores of great garden-sass raisers, 
 
 Eggs, butter and milk and large cheeses 
 From farmers for dubbing them 'grazers. 
 
 *'Ripe tomatoes, nice onions and cabbage 
 Came round to my table in fly-tiine, 
 
 Big samples of choice bolted flour. 
 And apples rolled in just in pie-time. 
 
"Fine turnips turned into my cellar 
 Sweet cider and sauerkraut too, 
 
 Sides of pork and flitches of bacon, 
 IMaple sugar and 'apple-sass' new. 
 
 ''But those bountiful harvests are vanished, 
 There's naught but their ghosts all a-stare, 
 
 Foretelling my diet of future 
 Will chiefly consist of thin air. 
 
 "There'll be lack of good things in my larder, 
 Without great out-payment of cash. 
 
 And absence of proper ideas 
 
 To cope with The Bugle's bright Jiash. 
 
 "Now they tell me th' bank's gone insolvent, 
 That S. E. P. Temper's in town ; 
 
 That the taking of ads out in trading 
 Has diminished mv former renown. 
 
''Receiving subscriber's good cord-wood, 
 And veg'tables all in their prime, 
 
 For a paper as weak as a dish-rag, 
 They declare to be close to a crime. 
 
 "Why, the man wdio edits The Bugle, 
 'Tis said, slings a powerful hand ; 
 
 That he can so manage a paper 
 As to live on the fat of the land. 
 
 'Then it's I, who shall have but the leavings, 
 
 And mighty slim fodder is that. 
 As thin as the shadow of spirits, 
 
 As lean as a wandering cat." 
 
 Ah, now there's a lull in the racket. 
 
 For a season our Scribo stands dumb. 
 For his devil is shrieking "Fll leave you, 
 
 Ere that dav of destruction shall come. 
 
 -33- 
 
So, demanding his stipend so princely, 
 (It consisting of two bits a week), 
 
 He hastens away to The Bugle, 
 Resolving his fortune to seek. 
 
 And he straightway proclaims loud the tidings 
 Of our Scribo's despondency dire. 
 
 Where they quickly found voice in The Bugle, 
 And the resonant notes of the crier. 
 
 Mr. Scribo, reduced to a shadow. 
 Stands gazing aghast at the air. 
 
 His eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, 
 Show forth ihe grim skeleton's stare. 
 
 His mouth opens wide, for he chanteth 
 This motto that all ought to know : 
 
 "Whoever would hear the best bugle, 
 Must ever his own bugle blow." 
 
 -34- 
 
REMINISCENCES. 
 
 We used to play along the lanes 
 In spring and summer days, 
 
 And hearken to the joyous birds 
 Send forth their blithesome lays 
 
 From 'mongst the bushes and the trees 
 That fringed the old rail fence, 
 
 Where ev'ry chipmunk knew us well, 
 For chipmunks had good sense 
 
 When we were lads, and marksmen, too. 
 
 Of most unerring aim, 
 And hied themselves to burrows deep. 
 
 Whene'er we youngsters came. 
 
 -35- 
 
On ancient stumps we'd sometimes sit, 
 To rest from childish pranks, 
 
 Or swing on grapevines wild, so high, 
 Far o'er the river's banks. 
 
 Or plan some sly, unheard-of trick, 
 And sigh for harvest fruit, 
 
 Or long for melons, luscious, ripe. 
 Or boots and brand new suit. 
 
 At times we'd try to shun the school, 
 Then work to save our hides 
 
 From tanning that they much deserved 
 But naught but ill betides 
 
 The disobedient child or man. 
 In ev'ry walk or sphere. 
 
 For retribution cometh sure. 
 Increasing year by year. 
 
 -36- 
 
When came the April days of yore, 
 We swam in waters chill, 
 
 Or fished below the wooden dam. 
 Where stood the old-time mill. 
 
 We sailed thin stones across the pond, 
 Or threw them high in air, 
 
 Or cast them into muddy pools, 
 The croaking frogs to scare. 
 
 Betimes we stood beside the bridge 
 And talked of coming days; 
 
 In boastful, self-assuring tones. 
 Our future selves we'd praise. 
 
 -37- 
 
Again we played in meadows wide, 
 Where sang the boboHnk, 
 
 Until the sun's great disk sank low 
 Behind the western brink. 
 
 Yes, ofttimes, too, we stirred the bee 
 From out its humble nest. 
 
 Then madly beat our ears and hands 
 To daze the little pest. 
 
 O'er stubble sharp we'd gallop fast. 
 To dodge the dreaded sting, 
 
 And madly brush from tangled locks 
 That horrid, buzzing thing, 
 
 Whose honey schoolboys fight to get,. 
 
 And tho' there's not a gfill 
 In any nest they ever rob, 
 
 They vow they've had their fill 
 
 -38- 
 
From one small tuft of sweetened straw, 
 
 When five the morsel share ; 
 While satisfaction marks the look 
 
 That all the urchins wear. 
 
 Beneath the shade of walnut trees, 
 We liked to stain our hands 
 
 In shucking- nuts for winter use, 
 And oft we went in bands 
 
 In early morn to forests large. 
 With baskets, pails, and bags. 
 
 Attired in tattered coats and pants, 
 Long saved for carpet-rags 
 
 By prudent minds, and loving hands. 
 Of Ma's and Grandma's too, 
 
 Who always had their well-formed plans 
 For carpets bright and new. 
 
 -39- 
 
How swift we ran to reach the trees 
 Rough-dressed in shaggy coats ! 
 
 And counted ev^ery nut, at first, 
 As judges count the votes! 
 
 We whistled, laughed, and sang with glee 
 
 At finding precious store, 
 By some wise squirrel stored away 
 
 In fallen beechtree's core. 
 
 And when Old Winter's days would come, 
 We'd coast down whitened hill. 
 
 Or skate o'er thin and glary ice, 
 Not minding frost and chill. 
 
 With yearnings, now, we sometimes look 
 
 Back o'er our zigzag ways, 
 To see delights much magnified 
 
 In glow of bygone davs. 
 
 -40- 
 
'Tis time which lends enchantment to 
 The view we take of youth, 
 
 Bright Pleasure's power over Woe 
 That hides some grains of truth 
 
 From our obtuse, imperfect minds, 
 
 A providential way 
 To smooth the rugged paths of life. 
 
 And keep dull cares at bay. 
 
HOOSIERDOM. 
 
 Oh, for a trip to Hoosierdom 
 
 Where Erie's breezes never come ! 
 
 There's where la grippe provokes no sneeze^ 
 Because no moisture's in the breeze. 
 
 And summer's sun sails calmly by 
 Thru azure skies so gorgeously ; 
 
 Where croaking frogs sit on the logs, 
 All piping loud, "Go round the bogs !" 
 
 Where mooing cows walk up the lanes 
 To shed their milk for maids and swains. 
 
 Where Hoosier girls make palate ease, 
 And name it butter, but it's grease. 
 
 W^here stalwart lads spark buxom girls. 
 Adoring them, their bangs and curls ; 
 
 They pop the question much too soon, 
 Yet keep the good old folks in tune. 
 
 -42- 
 
Where "skeeters" large as peacocks live, 
 And use their bills to make a sieve 
 
 Of human hides ; tho' thick and tough, 
 They'll jab you till you cry ''Enough." 
 
 Where clergymen control each town, 
 And keep old Satan trotting down 
 
 The hillside to his fearful pit ; 
 
 But there he'll skulk and scheme and sit 
 
 Till all the saints have long retired. 
 When he, by all that' base inspired, 
 
 Arises in his dreadful might. 
 
 And stalks about thru all the night 
 
 To seek the ones he may devour. 
 By using quick his subtle power ; 
 
 He takes young men from flowing bowl. 
 Swift drags them to the yawning hole, 
 
 Hard throws them in that awful pool. 
 
 Then solemn chants ''Thou fool ! thou fool ! 
 
 Thy coming here to dwell with me 
 Well proves thy driveling idiocy. 
 
"Thoii'rt held in chains of iron now, 
 
 Must ever to my dictates bow. 
 Obey me here and be my slaves ; 
 
 Your comrades all are rosiues and knaves. 
 
 'fe' 
 
 *'Be mine to-night, yes mine for aye, 
 For soon shall come the Judgment Day, 
 
 When down you'll go to poke the fire. 
 Old hardened sinners to inspire. 
 
 *'To make them dance in agony 
 That I may laugh in taunting glee, 
 
 And clap my hands in pure delight 
 
 To watch them gnash their teeth and fight." 
 
 Where good preachers catch the ladies. 
 And stop the men en route to Hades ; 
 
 Where Jim Riley lives, still single, 
 Writing charming Hoosier jingle. 
 
 Where John Clark Ridpath made his start, 
 And genial Wallace built the cart 
 
 In which Ben Hur should win the race. 
 Such noble names shall naught efface. 
 
Wish the Lord would send some water 
 From the clouds; He rea'ly ''oughter." 
 
 A "Right smart chance" they're needing now 
 To fill each bin and harvest mow. 
 
 Way down in Injiana land, 
 
 Where towering cornstalks stately stand. 
 What a garden full of Eden 
 
 There must be for folk to weed in ! 
 
 Far out in happy Hoosierdom, 
 The home of Gen'ral Harrison ! 
 
 Delightful land of milk and honey, 
 
 Where nothing's lacking only money ! 
 
REJUVENATION. 
 
 Beneath a wild cherry tree here, 
 On a rock I am sitting alone, 
 
 And viewing the creek which in youth 
 My most ardent love often won. 
 
 -46- 
 
There's the great antique barn at the left, 
 The old hick'ry tree on my right, 
 
 The long pasture lot just before — 
 All around me sing birds in delight. 
 
 Ev'ry scene hereabout seems to strive 
 To crowd sweet remembrance of youth 
 
 Thru a mind filled with duties and cares ; 
 Refreshment would bring it, forsooth. 
 
 There's the blackbird's sharp twang in the oak, 
 The mockingbird's lay in the elms, 
 
 Happy robin's pure warbles of love 
 Conveying to Ecstasy's realms, 
 
 While the soft, liquid gurgle, anon. 
 That comes from the old stony brook. 
 
 And the twitter of swallows of eld 
 Re-open my childhood's bright book. 
 
 -47- 
 
The murmuring winds in the trees 
 The piping of frogs in the pool, 
 
 The chiming of bkiebirds and jays, 
 The laughing of children from school, 
 
 The music of sheepbells afar, 
 The lowing of kine in the grove, 
 
 The swelling of bob-lincoln's notes, 
 The low plaintive call of the dove, 
 
 All send me to childhood again. 
 To drink of those exquisite joys. 
 
 Renew the lost sunshine of youth. 
 And sum up our pleasures as boys. 
 
 -48- 
 
A DAY IN JUNE. 
 
 All nature seemed to blend in harmony to-day, 
 Bewitching charms to drive all care away. 
 The sun poured forth his radiant rays of gold, 
 Sweet robin all her tenderest stories told 
 In charming notes of love to offspring dear, 
 And bade them fill their hearts with gladsome 
 cheer. 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 -49- 
 
A VISION OF YOUTH. 
 
 One night in the month of November, 
 In the year eighteen ninety and five, 
 
 While observing a fast dying ember. 
 That had shortly before been alive. 
 
 With its bright, glowing top, and its darkening 
 side. 
 
 And its flickering light on the wall ; 
 With its blushing anon like th' cheeks of a bride. 
 
 And its shadows, grotesque, grim and tall, 
 
 I saw, in clear vision of juvenile days, 
 
 A boy with his copper-toed boots, 
 With resplendent red tops, and thickest of soles, 
 
 To wear with his made-over suits. 
 
 They were long in the legs and tight in the feet, 
 And made of the strongest of stuff ; 
 
 And having been measured in snow drift and 
 brook. 
 You may know they pulled on hard enough. 
 
I beheld the boy kicking the jamb of th' door, 
 
 With a violence born of no care ; 
 His face all ablaze, his temper high wrought, 
 
 And his passion displayed in his hair, 
 
 Disordered and tangled and matted and meshed, 
 
 Piled up like a haystack at war; 
 His fingers just bursting with corpuscles red, 
 
 But he knew what his striving was for. 
 
 Now he struggles and turns, twists, grunts and 
 he pulls. 
 And redoubles his kicks on the jamb; 
 Then looks up and smiles, and shouts, ''Now it's 
 on ! 
 Just see what a stout boy I am !" 
 
 He's had his first battle and vanquished the foe. 
 
 'Twas a lesson of value to him. 
 Imparting a spirit determined and strong, 
 
 And fiUinsr his soul to the brim 
 
With a consciousness great, of a trouble subdued, 
 
 Of a victory won by his might ; 
 A powerful feeling of pride in his breast, 
 
 For he knew that his effort was right, 
 
 And that he had throttled the giant ''Despair," 
 And made him succumb to his power; 
 
 Had beaten him squarely in fair, open field, 
 And the hero become of the hour. 
 
 That boy has grown tall, and his boots become 
 large, 
 
 And his hair is besprinkled with gray ; 
 The luster is leaving the eyes of his youth — 
 
 Yet the space, it seems but a day 
 
 Since he played thro' th' meadows, the pastures 
 and wood, 
 
 In search of the flowers of spring : 
 The dainty anemones, violets blue, 
 
 And heard the sweet songsters all sing 
 
 -52- 
 
The pure, simple ripples, with thrills of delight, 
 
 Those warbles of innocent love ; 
 Their carols of ev'ning, and matins of morn, 
 
 In all of the trees of the grove. 
 
 The creek seemed a river, its fish, almost whales. 
 
 In the far-away days of the youth. 
 The hills were like mountains, the vales, as great 
 plains ; 
 
 All, all, such a magnified truth ! 
 
 The grass was a carpet, so cool, green and soft ; 
 
 All the flowers, sweet blossoms of light ; 
 Great trees, silent sentinels, reaching the clouds, 
 
 And th' stars, peeping angels of night. 
 
 Ah, could we but taste of those joys, for a day, 
 And drink from those fountains of youth ; 
 
 Renew adolescence, with absence of care, 
 And bask in that sunshine of truth ! 
 
 -53- 
 
But that innocent love of th' beauties of God, 
 And th' works of His wonderful hand, 
 
 Was ephemeral only, bright but a day, 
 Unstable as columns of sand. 
 
 Yet, oft we live over those sweetest of hours, 
 And imbibe inspiration therefrom. 
 
 Again to awaken our lessening powers. 
 Or soothe us to seasons of calm. 
 
 -54- 
 
DEAR MOTHER NATURE. 
 
 Our dear mother Nature bursts forth into life, 
 With new song and blossom the atmosphere's rife. 
 Each breeze wafts a fragrance known only to 
 
 Spring, 
 And melodies vernal the harbingers sing. 
 
 Behold the green carpet spread over the hills, 
 And tiny forget-me-nots bloom by the rills : 
 In rich em'rald colors the woodlands are dressed, 
 While blossoms of boxwood float down on the 
 breast 
 
 Of th' river discolored by copious showers. 
 
 Its banks all bespangled by Spring's sweetest 
 
 flowers. 
 The woods are resounding with sweet matin lays, 
 Produced by our warblers ere th' first morning 
 
 rays 
 
 Of th' great sun resplendent, creep forth through 
 
 the trees 
 To warm and illumine, while ev'ry soft breeze 
 Is burdened with perfume from orchard and field. 
 Is laden with harmony — again do we yield 
 
 -55- 
 
To th' voices of Nature; — her music sublime, 
 That falls in sweet cadence, and regular time. 
 Hear th' soft, rippling waters o'er th' low pebbly 
 
 bed 
 Of the creek in the valley. Hark ! over your head 
 
 The bobolink's singing his quaintest refrain; 
 
 From th' elm over yonder comes th' mocking- 
 bird's strain. 
 
 Midst th' lowing of cattle and cooing of doves; 
 
 The tinkling of sheep-bells in pastures and 
 groves, 
 
 The warbling of robins, .and cawing of rooks ; 
 The chirrup of chipmunks in crannies and nooks^ 
 Transported are we to the May days of youth, 
 To bask in the sunshine of unalloyed truth; 
 
 To dwell for the while independent of care. 
 And bathe in the fragrance the mild zephyrs bear,. 
 And imbibe the sweet spirit of innocence true, 
 Unrestrained adolescence thus to renew. 
 
 -56- 
 
GOOD MORNING, MR. ROBIN. 
 
 Good morning, Mr. Robin ! 
 
 You're with us once again, — 
 Come, tell us of your travels, 
 
 Where has your lordship been ? 
 
 To the Alabama forests. 
 
 Or Georgia's kindly shades? 
 
 Or to the Land of Flowers 
 Among the everglades? 
 
 Did you trill to dusky maidens 
 
 In Cuba's land afar, 
 Where the Spaniards and the Yankees 
 
 Engaged in awful war? 
 
 Did you nest within the tropics 
 
 In palm and orange grove, 
 And warble there so sweetly 
 
 Those songs of joy and love? 
 
 -57- 
 
But we're glad you're back, dear fellow, 
 With your cheer and joyful song, 
 
 And we trust your present sojourn 
 May be very, very long. 
 
 You recall the glorious spring-time, 
 And our childhood's happy days,- 
 
 Surcharge our hearts with gladness. 
 And our souls with fulsome praise. 
 
 -58- 
 
A MAY-DAY SONG. 
 
 We see, beside the gurgling brook, 
 Within the hedge-row dense. 
 
 The dainty httle vi'lets bhie. 
 And there along the fence 
 
 Anemones are blossoming, 
 
 And dandelions, too; 
 While all the soft and balmy air 
 
 Is filled with fragrance new. 
 
 The bobolincoln twangs his note 
 
 Amidst the clover-bloom ; 
 The sun-beams run their shim'rings thro' 
 
 The south-wind's gauzy loom. 
 
 The lark her trembling melody 
 Pours gently down the breeze; 
 
 The linnet's wondrous lay of love 
 Comes wafted from the trees. 
 
 -59- 
 
And all the woods are dressed in green. 
 
 And gaudy blossoms sweet 
 Bedeck the orchards and the fields 
 
 Where tread the little feet — 
 
 Of children dear in search of flow'rs 
 For garlands grand and gay 
 
 With which to crown the sweetest girl 
 Queen of the month of May. 
 
 -60- 
 
INDIAN WEED AND FREE SILVER. 
 
 In the land of bad dreams and big rabbits, 
 
 Where the rank Indian weed and bad habits 
 
 Are planted and nourished, 
 
 And flaunted and flourished. 
 
 Until it would seem 
 
 In the mist of a dream 
 
 The vilest tobacco is sweeter than cream, 
 
 There lives a real moss-back called Joe, 
 
 And a pure silver Demmy, named Slow, 
 
 Whose first name is Hank, 
 
 A white metal crank, 
 
 Who argues, declaring it's so, 
 
 That silver's the stuff for our money — 
 
 More precious than nice milk and honey- 
 
 For purchase of dresses 
 
 For wives with red tresses — 
 
 Long pants for our dear little sonny. 
 
 -6i- 
 
That Bryan's a dandy, By Jolly! 
 
 For talking so much, like poor Polly, 
 
 Declaring white metal 
 
 Forever will settle 
 
 The question of wages, what folly 
 
 For men with long legs to thus banter ! 
 
 'Twere healthier for them to canter 
 
 The length of their "furries," 
 
 Sweat out all their worries. 
 
 Than follow in wake of a ranter. 
 
 But so go the world and its people. 
 
 Even ghouls, dwelling up in the steeple, 
 
 Entertain their queer notions, 
 
 And mental commotions, 
 
 Though logic'ly awfully feeble. 
 
 But Hank Slow would make a good preacher. 
 
 Philosopher, lawyer, or teacher; 
 
 Or perchance a fine farmer, 
 
 A wondrous snake-charmer — 
 
 Subduer of anv wild creature. 
 
 -62- 
 
And Joe, his right bower, 
 
 If gifted with power. 
 
 Could argue "gold standard" with Hank, 
 
 And show how a "dudeen" 
 
 Which was never too clean, 
 
 Would help to store money in bank. 
 
 That using tobacco 
 
 Would yield him a stack o' 
 
 The finest of greenbacks on earth, 
 
 Thus making old smokers 
 
 And practical jokers 
 
 To laugh till near bursting with mirth. 
 
 -63- 
 
QUERIES. 
 
 Do zve live and act aright f 
 
 Is a question for us all, 
 Do we never take delight 
 
 In seeing others fall? 
 
 Can we see ourselves as others do, 
 And discern our imperfections ? 
 
 Shall we prove ourselves forever true, 
 And train all right affections ? 
 
 Do we meet all frowns with winsome smiles, 
 
 And hold our many passions ? 
 Do we understand how sin defiles. 
 
 Eschew all foolish fashions? 
 
 Do we lead our minds in proper ways. 
 
 And reason most discreetly? 
 Do we think how best to spend our days — 
 
 Each duty do completely ? 
 
 -64- 
 
Are we aiding others day by day, 
 By thought and kind affection? 
 
 Do we strive in each and ev'ry way 
 To approximate perfection? 
 
 Do we train the will to guide the mind 
 In paths with knowledge rife? 
 
 Do we use our powers to aid mankind 
 To bear the ills of life? 
 
 Does our example every hour 
 
 Teach others how to live? 
 Do we recognize the Source of power, 
 
 And thanks ungrudging give? 
 
 Do we turn our eyes to things above? 
 
 Promote no selfish end? 
 Do we serve our God, and ever love 
 
 Each other to befriend? 
 
 Alas ! we learn not how to live 
 
 Till life is too far spent. 
 Ah, slowly we the good receive. 
 
 More slowly we repent ! 
 
 -65- 
 
THE SEASON'S ROUND. 
 
 October, month of fruits is gone; 
 November's Indian summer come; 
 Winter's chill is hast'ning fast 
 With its freezing polar blast; 
 Then will come the spring again ; 
 Then that glorious season, when 
 All the songsters sweetly sing 
 Till anew the woodlands ring, 
 And the blossoms ope once more 
 As in all the springs before; 
 Once again the summer's heat, 
 Turned upon the golden wheat, 
 Shall fill the bins to overflow, 
 And paint the fruit its richest glow. 
 Then return rare autumn's glory; 
 Year by year the same sweet story. 
 
RETROSPECTION. 
 
 When blithesome summer days were here 
 The fields wore richest green, 
 
 But all is now both brown and sear, 
 No verdure may be seen. 
 
 Those times in June were happy ones, 
 
 The zephyrs soft arid calm; 
 Flowers seemed saying "The brooklet hums 
 
 Her tuneful vernal psalm." 
 
 How sweetly hymned our songsters then 
 
 In forest, grove, and bower, 
 Recalling youth's delights again. 
 
 Each charm and precious hour. 
 
 The squirrels frisked about so free 
 
 While chat'ring in the trees, 
 They whispered in their utter glee, 
 
 "We'll laugh, for no one sees." 
 
 The streams went chuckling smoothly by 
 Great oaks with branches spread. 
 
 Where flashed the oriole so high. 
 While Fancy's day dreams fled. 
 
 -67- 
 
Droll droning of the bees was heard, 
 Faint tinkling of the bells, 
 
 Conveyed by browsing sheep toward 
 The wooded vales and dells. 
 
 ■^^ 
 
The jangling ding-dong in the lanes 
 
 Betokened setting sun ; 
 The "co-boss" sung by lusty swains 
 
 Proclaimed day's labor done. 
 
 The cadence made by falling milk 
 
 In buckets bright and new, 
 Drawn forth by maids in homespun silk, 
 
 From Brin and Spangled Sue, 
 
 Was music, sweeter far than aught 
 E'er heard on harp or lyre. 
 
 On reed, or string, by genius wrought. 
 Like some angelic choir 
 
 We hear it ring thru long-drawn time. 
 Far back from schoolboy days ; 
 
 According with entrancing chime 
 It floats down charmed wavs. 
 
 ■69- 
 
TO A RIVER. 
 
 Roaring waters rushing forward, 
 Striving e'er to reach their level, 
 
 Seething, foaming, tumbling onward, 
 Mad, betimes, like some great evil. 
 
 Strike great bowlders while descending, 
 And in twain are rent how forceful. 
 
 But the mighty stream, undaunted. 
 Hastens on to realms more peaceful. 
 
 Element, so highly colored 
 By the recent copious rains. 
 
 Thou dost cleanse thyself by action, 
 In thv motion lose all stains. 
 
 Hasten on, O restless waters, 
 To a solemn, sweet repose, 
 
 To that pure and pulsing ocean. 
 Of whose wonders no one knows. 
 
There, Old Sol, in freaks of fervor, 
 Will thy bosom oftimes warm, 
 
 Lift thee high on airy vapors, 
 And resolve thee to a storm. 
 
 Thus it is, thou changest ever. 
 Like the course of human life. 
 
 Sometimes sweetly pure and limpid, 
 And again beset by strife. 
 
 Often carried onward, upward. 
 
 To a pure, ethereal air, — 
 Like the earnest thoughts of Christians, 
 
 Wafted on the wings of prayer. 
 
 Ofttimes driven o'er lone islands. 
 In the wide-extending seas, 
 
 Or spread, in downy flakes of wdiiteness 
 O'er the uplands and the leas. 
 
Thus it is that rightful effort, 
 Tending always toward a goal, 
 
 Leads the mind forever upward. 
 Brings refreshment to the soul. 
 
 Sends sweet drops of love and kindness 
 To the hearts o'erfilled with woe, 
 
 Till thru tears is read the promise. 
 Bright portrayed in yonder bow. 
 
 -72- 
 
AUTUMN LEAVES. 
 
 Oh, the glorious autumn leaves ! 
 How they rustle on the trees, 
 And sail with ev'ry breeze 
 
 Softly down ! 
 See their gorgeous, gaudy hues, 
 Decked with bright pellucid dews, 
 Any color one may choose 
 
 All around ! 
 
 Who could make a scene so grand ? 
 Only He with magic hand. 
 Touching all with mystic wand. 
 Can color things so far beyond 
 The power of human hands to paint. 
 Most glorious shades and etchings quaint. 
 
 ■73- 
 
OCTOBER. 
 
 October frosts have dyed the leaves 
 Of all the woodlands grand ; 
 
 Have driven away our summer birds, 
 And hushed each cricket band. 
 
 Have oped the chestnut burrs so high, 
 On yonder spreading trees. 
 
 Just hear the shack come rattling down 
 On ev'rv fitful breeze ! 
 
 The hick'ry nuts from shagbarks tall 
 Are cast 'mongst rustling leaves, 
 
 For searching youth to gather up 
 To crack in winter eves ; 
 
 To eat with apples, popcorn too, 
 When candy-pulling's prime, 
 
 And all the neighbors gather in 
 To have a glorious time. 
 
Behold old Sol move daily south 
 Toward Capricorniis' line ! 
 
 How tenderly thru smoky air 
 His golden glim'rings shine! 
 
 How glisten they upon the brook 
 Which sings o'er pebbly bed! 
 
 How flit among the gaudy leaves, 
 Bright yellow, green, and red ! 
 
 They cast their splendor on the corn 
 
 In golden heaps arrayed, 
 And lend rich luster to the fields, 
 
 Brig^ht 2Teen by showers made. 
 
They've painted many an autumn flower 
 
 In iridescent hues, 
 Like those of clouds at setting sun, 
 
 Where poets catch the muse. 
 
 The lark sings dolefully anon. 
 The jay pipes forth his strains 
 
 Discordant on the passing breeze, 
 Funereal refrains. 
 
 The bob 'link of the clover fields 
 Has donned the ricebird's coat, 
 
 For since he's dwelt in southern swamps 
 He's lost his tinkling note. 
 
 By giving way to morbid tastes. 
 
 And fanciful desires. 
 Thus adding fuel to the flames 
 
 Of fierce stomachic fires. 
 
 -76- 
 
The robins and the bluebirds too, 
 Sweet harbingers of Spring, 
 
 Have sung their mournful, farewell lays, 
 And now have taken wing 
 
 To seek a more ethereal clime 
 Wherein to spend the days 
 
 When frosty Jack stalks o'er our zone, 
 When Sol throws slanting rays 
 
 Upon the landscape far and wide. 
 
 In northern latitudes. 
 Congealed lakes and speechless streams. 
 
 And snow-embowered woods. 
 
 Red squirrels chuckle to themselves 
 While hoarding up their stores. 
 
 They're working swift to end the task 
 Ere Winter shuts the doors 
 
 -77- 
 
Of golden Fall, and hides the key 
 Till coming Spring again ; 
 
 For now it spreads its snowy fleece 
 O'er hillside, glade and glen. 
 
 Maturing, decomposing month, 
 
 Thy glories are untold, 
 Thy richness and thy somberness, 
 
 Thy grandeur and thy gold, 
 
 Are all commingled in those days 
 When passing mellow shades 
 
 So soft proclaim the dying year, 
 When verdure slowlv fades ; 
 
 Descending leaves, with ev'ry gust, 
 Go eddying to the earth. 
 
 To help enrich the native soil 
 That gives each bud its birth, 
 
 -78- 
 
And paints in gorgeous rainbow tints, 
 Spring's beauteous floral band, 
 
 Forgetting not bright pencilings 
 On autumn beauties grand. 
 
 Sweet month of landscape undefined, 
 Thou counterpart of June, 
 
 Too brief thy soft, dissolving light. 
 Too short thy harvest moon. 
 
 October's dissolution tells 
 How Time's unerring aim 
 
 Restores to Earth all forms of life, 
 That she mav then reclaim. 
 
 And hold for Spring the vital sparks 
 Of life and wondrous powers, 
 
 That vernal sunshine wakes again 
 With coming April showers. 
 
 -79- 
 
Behold the resurrection then 
 
 Of leaves and flowers of Spring! 
 
 And hearken to the melodies 
 Returning warblers sing. 
 
 
 -So- 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 The meadow larks are singing 
 Their plaintive autumn lays ; 
 
 From the sumach bushes yonder 
 iSounds the scolding of the jays. 
 
 The crows are cawing loudly 
 
 As they seek their southern home; 
 
 The blue-birds chime in softened notes 
 November now has come. 
 
 The glorious Indian Summer days 
 O'er spread the landscape wide 
 
 With cooling, hazy atmosphere, 
 'Thro' which old Sol with pride — 
 
 Looks down on fields reposeful now, 
 
 October's harvest done, 
 And bids them sleep till vernal days, 
 
 And coming summer's sun. 
 
AUTUMN DAYS. 
 
 All the birds are winging southward 
 As the summer fades away, 
 
 And the forest-trees turn scarlet 
 With each coming autumn day. 
 
 What a grand and glorious picture 
 All the woods present each morn ! 
 
 How the tender shim'ring sunshine 
 Gleams o'er heaps of golden corn ! 
 
 All the apples blush their reddest, 
 All the melons taste ''divine," 
 
 And the grapes in purple clusters 
 Are brimful of choicest wine. 
 
 Oh, how sweet the waning beauties 
 Of a summer full of song, 
 
 And how rare the soothing radiance 
 Of each day that speeds along! 
 
 -82- 
 
WINTER'S COMING. 
 
 Once more we see the winter snow 
 O'er all the landscape spread ; 
 
 Again October's gaudy leaves 
 Lie withered, brown, and dead. 
 
 The chilling, cheerless, northern wind 
 Chants Autumn's fun'ral strains ; 
 
 Sweet flowers all are gone to sleep, 
 Nor waken till the rains 
 
 Of joyous Spring rejuvenate, 
 To blend in colors bright. 
 
 To blossom in the verdant fields. 
 Like stars in heaven's height. 
 
 To note return of balmy airs 
 With songsters' tuneful lays ; 
 
 Of wak'ning life in all the land. 
 And hast'ning summer days. 
 
 -83- 
 
FREAKS OF THE FROST. 
 
 See the bright shining gems up there on the roof, 
 Emblazoned by Sol's brilliant rays; 
 
 Artistic'ly woven with white warp and woof — 
 All sparkling on clear wintry days. 
 
 Look next on the pane of the window, queerly 
 Fantastic the pictures there drawn 
 
 By the hand of old Jack in his scampVing moods. 
 His journeys ere break of the dawn. 
 
 He wheels his fine pencil in circles sometimes. 
 
 In tracings reciprocal too; 
 In parallel curves, and in ovals anon — 
 
 Frail etchings inscribed in the dew. 
 
 He sketches quaint flowers, ne'er using the dyes 
 That artists employ in their works; 
 
 Unique amphitheaters, grasses and leaves. 
 And symbols with numerous quirks. 
 
 -84- 
 
His long hoary locks from the branchlets depend 
 
 In gossamer garlands profuse; 
 White, delicate whiskers extend from each limb, 
 
 And bring to us miniature views — 
 
 Of icebergs in regions where rays never come 
 Direct from the sun's. burning face, 
 
 To melt down the crystals that form the grand 
 spires — 
 Stalagmites in polaric space. 
 
 His power's expressed in the thick coat of ice, 
 That's spread hard and smooth o'er the lake, 
 
 While multiform flakes floating silently down, 
 A vast fleecy coverlet make — 
 
 For Terra's broad breast, and the sear, yellow 
 leaves, — 
 
 White mantles for bushes and trees ; 
 Aye, pure downy shrouds for autumnal flowers 
 
 Which bloomed in the September breeze. 
 
 -85- 
 
His handiwork's shown in the icicles long 
 
 That pendulous cling to the eaves; 
 The exquisite blush that paints the youth's cheek, 
 
 And tintings of October leaves. 
 
 How his glories all gleam in crystalline beads, 
 
 And pencils with prismatic hues, 
 In spectra displayed from the crests of the trees 
 
 Like some of Niagara's views. 
 
 Ah ! the glistening light through silvery glass 
 How splendid ! How gorgeous ! How grand 1 
 
 A garden of Eden with pendants beset, 
 All made by mysterious hand. 
 
 Sights truly wonderful, a Paradise found, 
 
 Radiance beyond all compare; 
 Reflections so dazzling in morn's brilliant light,. 
 
 O ! was there e'er forest so rare ? 
 
MOONLIGHT ON THE SNOW. 
 
 How bright and how white 
 On this Hght wintry night 
 
 Kind Luna shines out in the sky ! 
 Saihng placidly thru 
 The soft liquid blue, 
 
 Like a halo from heaven on high. 
 
 See, she casts her bright pearls 
 On the snow as it whirls 
 
 Along with the music of bells, 
 While the weird polar breeze 
 Sings its love to the trees. 
 
 And all in strange euphony swells. 
 
 And the sleigh glides along 
 With a glad, noisy throng, 
 
 All shouting in highest of glee, 
 And their songs blending well 
 With the wind and each bell. 
 Produce a most quaint harmony. 
 
CHRISTMASTIDE. 
 
 "Peace on earth, good will to men." 
 Ring loud the Christmas bells again, 
 
 Proclaiming love in rhythmic chime : 
 More sweetlv told in olden time — 
 
 By Him who walked upon the sea; 
 
 The glorious Man of Galilee, 
 Whom wise men went to seek afar 
 
 Beneath the light of Bethlehem's star. 
 
 Whose tender, sympathetic words 
 Are lovelier still than song of birds, 
 
 Or music of the masters old, 
 
 Tho' trembling low on harps of gold. 
 
 All hail the Merry Christmas then ; 
 
 With "Peace on earth, good will to men,' 
 And praise to Him who gave His Son 
 
 Sweet peace to bring to ev'ryone ! 
 
 -88- 
 
COUNTRY GAWKS AND CITY "FEL- 
 LERS." 
 
 Them city fellers think they're smart, 
 
 To call us ''country gawks ;" 
 They know a "hayseed" by his gait, 
 
 And giggle when he talks. 
 
 They snort to hear his funny words, 
 
 And watch his gestures queer, 
 And wonder if his sledge-like fists 
 
 Have ever "felled a steer." 
 
 They call him Reuben, Jake or John, 
 
 And holler "Punkins green?" 
 Or yell, "Old boy, who cut yer hair ?" 
 
 'Twant done with no machine. 
 
 Why, 'tother day, when peddlin' hay. 
 
 My wagon give a lurch. 
 When some pert city lad screamed out: 
 
 "Hey, dad, come off your perch ! 
 
 -89- 
 
"Say, Uncle John, now husk your punks. 
 
 And tote your squashes in. 
 Jest sell your milk with cream all on, 
 
 For water's mighty thin." 
 
 One day my off ox balked in town, 
 
 And wouldn't move a peg; 
 When some great gawky says, says he, 
 
 ''Say, Rube, jest pull his leg!" 
 
 Another says : ''Drive home your cozvs, 
 Fer milkin' time has come." 
 
 Says I : "Dry up, you 'tarnal scamps, 
 Er you'll hear suthin' hum.'' 
 
 Of course we country jakes are green, 
 And use some awkward words. 
 
 But never call a sfccr a cozv, 
 Or hawks the singin' birds. 
 
 -90- 
 
Or oak, or elm, a maple tree, 
 
 Or onion tops, tall beans. 
 We know good melons when they're ripe, 
 
 And weeds that's good for greens. 
 
 We never call a ivhcel a iveal, 
 Nor sing out wat for ivhat. 
 
 Nor think a yearlin' calf's a goat. 
 Or rye's a clover lot. 
 
 The farmers don't say iven for zvlien, 
 Nor zvight instead of zvhite. 
 
 They don't use zuear in place of zvhere, 
 Sav, zvhere do suckers bite? 
 
 They're pretty kind, these rural men. 
 Jest take 'em thru and thru ; 
 
 And, if you always treat 'em right. 
 You'll find 'em good and true. 
 
 -91- 
 
A FEW LINES TO THE EDITOR OF THE 
 VILLAGE PAPER. 
 
 Mr. Eddyter: 
 
 When ground hog day come to this place about 
 a month ago, I went out in the mornin' to kind o' 
 tinker round the farm, and sort o' fix up the rail 
 fences to keep 'em from topplin' over in places, 
 and look after the young lambs that had got 
 strayed from their mothers, all the while hopin' 
 a way down in my heart that Mr. Sun would have 
 sense enough to stay behind the clouds durin' the 
 whole day, when all at once without a bit of 
 warnin' out popped his big round red face, and 
 shone brighter than a dollar all the rest of the 
 day. 
 
 Well, for a while I was as mad as a March hare 
 tc think of six weeks more winter, but after a bit 
 I concluded I couldn't help matters any by grum- 
 bling about the sun or the weather or ground 
 hogs or other hogs, four-footed or otherwise, nor 
 could I keep the good old sun from shinin' when- 
 ever he takes a notion on the just and on the un- 
 
 -92- 
 
jnst whether its ground hog day or any other day, 
 so I says to myself, "Now, Jabe, they hain't no 
 sense in your tryin' to regulate Providence nor 
 anything that Providence regulates, neither the 
 sun nor the weather nor ground hogs, nor the 
 length of the shadders made by the latter, so 
 you'd better 'tend right to your bizness, and take 
 the days jest as they come and call 'em all good." 
 
 And I got to thinkin' what a fool I had been a 
 findin' fault with Nature and a kind o' meditatin' 
 about the spring and summer with their birds and 
 bees, and bugs and butterflies, and jest then the 
 rhymes come crowdin' into my head like a lot of 
 hungry black birds into a newly planted corn- 
 field, and my old head got so blamed full o' them 
 verses that I had to find some place to put 'em, 
 for they was liable to bust out without no warnin', 
 so I wrote 'em down, and thot I'd send 'em to you 
 to read over. If they're good enough, you might 
 print 'em in your paper and send me an extry 
 copy, for I'm one of your reg'lar readers. 
 
 The verses foller. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 JABE SMITH. 
 
GROUND HOG DAY AND OTHER DAYS. 
 
 That pesky, stupid ground-hog 
 
 Has been out and seen his shadder 
 
 When the ole big sun was shinin' — 
 Be blamed if I ain't madder 
 
 Than an ole wet hen a-settin'; 
 
 For I've had my fill o' winter, 
 Enough and some to spare, 
 
 And I want to hear the robins 
 And sniff the summer air. 
 
 Jest think of six weeks' blizzard. 
 And slush and snow and sleet, 
 
 A freezin' and a thawin' 
 
 And a heavin' of the wheat. 
 
 -94- 
 
W'y, it fairly makes me shiver, 
 When I think how long 'twill be 
 
 Fore the comin' of the ^spring time, 
 When I holler, haw and gee — 
 
 To my team of good old liosses, 
 When I'm turnin' up the earth, 
 
 And all the birds are singin' 
 
 Sweet sonofs for all they're worth ! 
 
 Jest see the extry fodder 
 
 'Twill take to feed the stock, 
 
 'Fore the chillin' winds is over. 
 And the sun begins to knock 
 
 The frost a skally-hootin', 
 
 And to thaw the ground ag'in, 
 
 And to start the grass a growin' 
 For the tads to waller in ! 
 
 -95- 
 
What fun to see 'em tiimblin' 
 In the clover in the lot 
 
 Jest like I've often done myself 
 When jest a little tot! 
 
 But never mind the weather : 
 
 We'll wait a little longer, 
 For the days are growin' that way now, 
 
 And the heat's a gittin' stronger, 
 
 And the trees will soon be buddin' 
 And a leavin' green and nice, 
 
 And the landscape be a pictur' 
 You can view 'thout nary price. 
 
 The birds will all be warblin',. 
 With bull-frogs singin' bass ; 
 
 The apple trees a blossomin'; 
 In fact old Nature's face — 
 
 -96- 
 
Will laugh with life and sunshine, 
 While the fruit begins to grow, 
 
 And the cherries blush their reddest, 
 And come out in richest glow, 
 
 And the harvest apples ripen 
 In the orchard's choicest tree, 
 
 To tempt the searching notice 
 Of each truant boy and bee. 
 
 The brooks will go a gurglin' 
 Down the hill side to the dale, 
 
 The quail will whistle "Old Bob White' 
 From yonder ridered rail. 
 
 The wake-up mutter on the stub, 
 The chipmunk chirrup loud. 
 
 The turkey gobbler strut around 
 A feelin' mighty proud. 
 
 -97- 
 
The hens go cacklin' from their nests 
 To tell of eggs they've laid, 
 
 The cows come trottin' down the lane 
 To seek the maple's shade. 
 
 The air be full of bugs and bees, 
 
 And birds and butterflies, 
 The ev'ning sound with tree-toad's trills, 
 
 And sflow with fire-flies. 
 
 How good 'twill seem to set out doors 
 
 In summer nights so still. 
 And watch the moon a comin' up 
 
 From 'hind that great big hill ! 
 
 And hear the sheep-bells tinklin' far 
 
 Beyond the pastur-bars, 
 Or baby frogs sing out, "knee-deep,' 
 
 In chorus to the stars ! 
 
 -98- 
 
I git to feelin' good right off 
 When thinkin' o' the June, 
 
 When straw-berries turn purty red, 
 And summer's all in tune. 
 
 ''It's comin' fast, it's comin' soon, 
 
 I feel it in my bones, 
 And know it by the thawin' days, 
 
 And the crow's familiar tones. 
 
 L.ofC. 
 
 -99- 
 
Stony Crick, March ii, 1902. 
 Mr. Editor: 
 
 I haint writ to you in quite a spell cause the 
 varse season don't come 'round but about once 
 a year, and mostly in the spring-time when the 
 poultry begins to lay. Eggs has been awful steep 
 all winter and wife has kep' me bizzy huntin' old 
 hen's nests and crawlin' under the barn and sheds, 
 searchin' fer 'em, so I haint had no time to write 
 nothin', but sence eggs has dropt I have had time 
 to burn hence the varses that I'm sendin' with this 
 letter. 
 
 I've been thinkin' 'bout writin' my name 
 down Jahez instead of Jabe cause I think it 
 sounds more poetical, but my neighbors knowin' 
 me by the name of Jabe Smith for nigh onto 40 
 years they'll think I'm gettin' mighty stuck up 
 since I took to writin' varses. 
 
 The robin havin' kind o' took me off my feet 
 'tother day with his same old song newly sung 
 after bein' away several months, I sot my feelin's 
 down in rimes, and here they are. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Jabe Smith. 
 
UNCLE JABE TO MR. ROBIN. 
 
 I 'spose, now, Mr. Robin 
 
 You think you got here fust, 
 
 With yer pipin' an' yer singin' 
 As if ver throte would bust. 
 
 But the blue-bird beat you this time, 
 Fer I heerd him tother day 
 
 A warblin 'awful purty tunes 
 Jest like in month o' May. 
 
 His voice was soft and meller 
 Like a little ripplin' brook, 
 
 'Most enuf to make a feller 
 Hunt his fishin' line and hook. 
 
 And the youngsters, when they heerd him, 
 
 Run like sixty 'crost the lot, 
 Then tip-toed careful 'mongst the trees, 
 
 Till they well-nigh reached the spot. 
 
Then they pinted with their fingers 
 Towards a tiny top-most-Hmb, 
 
 When our httle Nelhe hollered 
 "It's Bluey! aint it, Jim?" 
 
 A finer sight I never seen, 
 
 Ner picter more complete 
 Than them three childern standin' there 
 
 A peekin' up so sweet. 
 
 Guess, Robin^ I was wandrin' some, 
 
 Fergettin' you was here, 
 A chasin' arter blue-bird songs, 
 
 And harkning to the queer 
 
 And interestin' pranks and talk, 
 Of them three tads out there, 
 
 A-friskin' round to get a sniff 
 Of spring-time in the air. 
 
Glad to see you anyway. 
 
 Want to hear you sing, 
 Pipe away with all your might, 
 
 Make the orchards ring. 
 
 Tell the urchins you've come back. 
 
 See 'em jump and clap 
 And stare with all the eyes they've got 
 
 To find "the red-breast chap!" 
 
 The crow's a-cawin' in the oak, 
 'Taint musical, I know, 
 
 But then it tells us spring is here, 
 And soon we'll have to sow 
 
 Our oats and plant our corn, and 
 
 All our garden seeds, 
 And catch the bugs on 'tater vines 
 
 While hoein' out the weeds. 
 
 103- 
 
Wal, Robin, think I like you best 
 
 Of all our early birds, 
 You seem to tell of days long gone 
 
 In kind of purty words. 
 
 I can't explain it as I should, 
 
 Fer all the birds is fine. 
 But somehow, you can sing the tunes 
 
 That's sort o' in my line. 
 
 About the old-time lilock bush. 
 And fruit trees drest in white, 
 
 Er locus' blossoms honey sweet, 
 Er clover-bloom — a sight 
 
 That makes a feller dance and sing, 
 Throw up his hat and shout. 
 
 Jest like we youngsters used to do 
 As soon as school let out. 
 
 -104- 
 
So trill yer songs with all yer vim, 
 From sun up on to night, 
 
 Fer we're a listnin' while we work, 
 And while the fishes bite. 
 
 ji^.V^ 
 
 105- 
 
Stony Crick, Aprile 15, 1902. 
 Mr. Eddvter: 
 
 When I sent you them rimes about Air. Robin 
 along in the middle of March I was afeerd you 
 want agoin' to print 'em, ner I can't begin to tell 
 you how tickled I was when I seen 'em all sot 
 up nice in the paper you mailed me, and when I 
 looked at that pictur' you had made o' me plowin 
 with my old team, you better believe I was tick- 
 elder than my old dog is when I come home from 
 town, and he's so tickled that he nigh amost wig- 
 gles hisself in two and barks a lot o' funny dog 
 laughs and tears round like he had a fit. 
 
 I tuk your paper and stood in front of our look- 
 in' glass that's on the side of our kitchen right 
 nigh granther's tall clock, and I'll be hanged if 
 I could tell which was tother, and fer the life o' 
 me I can't understand how you got my picter so 
 correct, fer I haint sot in no fotograf gallery for 
 more'n 30 year. 
 
 Hens is settin' considable now and eggs has riz 
 a little, and as the fish is running up the crick 
 I tuk a notion I'd write some lines on Fishin 
 Time, and if you'll print 'em I'll take you out 
 fishin' any time you come over to the farm, be- 
 sides you shall have your fill of ham and eggs 
 and lickin' good maple sirup and plenty of real 
 milk warm from the cow. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Jabe Smith. 
 
FISHIN' TIME. 
 
 Fishin' time has come ag'in, 
 Angle worms is crawlin', 
 
 Suckers runnin' up the crick, 
 Aprile calves is bawlin'. 
 
 Settin' hens begin to cluck, 
 Guinea-fowls to clatter, 
 
 Bull-frogs askin' from the ditch, 
 "What on earth's the matter?" 
 
 Turkey gobbler struttin' round. 
 Rooster crowin' louder. 
 
 Thinks he's boss of all the yard. 
 Daily gittin' prouder. 
 
 Tree-toads tryin' tipsy trills, 
 Until they sort o' stutter. 
 
 Cows a croppin' bran' new grass, 
 Hurraw for yaller butter. 
 
 107- 
 
John's a settin' on a log, 
 Great long legs a danglin', 
 
 Old straw hat pulled on his head; 
 Blamed if he aint anglin' ! 
 
 Got a fish-line made o' twine, 
 
 Bullet fer a sinker. 
 Bearded hook and saplin' pole, 
 
 Watchin' like a tinker 
 
 Fer to see his bobber sink. 
 Swish ! there goes a shiner — 
 
 Swallowed hook and worm and all, 
 But John, he thinks it's finer 
 
 Than them tarnal suckers is, 
 Aint so bony nuther, 
 
 Says they bite like all git out, 
 Catches 'em fer mother. 
 
 io8- 
 
Look at that air blackin' box 
 Our lad has got his bait in, 
 
 W'y it's labeled "Mason's best,' 
 A mighty powerful ratin' : 
 
 Fer on the kiver stands a boot 
 A glistenin' like a mirror, 
 
 Dog jest seen his shadder, and 
 Is leggin' off in terror. 
 
 The warter gurglin' 'mongst the roots 
 
 Of that old sickamore, 
 Has sung the same sweet happy tune 
 
 Fer forty year and more. 
 
 Makes a feller think o' youth, 
 Er some old fiddle's hum, 
 
 When a player plinks the strings 
 With music in his thumb. 
 
 [09- 
 
Er bends his head to hear her speak 
 In notes that's soft and low, 
 
 While tinklin' chords jest here and there, 
 Before he'll let her go. 
 
 The log that John's a settin' on 
 
 Was mate to that air tree. 
 With limbs as white and smooth and long, 
 
 But the crick it washed, you see, 
 
 Until it undermined the roots, 
 Jest like 'twill do to tother. 
 
 And when it falls I guess I'll cry 
 As if I'd lost a brother. 
 
 The tip-up runnin' 'long the bank 
 Haint changed sence I was young. 
 
 The kildeer pipes the same shrill notes 
 I believe he's alius sung. 
 
The bass is bitin' jest the same, 
 
 The mullets takin' bait, 
 The crick a trav'lin' 'mong the stones 
 
 At about the same old rate. 
 
 The swimmin' hole haint nigh so deep 
 As 'twas long years gone by, 
 
 When boys ran all the way from school 
 To plunge from spring-board high. 
 
 In bathin' suits of Natur's best 
 They went to bottom quick, 
 
 And brot up sand to prove it too. 
 The whitest in the crick. 
 
 It seems so funny lookin' back 
 Along the road o' time, 
 
 How years has run away so swift 
 Since we was in our prime. 
 
And then to stretch it further back 
 
 To days when we was boys, 
 And fiished and swum and played and ckim 
 
 And knowed all sorts o' joys, 
 
 The road is long, }'et time seems short. 
 The vision bright and clear : 
 
 So may we see it day by day 
 To give us wholesome cheer. 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 A Day in June 
 
 
 
 
 
 49 
 
 A May Day Song 
 
 
 
 
 
 59> ('o 
 
 Autumn Days 
 
 
 
 
 
 82 
 
 Autumn Leaves 
 
 
 
 
 
 73 
 
 A Vision of Youtli . 
 
 
 
 
 
 50-54 
 
 Chattanooga . 
 
 
 
 
 
 25-28 
 
 Christmastide . 
 
 
 
 
 
 88 
 
 Country Gawks and City "Fellers" 
 
 
 
 
 
 89-91 
 
 Dear Mother Nature 
 
 
 
 
 
 55, 56 
 
 Fishin' Time 
 
 
 
 
 
 106-112 
 
 Freaks of the Frost . 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 84-86 
 
 Good Morning, Mr. Robin . 
 
 
 
 
 
 57-58 
 
 Ground Hog Day and other Days 
 
 
 
 
 
 92-99 
 
 Hoosierdom . 
 
 
 
 
 
 42-45 
 
 Indian Summer 
 
 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 Indian Weed and Free Silver 
 
 
 
 
 
 61-63 
 
 May .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 29, 30 
 
 Moonlight on the Snow 
 
 
 
 
 
 87 
 
 October 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 74-80 
 
 Queries 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 64, 65 
 
 Rejuvenation . 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 46-48 
 
 Reminiscences 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 35-41 
 
 Retrospection . 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 67-69 
 
 Song and Blossom 
 
 
 
 
 
 16-18 
 
 Sunset 
 
 
 
 
 
 23, 24 
 
 The Bobolink 
 
 
 
 
 
 19-22 
 
 The Dandelions 
 
 
 
 
 
 15 
 
 The Editor's Lament 
 
 
 
 
 
 31-34 
 
 The Little Red School-house 
 
 
 
 
 
 3-14 
 
 The Season's Round 
 
 
 
 
 
 66 
 
 To a River . 
 
 
 
 
 
 70-72 
 
 Uncle Jabe to Mr. Robin . 
 
 
 
 
 
 100-105 
 
 Winter's Coming 
 
 
 
 
 
 83 
 
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