Class 
 Book 
 
 Copyright )J^. 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK A. McGUIRE 
 
 /^=^^ 
 
 >^ 
 
 JACKSON, MISSOURI 
 
 1915 
 

 i^^^V 
 
 Copyright, 1916, by 
 Frank A. McGuire 
 
 JAN i5|9lo 
 
 ©Ji.A418060 
 
MOST of the verses in this book were printed in 
 the year 1913 in a souvenir edition of fifty 
 copies which I handed to some of my old 
 school-mates and a few personal friends. Several 
 parties have suggested that I issue another and 
 larger edition in order to give the verses wider pub- 
 licity. This I have concluded to do. The greater 
 part of the collection were written in early youth 
 and during the years immediately following the close 
 of my school days. The reader, perhaps, will be able 
 to identify these. Nothing was written with the ex- 
 pectation of its ever oppearing within the pages of 
 a book. The only motive I had in writing the verses 
 was the pleasure I found in the effort. I do not flat- 
 ter myself with the belief that anyone will derive 
 much of either pleasure or profit from reading the 
 book. 
 
 F. A. M. 
 Jackson, Mo., September, 1915. 
 
TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF MY BROTHER, ALBERT GaYLE McGuIRE, 
 DECEASED, WHOSE CHRISTIAN LIFE ITSELF 
 WAS A BEAUTIFUL POEM, THIS BOOK IS DEDI- 
 CATED. 
 
 F. A. M. 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 A GRAVE. 
 
 The warmth of the vernal sun, 
 The wind from the south and the fresh'ning showers, 
 As ever since the birth of the v/orld they have done, 
 
 Have wakened again the flowers. 
 
 Oh, would they could wake again 
 One who sleeps where the shadows of the forest 
 
 spread. 
 It would free my poor heart of its grief and its pain 
 
 Could they bring me back my dead. 
 
 Where, oh flowers fair, 
 Are the hopes that were once such a comfort to me ? 
 They are gone, they have perished, are buried where 
 
 I planted a wild rose tree. 
 
 0, wind from the southland, come, 
 And go for a day and sigh with me 
 By yonder grave where the flowers bloom 
 
 And fade on the wild rose tree. 
 
 (1) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 THE BIRTH OF CHRIST. 
 
 A universal hope o'erspread 
 The waiting world, and overhead 
 The conscious stars looked on 
 The lowly place in Palestine 
 Where Mary, favored virgin queen, 
 Nourished her god-like son. 
 
 From star-lit Syrian skies above. 
 From the presence of the God of Love, 
 
 Burst upon the ears of men 
 The melody of Heaven. Ne'er 
 Before nor since did mortal ear 
 
 Heavenly music ken. 
 
 Lo! the shining v/orlds above 
 In wondrous convocation move, 
 
 And send their brightest gem 
 To honor Him and lead the way 
 Of groping men to th' place where lay 
 
 Their Lord in Bethlehem. 
 
 Far down the vista of the years, 
 Forelooking, Israel's appointed seers 
 
 (2) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 See the converging nations meet, 
 Singing hosannas to the blest, 
 Aweary, worn and seeking rest, 
 
 Low at their Savior's feet. 
 
 The mountains know their Heaven- 
 born King; 
 The forests with His praises ring; 
 
 All things with one accord — 
 The earth, the air, the sea — make 
 
 known 
 Their faith in Him, and man alone 
 Denies his promised Lord. 
 
 Heathen temples their gods forswear; 
 The groves rebuke the altars there; 
 
 Error hides its hideous mien; 
 The darkening clouds at last are rent; 
 Truth glows with light from Heaven 
 sent, 
 
 Brighter than the morning's sheen. 
 
 The demons of the darkness vast. 
 That had plagued the earth for ages 
 past, 
 Were startled when the light 
 Broke from the bending firmament, 
 
 (3) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And the brighter day that God had 
 sent 
 Triumphed over nigh^. 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 Toll the bell solemnly, 
 
 For a woman is dead — 
 Speak of her gently, 
 
 And bow low the head. 
 
 In weakness she lived, 
 
 Yet blameless she died; 
 She suffered and sorrowed — 
 
 In the furnace was tried. 
 
 In the fair days of youth, 
 
 In her beauty and pride, 
 She cherished a hope 
 
 That was forever denied; 
 
 Yet she lived on and worshipped 
 
 The idol she cherished, 
 Till the burden of sorrow 
 
 Broke her heart, and she perished, 
 
 (4) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Like a flower that blooms 
 In the crystaline dawn 
 
 Of a morning in spring 
 Till its beauty is gone. 
 
 In her weakness she perished 
 As a moth in the flame, 
 
 While they spoke of her cruelly 
 As a woman of shame. 
 
 yet the fairest of all 
 
 Of the angels, one day. 
 
 Was sent down from Heaven 
 To bear hgr away. 
 
 For the good God above 
 
 Knew the wheat from the tare, 
 And garnered the choicest 
 
 Sheaf that was there. 
 
 And she died in the month 
 When dark Winter's breath 
 
 Is as cold as the pride 
 That did her to death. 
 
 Ah! there's one who will wait 
 Till the flowers rebloom 
 
 (5) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And gather the choicest 
 To lay on her tomb, 
 
 And tell to the dead 
 
 Who is now resting well 
 The love to the living 
 
 He dared not tell. 
 
 A SUMMER TWILIGHT. 
 
 The sun was down, yet tried its best 
 To blaze and burn up, limb by limb. 
 
 The trees out in the circling west 
 That fringed the wide horizon's rim. 
 
 The crescent moon had come again, 
 
 An acorn in a golden cap, 
 And Night, approaching, dusky swain, 
 
 Laid his head on Evening's lap. 
 
 The south-wind kissed the downy cheek 
 Of precious beauty at my side; 
 
 The frog-song floated from the creek 
 Across the gloomy meadow wide. 
 
 (6) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 The lightning-bug lit now and then 
 Its wondrous lamp out on the hill; 
 
 Was heard from out the tangled fen 
 The droll note of the whip-poor-will. 
 
 Beyond the field, in the distant wood, 
 The hoot-owl answered to its mate; 
 
 And in the air the beetle brood 
 Bejgan to boom and circulate. 
 
 Away off in the distance dim 
 
 I heard the hound-dog's deep-mouth- 
 ed bay; 
 
 The cock upon the apple limb 
 Crew good-bye to retiring day. 
 
 A gang of blackbirds hurried by, 
 Belated, to their roosting place; 
 
 I saw the slow-winged heron fly 
 Across the evening's dusky face. 
 
 The leathern bat its home forsook. 
 And, darting here and there, it flew; 
 
 Dark-hidden in its leafy nook. 
 The cat-bird sang a bar or two. 
 
 (7) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 In the tree above the zephyr sighed, 
 A few big stars in heaven shone, 
 
 And, somewhat like a hope that died, 
 The day went out and night came on. 
 
 SANTA CLAUS. 
 
 The last we heard of Santa Claus 
 He was skipping o'er the snow, 
 
 Away up in Alaska land 
 Where dwell the Eskimo. 
 
 He was driving southward at a gait 
 Fast as the eagle's flight. — 
 
 Hang up your stockings, little folks, 
 He'll be down here to-night. 
 
 But never mind, you children who 
 
 Live where the scanty cup 
 Of poverty is set, you need 
 
 Not hang your stockings up. 
 
 Old Santa Claus is like the world, 
 
 He passes poor folks by, 
 He cracks his whip v/hen he sees their 
 homes, 
 
 And makes his chariot fly. 
 
 (8) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 NO DISTANT DAY. 
 
 They tell me that my lot, no distant day, 
 
 Will be to pass away 
 On spirit wings to some strange world on high, 
 Beyond the glittering stars that stud the sky. 
 
 Well, I don't know; but seems to me that I, 
 
 Somehow, would rather fly 
 With wings the birds fly with, the birds that sing 
 And make life's winter seem so much like spring. 
 
 They tell me that my body will be gone, 
 
 And that I will take on 
 A form that can't be seen, intangible — 
 My cup of joy will then be brimming full. 
 
 (Somehow I dread conditions so ideal. 
 Divorcement from the things I know are real.) 
 
 It may be just because I'm weak and human, 
 
 Yes, weaker than a woman. 
 That I sometimes think the Good Place would be 
 
 queer 
 Without the forms and faces we see here. 
 
 (9) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 (Oh, may I there behold and recognize 
 Some traces of old Earth in Paradise!) 
 
 Say, you who know, you wise men up in lore. 
 
 When I reach that peaceful shore, 
 There will I see the silvery rivulet, 
 Lined with green trees and verdure thickly set? 
 
 The song-bird will I see, the forest wild, 
 
 The sunset-temples piled 
 Gold on gold, the morning sparkling bright. 
 The rich array of stars above at night? 
 
 From out the east will shadows slowly creep. 
 
 Wooing to restful sleep. 
 When the day is done? Will the gentle South-Wind 
 
 come 
 And kiss the cheek of blushing May in bloom ? 
 
 Will yellow fields in autumn greet me there 
 
 In that better land so fair ? 
 There will I note the wild duck^s distant flight 
 Across the dusky heavens at fall of night? 
 
 And see the birds of passage circling high 
 Up in the deep blue sky, 
 
 (10) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 As when a happy child I used to love 
 
 To lie prostrate and watch their armies move? 
 
 Will pattering feet arrest the listening ear 
 
 Of mother-love, and cheer 
 Home-coming father's heart when they run to meet 
 Him noon and evening, precious little feet? 
 
 And oh! above all else, tell me, you wise, 
 
 If in that paradise 
 She whom I love, my heart of hearts, will be. 
 As she is here. Heaven's choicest gift to me? 
 
 THE HOLY SPIRIT. 
 
 From worldly things my thoughts withdrew, 
 
 And I lapsed into a reverie, 
 Till soothing slumber came and threw 
 
 Its opiate influence over me. 
 
 And as I drowsed and dreamed that night. 
 And visions round about me whirled, 
 
 (11) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 A form there was that came bedight 
 In the glory of a better world. 
 
 It stood with pearly hand aloft, 
 
 And pointed where its home must be, 
 
 And said in loving accents soft: 
 
 "He calleth thee. He calleth thee." 
 
 "Who is it calls?" my soul replied; 
 
 And again the voice spoke unto me: 
 "The Savior who for sinners died, 
 
 The stainless one of Calvary." 
 
 With calm indifference still I sate, 
 The gentle pleader heeding not, 
 
 All thoughtless of the bitter fate 
 In store for me when Fm forgot. 
 
 Still, like a bird, whose joyful song 
 
 Is changed to grief by some rude fate. 
 
 About the hedge-row lingers long 
 
 Where last it saw its stricken mate. 
 
 There by my soul the spirit stood, 
 Till in despair it bowed its head 
 
 And turned away, in pensive mood, 
 
 And from my presence quickly sped. 
 
 (12) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Written on frightening two ycnng doves from l&eir nest. 
 (in the Brogue of the Scotch.) 
 
 Why frae your nest sae warm, 
 Wee birdies, flutter you away? 
 Hither ths^t I might do you harm 
 
 I didna stray. 
 
 I wot fu' weel how beat 
 Wi' fear your hairts, as near your 
 
 bower 
 Th' intrusive wanderer pressed his feet 
 
 This luckless hour. 
 
 Frae yonder stibble borne, 
 Your mither's cooing says: "Rest, rest, 
 My bonnie bairns, I will return 
 
 Soon to your nest." 
 
 Puir creature! if she kenned 
 That sic mischance her bairns befell, 
 The wae that wad her bosom rend 
 
 Oh, wha could tell? 
 
 She'll hameward fly anon 
 Wi' food to stech the helpless pair, 
 
 (13) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 An' when she sees that they are gone, 
 She'll greet fu' sair. 
 
 Waefu' will be her cry, 
 As aboon the empty nest she'll perch; 
 Frae tree to tree how she will fly 
 
 In anxious search! 
 
 If ruder chance should fa*. 
 An* vain her search frae tree to tree, 
 If never mair they her ca'. 
 
 An* perished be, 
 
 Then, poised on some near 
 bough, 
 She'll crood, but to her sweets na mair; 
 Joy prompts her song na langcr now, 
 
 But mirk despair. 
 
 Oh, may na savage thing 
 Come roond, nor tentless, wicked boy, 
 To spy these birds o' timid wing. 
 
 An' them destroy. 
 
 Thus, when we dinna heed, 
 Oor actions afttimes wander wrang, 
 An' gie, by reekless word or deed. 
 
 Some hairt a pang. 
 
 (14) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 LINES TO A TOAD. 
 
 Why, toady, should I pass you by. 
 And never say a word? 
 
 You can not sing, you can not fly- 
 You're not a pretty bird. 
 
 In your rough skin that others loathe 
 I something pleasing see; 
 
 Unlike proud man's, it does not clothe 
 Deceit and treachery. 
 
 That sparkle in my toady^s eye 
 Comes not at passion's call, 
 
 But glances from the Love on high 
 That shines alike for all. 
 
 Snug in your shady burrow there 
 Beneath the "jimson-weed," 
 
 Unvexed by human toil and care, 
 Uncircumscribed by creed, 
 
 I envy you your liberty, 
 
 Content and peace of mind, 
 
 (15) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Free from the ills that e'er must be 
 The lot of human kind. 
 
 When Night camps where retreating 
 Day 
 
 With shining banners sto^d, 
 Vou'll sally forth on your foray 
 
 Against the insect brood; 
 
 But I, alas! with tired brain, 
 By care and toil oppressed, 
 
 Upon my bed will seek in vain 
 A night of perfect rest. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE 
 CHILD. 
 
 The little bark had just begun 
 To sail a sea storm-tossed, 
 
 And, likely, further had it run. 
 The venturer were lost. 
 
 Kind Providence took careful note 
 What might, perhaps, have been 
 
 The fate of that frail little boat. 
 And quickly drew it in. 
 
 (16) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 TO A MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 Bird of the varying note, 
 That from yon spreading elm-tree's topmost spray 
 Now sends o'er trees and fields your song afloat 
 
 To greet the new-born day, 
 
 Without your gifted tongue 
 To lead the choir of nature's feathered host, 
 Full half the music of the wondrous song 
 
 To my rapt ear were lost. 
 
 This day of life and bloom, 
 And beauteous light, methinks, would weary be 
 Did not those mimic tones of gladness come 
 
 To soothe and comfort me. 
 
 Oft your society, 
 
 Sw^eet chorister, I seek, when ill at ease. 
 And cares disturb, to hear your melody 
 Borne on the trembling breeze. 
 
 Not only when the sun 
 Begins to gild the trees and hills remote, 
 
 (17) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 pr in the full-grown day, or twilight dun, 
 Your cheering songs I note, 
 
 But often in the night, 
 When sleep I vainly woo, upon my ear 
 Your changing carols fall as clear and bright 
 
 As now your song I hear. 
 
 When life was in its spring, 
 My heart like yours, sweet bird, was light and gay; 
 'As glad o'er those old hills my voice did ring 
 
 As does your own to-day. 
 
 If years could backward go. 
 And bring again but half my youthful joy, 
 Since the dawn of reason is the birth of woe, 
 
 I'd wish to be a boy. 
 
 Sing on, dear mocking-bird, 
 And let your notes be sounded far and free. 
 For that sweet song so oft, enrapt, I've heard 
 
 You'll sing no more for me. 
 
 No more ? Ah ! should I be 
 In far-off lands — where oft in dreams I've been- 
 Still would I see you poised on this old tree. 
 
 And hear your songs again. 
 
 (18) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 If by the banks of Ayr, 
 Where nature's only poet poured his soul, 
 Or 'neath Italia's classic sky, or where 
 
 The castled Rhine doth roll, 
 
 By fortune's wave I'm borne, 
 E'en there, down memory's vista will be heard. 
 At noon, or twilight dim, or rising morn, 
 
 Your song, sweet mocking-bird. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Hail, infant day! The old year's life has ceased, 
 
 And Night now draws her sable drapery 
 From off thy golden cradle in the east. 
 
 And millions watch the year's first-born to see. 
 
 And, lo, the various train that coma with thee! 
 First, Hope, enchantress, smiling at thy side, 
 Arrayed in beauty like a blushing bride. 
 
 Her pearly finger points to joys to be. 
 Next, Disappointment, hapless soul, doth bide 
 A little way behind. And then appears 
 Bemoaning Sorrow with her sighs and tears; 
 
 And Pity, one whose tear-drops flow so free, 
 Comes with a wreath of virgin flowers now 
 To braid in beauty ill-starred Sorrow's brow. 
 
 (19) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 A CHILDHOOD IDYL. 
 
 I wonder, dear Rowena, where 
 
 Your lot is cast to-day; 
 Ah! little have I known of you 
 
 Since the time you went away. 
 
 I wonder if the sunlight shines 
 With just as bright a glow 
 
 About your feet as it always did 
 In the dear old long-ago. 
 
 Say, do the zephyrs still delight 
 To fan two cheeks as fair 
 
 As those a sun-browned urchin loved 
 To kiss the blushes there? 
 
 I wonder if care sits as light 
 
 Upon your heart to-day 
 As when two pairs of bare feet chased 
 
 The laughing hours away. 
 
 I wonder if your eyes flash now 
 In splendid beauty still, 
 
 (20) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 As when a bold and headstrong boy 
 They used to tame at will. 
 
 Ah, mind you of the day, my girl, 
 
 I found the violets blue, 
 And bound them with a pawpaw string 
 
 And brought them home to you? 
 
 And how, when wandering by our- 
 selves. 
 
 We used to stop and look 
 For pebbles red and purple in 
 
 The "riffles" of the brook? 
 
 To-night, Rowena, as I go 
 
 O'er the wreck-strewn field of time 
 And gather up the memories 
 
 And string them into rhyme, 
 
 I see you in your short-cut dress, 
 
 Bare feet brown as a bee. 
 Your bonnet red, from under which 
 
 Two bright eyes peeped at me; 
 
 And I wonder, sweetheart of those 
 days, 
 
 If your memory, in its flight 
 To childhood times, recalls the boy 
 
 Who rhymes of you to-night. 
 
 (21) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 SOUTER JOHNY'S DEATH. 
 
 (In the Brogue of the Scotch.) 
 
 Come, doggies, a', baith auld an' nim- 
 ble, 
 Wha hunt the paitrick in the bramble, 
 
 Or cotton-tail, 
 An* ilka puppy quit his gambol, 
 
 To weep an' wail. 
 
 Let ilka tail now drag the ground, 
 An' ilka doggie stand around 
 
 Where Johny's dead, 
 An' howl, an' howl wi' mournfu' sound 
 
 Aboon his head. 
 
 All ye wha like the fields to scour, 
 Wi' gun an' dog for mony an hour 
 
 In chill October, 
 When frost hae nipt the weed and flow'r, 
 
 Come an' look sober, 
 
 For John, the prince o' every setter, 
 Lies stiff an' cauld down in the gutter, 
 To hunt na mair; 
 
 (22) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Than him na kennel kept a better, 
 Onywhere. 
 
 Ah! Tarn, your brither, Souter John, 
 Maybe you think's a-hunting gone 
 
 Just for to-day; 
 But, Tarn, the trail puir Johny's on 
 
 Leads far away. 
 
 Vile wretch wha dealt the poison! 
 
 Surely 
 He canna go to hell too early; 
 
 For him sae mean, 
 Auld Hornie's fires are bleezing fairly, 
 
 An' pretty keen. 
 
 Ye fates wha fill the hazy breezes 
 Wi' foul contagion an' diseases 
 
 To pester man, 
 An* ilka ache an* cramp that squeezes, 
 
 Do a' ye can, 
 
 To mix your ills in hellish jumble, 
 An' mak' a curse an' let it tumble 
 
 Upon his pate. 
 Lord, hear this prayer, sincere an* 
 humble. 
 
 An' grant it straight. 
 
 (23) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 ONE WHO DID NOT COME. 
 
 On tbe occasion of the Home -Comers' Re-Union, 
 Jackson, August, 19C9. 
 
 The sun had cet, the day had furled 
 Its banners o'er the town, 
 
 And in the windows of the west, 
 Night drew the curtains down. 
 
 The moon shone with the same soft 
 light 
 
 My boyish fancy loved 
 Upon the same old "School House Hill" 
 
 Where our frolic armies moved. 
 
 I stood upon that old play-ground 
 
 Of many years ago, 
 While shadowy forms through memo- 
 ry's hall 
 
 Came trooping to and fro. 
 
 I saw a barefoot boy and girl, 
 
 Just as they used to be, 
 Her dress cut to her ankles brown, 
 
 His pants rolled to his knee. 
 
 (24) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 The urchin's hair was almost white, 
 Her's like the black-bird's wing, 
 
 And bright the sparkle of her eye 
 As v/ater from a spring. 
 
 Health bloomed upon their childish 
 cheeks, 
 
 And from their presence fled 
 All care as in the morning light 
 
 The dew the night has shed. 
 
 I saw the youngster sally forth, 
 
 Just as he used to go, 
 Some play-thing in his hand, a sling. 
 
 Or arrows and his bow. 
 
 Somehow his way led near a cot 
 
 That stood upon a hill — 
 The game was better 'long that route 
 
 On which to try his skill. 
 
 I saw a stately girlish form 
 
 Out in the lot somewhen 
 One hand she waved at him, the other 
 
 Tossed her wealth of hair. 
 
 (25) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 I seemed to feel as he felt then, 
 There in the twilight dim — 
 
 His heart away up in his throat, 
 And almost choking him. 
 
 My thoughts went back, I saw again 
 The field beyond the barn. 
 
 Two older brothers at their work, 
 And barefoot thinning corn. 
 
 His task was out there in the field, 
 His thoughts had gone astray, 
 
 Had wandered, maybe, with his heart 
 Somewhere else away. 
 
 I saw him stop and, standing, call 
 To his brothers at their plows, 
 
 And ask them if it wasn't time 
 To go and bring the cows. 
 
 Along the road, down by the creek, 
 
 I saw him linger till 
 He heard her singing, saw her coming 
 
 Tripping down the hill. 
 
 I don't know why it was, but, then, 
 They'd always find their cows, 
 
 (26) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Or thought they would, at any rate, 
 Where the other's chanced to browse. 
 
 Far, far the cattle must have roamed 
 In the woods below the town. 
 
 For always when the driving ceased 
 The sun was almost down. 
 
 Two pairs of bare feet now must part — 
 
 How slow they separate! 
 A pretty girlish hand aloft 
 
 Waves good-bye at the gate. 
 
 And thus it was, as there I stood. 
 
 The forms of other days 
 Came trooping past my vision down 
 
 Memory's hallowed ways. 
 
 The night passed by, and morning 
 came, 
 
 And through my mind was humming 
 The cares of business, when I thought 
 
 Of Jackson's big Home-Coming — 
 
 And then of one I used to know 
 
 So many years ago. 
 When life was like the morning bright, 
 
 My heart was like its glow. 
 
 (27) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Beneath the words inviting her, 
 Three letters — they were the same 
 
 I once remember carving just 
 Below my sweetheart's name. 
 
 I sent it, and somehow I wished, 
 And wondered if she'd come. 
 
 That we might talk of the dear old 
 days 
 When we drove the cattle home. 
 
 TO 
 
 Seven sister stars, the Pleiades hight. 
 
 Adorned the heavenly plain, 
 Till fate o'ertook one orb of light — 
 
 But six doth now remain. 
 
 Oh, may no cruel power come 
 
 To deal thus ruthlessly, 
 And snatch my lovely Pleiad from 
 Friendship's galaxy! 
 
 (28) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 AN ODE TO DEATH. 
 
 Often, when the day is spent, 
 And Night creeps from his gloomy tent 
 In the dim and quiet east; when the sun's at rest 
 Behind the crimson battlements of the west, 
 And darkness settles down, 
 And slumber binds the weary town — 
 Then, Death, poised on the murderous steel, you wait 
 The coming of the victim to his fate. 
 
 When Love clasps tenderly to mother breast. 
 
 And fondly soothes to rest 
 
 The baby darling, marked from birth 
 
 As all too frail for earth, 
 
 Hope smiles and sings above the tiny face, 
 
 Till shuddering Fear creeps on apace, 
 
 And dark Despair. 
 
 In spite of Love and Hope, in spite of prayer, 
 
 You come with silent tread. 
 
 And snap the slender thread, 
 
 And set the spirit free; — 
 
 Instead of solving, deepen still the mystery. 
 
 I heard the loud hurrah, 
 And, looking forth, I saw 
 The measured tread of men marching here and there, 
 
 (29) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And saw the dust and smoke of conflict in the air, 
 
 And heard the roar of cannon and the rattle 
 
 Of volleying musketry in the battle. 
 
 Amid the tumult there revealed 
 
 I saw the war-steeds, riderless, stampeding o'er the 
 
 field; 
 And in the battle's storm, 
 Its fury and its carnage, stalked your form, 
 Resolute and unpitying Death, 
 Who holds the life of man light as the zephyr's 
 
 breath. 
 
 In yonder hovel, where 
 Dwell misery and despair, 
 A woman smoothes the pillow, cools the burning 
 
 brow 
 Of a once strong man, weak as an infant now. 
 About the bare and dingy wall 
 The shadows creep and crawl, 
 Cast by the flickering firelight's glare. 
 Thou, Death, art also there, 
 Insatiate vampire, night and day. 
 Sapping your victim's life away. 
 
 Again, a wretch whose breast within 
 The foul embrace of sin 
 Has smothered each emotion save 
 Remorse, the hound that tracks us to the grave. 
 As he tosses on his bed of pain. 
 Fighting the forms his fevered brain 
 In wild delirium bids arise 
 
 (30) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Before his bloodshot eyes, 
 
 There, too, O Death, you sit, a stern, unpitying guest, 
 
 Your fingers, icy cold, ready to be pressed 
 
 On eyelids soon to droop and quiver. 
 
 As the pulse-beats cease, and then to close forever. 
 
 Sometimes you come with pleasing mien, 
 Like the sevenfold beauty that is seen 
 Belting the sky in the rainbow's form, 
 When the clouds have scattered after a storm, 
 Upon the cheeks the rose's glow. 
 Upon the brow the lily's snow. 
 Not long, not long till beauty's bloom gives way 
 To the sallow evidences of decay. 
 For as the shadows of the night 
 Blend with the beauty and the splendor bright 
 Of the rising day, beneath 
 
 The bloom upon the cheek lurks thy shadow. Death. 
 A little while, a few short days. 
 Your victim walks in pleasant ways; 
 Pleasures dance along the hours bright and fair. 
 And vanish like bubbles in the air, 
 Till comes the saddest hour that mortals know. 
 When we speak in whispers soft and low. 
 
 Bitter be the change or sweet. 
 One fate alike we all must meet. 
 One end awaits all human kind. 
 The fetters that may bind 
 Us to this life must loose their hold, 
 Even though they be of gold. 
 
 (31) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Some shudder, Death, at thought of thee. 
 And tremble when they see 
 Wasting ills, thy sure precursors, come; 
 While, weary with their burdens, some 
 Are standing by the river-side. 
 Beckoning across the tide 
 For thee to call 
 Them forth and lead them through thy silent hall. 
 
 It is not ours, dread destroyer, to command 
 That thou withhold thy devastating hand 
 And spare our idols of the passing hour. 
 They, too, must perish like the autumn flower 
 When touched by Winter's fingers cold, 
 Alike the young and old. 
 But, O wondrous truth! 
 
 The Soul, clad in the vestments of immortal youth, 
 Stands bold and proud. 
 
 And free from wasting ills; 'twill need no shroud. 
 The potency of faith lifts from this clod 
 The infant spirit to the presence of its God, 
 As that of unbelief, no less. 
 To conscious forgetfulness. 
 
 As a leaf tossed here and there 
 
 By the pitiless v/inds until 
 It finds at length somewhere 
 
 A place where it lieth still, 
 So likewise he 
 Who idly sings of thee. 
 Monarch of all, will find among 
 
 (32) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Other dead and fallen leaves, erelong, 
 
 A quiet spot where he may lie 
 
 Secure when the storm-clouds sweep the sky. 
 
 Ah, then, approach me softly. Death; 
 
 Lay thy cold hand upon my brow, 
 And gently steal away my breath, 
 A messenger of mercy now; 
 End the worry and the pain. 
 The struggle made, I hope not all in vain. 
 
 TO MY FRIEND DR. H. HILDRETH. 
 
 When cossack cares mount and ride out 
 
 Upon their rude forays 
 O'er memory's field and put to rout 
 
 The thoughts of other days, 
 
 That, undismayed, oft quick reform 
 
 To make a counter sally, 
 Retake the citadel by storm, 
 
 And round their banner rally. 
 
 Among the first, to memory true, 
 To wheel for repossession 
 
 Is a kindly thought, friend Doc, of you, 
 Leading the procession. 
 
 (33) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 SYLPH. 
 
 *Twas nigh the dusky hour of day 
 When Sylph and I were loitering 
 
 Down where the meadow slopes away 
 Beyond the barn to Jenkins' spring. 
 
 Along our path wild flowers bloomed, 
 As I have known, ah ! many a maid. 
 
 In solitude, fair creature, doomed, 
 Uncoveted, to bloom and fade. 
 
 'Twas there the graceful bluebell 
 smiled, 
 
 And on the daisy's rights intruded. 
 And everywhere the violet wild. 
 
 And dandelion, yellow-hooded. 
 
 We loitered on until the sun 
 Red lay upon the forest-top, 
 
 When Sylph her fairy self threw on 
 A log and bade our wandering stop. 
 
 And further down the lazy herd 
 
 Browsed where the early shadows 
 lay, 
 
 (34) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And every happy-hearted bird 
 Sang farewell to departing day. 
 
 We sat and listened to them sing, 
 As slow the waning daylight died, 
 
 But sweeter was the whispering 
 Of gentle beauty at my side. 
 
 I put my arms about her waist, 
 
 Half-conscious that I did it, though, 
 
 And saw the two rose-buds that graced 
 Her fair cheeks blush with deeper 
 glow. 
 
 There, pillowed on my stormy breast, 
 My Sylph in trembling rapture lay, 
 
 Her beauty glow^ing like the west 
 In splendor robed at close of day. 
 
 Ah, death, thou'st played a double part! 
 
 From earth and pain my Sylph is 
 free, 
 But in my heart thou'st left the dart 
 
 That took my love away from me. 
 
 My darling, true as shines to-night 
 Yon splendid star we used to love, 
 
 (35) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 As is its light thou wast as bright; 
 But thou art flown, my gentle dove. 
 
 In vain for me the flowers bloom, 
 In vain the pale east heralds dawn. 
 
 And I would not care if morn should 
 come 
 No more for me since thou are gone. 
 
 About her grave, each chorister. 
 
 Your choicest song I'd have you sing, 
 
 And bear to Heaven my love for her. 
 Ye breezes that are whispering. 
 
 Haste hither, Spring, haste and renew 
 Your floral wealth in yonder fallow, 
 
 That I the choicest buds may strew 
 Upon her grave beneath the wiilov/. 
 
 FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 Lady, let me wish for thee 
 
 (Who would not wish a fair friend 
 v/ell ? ) 
 A long, long life whose days may be 
 
 "As merry as a marriage bell." 
 
 (36) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 May Heaven grant that peace of mind 
 Thy warm heart would have others 
 share, 
 And when some flowers thou wouldst 
 bind, 
 May roses spring up everywhere. 
 
 Oh, may no wintry storms of time 
 Disturb the calm of youth's bright 
 day; 
 May life be like a sunny clime, 
 And youth as fair as the month of 
 May. 
 
 Thus would I wish for one who bears 
 A heart that others' ills doth feel; 
 
 Thus would I wish for her who shares 
 Alike another's woe or weal. 
 
 As moonlight on a darksome stream. 
 Soft-falling, gilds the v/aters there. 
 
 So gently doth thy goodness seem 
 To light the troublous stream of 
 care. 
 
 (37) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 ODE TO THE MONTH OF MAY. 
 
 Wildwood flowers, manifold, 
 Tangled in her locks of gold; 
 White feet wet with meadow dew; 
 Cheeks with the cream-white rose's 
 
 hue; 
 Smiling like a peri queen; 
 Shapely form enrobed in green; 
 Scattering with a lavish hand 
 Beauty all about the land; 
 By the fair skies overhead, 
 And the song-birds, heralded, 
 Like a fairy, do\vn the way, 
 Cometh, cometh lovely May. 
 Like my lady's warm, sweet breath, 
 Like the sign she whispereth 
 When I'm absent for a day. 
 Are the breezes, peerless May, 
 Laden with the sweets of Spring 
 For your queenly honoring. 
 
 May, you typify to me 
 Endless spring-time that's to be. 
 Past the setting of the sun. 
 When my work and worry's done, 
 
 (38) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And the winter, oh, so cold! 
 
 And the clouds away have rolled. 
 
 May, you typify to me 
 
 Much that I dare hope to see. 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 Who the hawthorn has bereft 
 Of blossoms white, with fingers deft, 
 And fashioned for your lovely brow 
 A garland, Spring, and decked you 
 now? 
 
 Who has plucked those flowers fair 
 And dressed them in your sunny hair, 
 And a wondrous robe of green 
 Woven for the matchless queen? 
 
 Time of song-birds, time of flowers, 
 Warm south winds and fresh'ning 
 
 showers. 
 Time of humming of the bees 
 In the blossom-burdened trees. 
 
 (39) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Something of thy beauty, Spring, 
 Mirror in this heart of mine; 
 
 Something of thy promise bring 
 
 From that bounteous store of thine. 
 
 Melt the ice from out my heart, 
 Bid each evil thought depart; 
 Let thy genial influence move 
 To deeds of kindness and of love. 
 
 See my brother, weary-worn. 
 Care-oppressed, by passion torn; 
 Let thy cheerful sunshine reign 
 In his troubled breast again — 
 
 Joy in one continuous stream 
 
 Ripple through his heart, I pray, 
 
 As, sparkling in the sunlight's gleam, 
 The brooklet laughs along its way. 
 
 TO A WOOD WREN. 
 
 Sweet birdling of the wood, 
 Of light and restless wing, 
 
 Why in the depths of solitude 
 Art thou wintering? 
 
 (40) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Say, hast thou luckless flown 
 Far from thy tiny race, 
 
 On venturous whig and all alone, 
 To this wild place? 
 
 Knowst thou not how to find 
 
 Again thy native wood. 
 Where hawk nor th* savage prowling 
 kind 
 
 Thirst for thy blood? 
 
 No, thou'rt not lost, for thine 
 Is that sweet chirp now heard, 
 
 That frolic wing. Thou dost not pinei, 
 My little bird. 
 
 Hither to th' forest vast, 
 
 And coverts thick, thou'st flown, 
 To bide till winter's storms are past, 
 
 And spring comes on. 
 
 But, birdie, didst thou reck 
 
 That whilst from wintry storm 
 
 Thou'rt safe, all round's a murd'rous 
 pack 
 Would do thee harm? 
 
 (41) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 What if the prowling coon, 
 
 Or cunning mink, should steal 
 
 Upon thy roost and make, too soon, 
 Of thee a meal? 
 
 Then when the spring would come 
 The meadow, field and tree 
 
 Would don their robes again, and 
 bloom. 
 But not for thee. 
 
 Oh, may so sad a fate 
 
 Ne'er on my birdie gather; 
 
 Light be thy wing to distant date, 
 Nor ruffed a feather. 
 
 Good-bye, sweet wren, again 
 My lingering feet must tramp; 
 
 An empty pot hangs in the crane- 
 Meat's scarce at camp. 
 
 EUGENE FIELD. 
 
 Lately, from His home on high, 
 Somewhere 'way up in the sky, 
 
 (42) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 The good, kind Lord sent down 
 His angel and invited one, 
 Whose labors here on on earth were 
 done. 
 
 To come and get his crown. 
 
 He whom the angel took away 
 Loved little children so, they say, 
 
 That when the good man died, 
 And they were told that he v/as dead. 
 Each bowed in grief his little head. 
 
 And cried, and cried, and cried. 
 
 But little children who had gone 
 To Heaven, and were sitting on 
 
 The Savior's knees, when they 
 Looked out and saw him coming, ran. 
 Shouting, as only children can, 
 
 To meet him on the way. 
 
 Scampering across the heavenly lawn. 
 Forgetting all about the throne. 
 
 And everything so great, 
 Eager to take him by the hand, 
 When Mr. Field, at God's command. 
 
 Entered the golden gate. 
 
 (43) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Except the flowers blooming 
 In the garden of the heart, 
 
 There's nothing more beautiful, 
 In nature or in art, 
 
 Than the little violet blossoms 
 That peep up in the spring, 
 
 Or bluebells on the hillside, 
 In the forest clustering. 
 
 Oh, the beauty of the flowers, 
 
 Blooming here and there, 
 Is light for us reflected 
 
 From a brighter world somewhere! 
 
 Won't He who made the flowers. 
 And clothed them in the light. 
 
 The beauty and purity 
 Of His presence bright. 
 
 Into the depths of my soul, 
 Darkened by the clouds of sin, 
 
 Mirror some heavenly beauty. 
 Let His light shine in? 
 
 (44) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 LINES TO A BIRD, 
 
 Cruel the art, 
 Poor bird, that killed and placed you there 
 
 To form a part 
 Of that fair lady's plumage rare. 
 
 Who will consent 
 That she, who hither came to pray. 
 
 Has a heart as innocent 
 As yours was in its gladsome day? 
 
 And who can tell 
 If the praise she offers in this throng 
 
 Is as acceptable 
 As once ascended with your song? 
 
 Whatever land 
 Claimed your nativity, there 
 
 The same kind Hand 
 Created you that did the lady fair. 
 
 Throughout your days 
 Your little throat was made and meant 
 
 To sing God's praise, 
 Unharmed, a harmless instrument; 
 
 (45) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And th' religion that 
 Would take your pretty form and pin 
 
 It to a lady's hat 
 May point to Heaven, but — not enter in. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 The old banjo, clasped in its cover, 
 
 Lies on the shelf unstrung; 
 About it, cobwebbed, dusty, hover 
 
 Quaint old songs unsung, 
 
 For Dick is gone, 
 And with him joy and sweet content have flown. 
 
 The lamp gives forth a feeble glow, 
 
 Reluctant to be bright. 
 Just like my spirit, sad and low, 
 
 Unwilling to be light, 
 
 Since Dick is gone; 
 And weary, weary now the night wears on. 
 
 Yes, Dick is dead; hushed are his songs, 
 
 And hushed his banjo, too; 
 
 Gone where to be my spirit longs, 
 
 Beyond the heavens' blue, 
 
 For life is drear. 
 
 And living has for me but little cheer. 
 
 (46) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 As simple as the songs he sung, 
 
 And tender as a lover 
 But he's like his banjo now, unstrung, 
 
 And lies there in his cover. 
 
 How Pity sighed 
 Upon that woful day when poor Dick died! 
 
 Where oft, at dubious twilight's stilly hour, 
 
 Bright angels come from Heaven's gate to sing; 
 Where, waked by southern breeze or vernal shower, 
 
 The early spring birds' joyous carols ring, 
 And sound of busy bees at noon floats o'er the honied 
 
 green, 
 Freed from the troublous cares of life, the minstrel 
 sleeps serene. 
 
 ODE TO THE EAST WIND. 
 
 Blow back, blow back. East Wind! Why stay 
 
 To torment mortals so 
 The livelong night, the livelong day? 
 
 Blow backward, blow! 
 
 Why league your influence fell 
 With the black cat's spell 
 
 (47) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 That leaped across the path in front of me? 
 
 Yon misty star that now I see 
 
 Dim in the heavens low, 
 
 As if ashamed to show 
 
 Its sickly face in the presence bright 
 
 Of fair Arcturus of the golden hair, 
 Sends down from out the northern night 
 
 111 omens plenty and to spare, 
 Without the added portents which you bring, 
 Unwelcome East Wind, on your evil wing. 
 
 I would rather see a yeoman bring a hoe 
 
 In my front door than have you blow. 
 
 Oh, dreaded East Wind, quick, return again 
 
 Across the eastern plain 
 
 To caverns deep where you are wont to bide 
 
 In some steep and rugged mountain's side! 
 
 Have I not seen the grain field swept by you, 
 
 The rich soil sickened and crops cease to grow 
 
 Where once they grew 
 
 Luxurient? Oh, East Wind, backward blow! 
 
 Some nights while in my chamber there 
 
 I'm sitting, dreaming with head bowed low, 
 You come and blow; 
 
 Then, rallying from everywhere, 
 
 Those fates that pester mortals come unseen 
 In the invisible garments of the night. 
 
 And augur things to happen that have never been, 
 
 (48) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And fill my soul with fright. 
 I hear them outside in the gloom, 
 And yonder in that haunted room 
 
 They rattle the window-pane; 
 And in the garret overhead 
 I hear invisible footfalls tread 
 
 Again, and again; 
 And screaming with fright, 
 Birds that sleep at night 
 And in the day time sing, do come and go 
 Whene'er you blow 
 After the sun is down 
 
 And the stars are out; 
 
 And all about 
 The quiet town 
 
 Dogs leave their kennels and begin to howl; 
 And from the woods the horned owl ^ 
 
 Flies to the elm near by. 
 
 And, East Wind, ever as you blow. 
 His screams, like an old witch's cry, 
 
 Pierce me, chill me, fright me so. 
 
 And, mixed with these, there sometimes come beneath 
 The midnight moon, whene'er you blow, 
 
 Of Hecate's tribe that mat on Forres' heath 
 
 The ingrate who laid good King Duncan low; 
 
 And spells are wrought that make my blood run chill 
 
 In every vein, and my stout heart stand still. 
 
 And if you come when the day god on 
 
 His golden car sets the wide heavens aflame, 
 
 (49) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And bids the stars be gone, 
 
 Your evil influence is just the same. 
 
 The cattle that are browsing when 
 
 You fan the pastures green, as all men know, 
 Take on no added flesh, because you blow. 
 
 The industrious hen, 
 
 Infertile as a prude, 
 
 Drops eggs that ne'er will make a brood. 
 
 Full many times I've heard them say 
 That when you blow the granddam grey. 
 With foresight keen, and judgment best. 
 The nursing babe lifts from its mother's breast 
 And three times through a chair that's bottomless 
 Passes back and forth the lump of helplessness 
 To ward of ills that sometimes fret 
 The hopeful, such as colic, croup, et cet. 
 
 Oh, East Wind, who is it that does not know 
 
 The ills you bring to mortals when you blow? 
 
 Quick, then, return again 
 
 Across the eastern plain 
 
 To caverns deep where you are wont to bide 
 
 In some steep and rugged mountain-side. 
 
 (50) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 TO A LITTLE CHICKEN FOUND 
 OUT IN THE COLD. 
 
 (In the Brogue of the Scotch.) 
 
 When a' aroond was frozen fast, 
 An' January sent its blast 
 Blowing frae the bleak norwast 
 
 Wi' furious din, 
 An' your wee life was nigh its last, 
 
 I took you in. 
 
 Wi' pity's hand I gied you food, 
 
 An' wrapped you up sae warm an' 
 
 gude. 
 That soon in sic a lively mood 
 
 You did appear 
 I thought in hours o' solitude 
 
 You'd gie me cheer. 
 
 The way you rin about the floor, 
 An' picked its surface ower an'ower, 
 I guess you thought that never more 
 
 The cauld, cauld wind 
 Would roond your tender body roar 
 
 Wi' touch unkind. 
 
 (51) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 When e'ening cam' I tried my best 
 
 To mak' for you a cozy nest, 
 
 Where cat nor cauld might you molest, 
 
 An' when 'twas done 
 I put you where I thought you'd rest 
 
 Till night were gone. 
 
 But when the daylight cam' ance mair, 
 Sae chilly was the morning air, 
 That wi' fear a-bordering on despair, 
 
 I approached your bed, 
 An* found you, orphaned chickie, there, 
 
 A* cauld an' dead. 
 
 We needna close the door on death; 
 Na winds that scour ower the heath 
 Are half sae cauld as is his breath, 
 
 It will steal in 
 In spite o' a' the powers beneath 
 
 The blazing sin. 
 
 For your mither thro' the lang, chill 
 
 night 
 How maun you've ca'd wi^ voice sae 
 
 slight. 
 Still thinking somev/here aff she might 
 
 Chance hear you weep, 
 Till death, moved at your helpless 
 plight. 
 Soothed you to sleep. 
 
 (52) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Out yonder where the bleak winds 
 
 blaw, 
 Where cauld can't bite nor hunger 
 
 gnaw, 
 Laigh underneath the white, white 
 snaw 
 Maun be your grave; 
 There your sleep will better be than a' 
 My pity gave. 
 
 A* roond amang the rich an' grand, 
 In every corner o' the land, 
 Puir little human chickies stand 
 
 In want an' sin, 
 Oh, whase will be the tender hand 
 
 To tak' them in? 
 
 TO A LITTLE CHILD. 
 
 In fancy I have often heard 
 
 Seraphic voices calling. 
 And from the starry heavens I've seen 
 
 Bright sparks of beauty falling; 
 And I had thought 'twas but a glimpse 
 
 Of beauty I should see, 
 But, baby-bright-eyes, I behold 
 
 The soul of beauty, seeing thee. 
 
 (53) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 PITY. 
 
 Pity, how tender is thy touch! 
 
 Soft as the down that lies 
 On the cheeks of maiden beauty, 
 As a zephyr when it dies. 
 
 How gentle is thy voice! From out 
 The depths of love it flows, 
 
 Like the voice of the wind about 
 A soiled and stricken rose. 
 
 An angel from the sky, sent down 
 
 By the great God of love: 
 When the deluge is at its height, 
 
 A green leaf and a dove. 
 
 Where all is dark, and when the heart 
 Yearns for a mother's prayer, 
 
 For a mother's voice that can not come, 
 Sweet Pity, thou art there. 
 
 The heart, kind angel, moved by thee 
 To soothe another's pain, 
 
 (54) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Receives in measure doubly rich 
 The blessing back again. 
 
 Oh, enter thou this breast of mine, 
 
 Give me, a broken reed, 
 The courage and the strength to be 
 
 A help in time of need. 
 
 BROTHER BEN. 
 
 My friend and brot&er editor, Ben H. Adams, quits 
 the Dewspaper bosiaess. 
 
 Is the rumor true, that, everywhere. 
 
 Is bandied over town. 
 The sponge has gone up in the air, 
 
 And you've laid your f aber down ? 
 
 For forty years or more you've pushed 
 
 That weapon in your den. 
 And watched the quarry as it rushed 
 To cover. Brother Ben. 
 
 Its business end you'd often wield 
 Deserving knaves to flout, 
 
 (55) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 The other, erring worth to shield, 
 Would rub their failings out. 
 
 At times traduced, reviled and dubbed 
 
 The wickedest of men. 
 Because, forsooth, you often rubbed 
 
 It to 'em, Brother Ben. 
 
 Knaves stood and trembled through 
 and through 
 
 At facts you often penned; 
 But who has ever heard of you 
 
 Going back upon a friend? 
 
 But now you're out, perhaps for good. 
 
 For time is pressing hard; 
 Although on different lines we've stood, 
 
 Here's luck to you, old pard. 
 
 Somehow I hate to see it, Ben, 
 For it brings to mind, you know, 
 
 The not far-distant hour when 
 They'll smile to see me go. 
 
 (56) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 THE MOVER GIRL, 
 
 Jackson's streets were full of people 
 
 On a summer Saturday; 
 The clock up in the court-house steeple 
 
 Tolled the sultry hours away. 
 
 That day some movers stopped in town, 
 And one could plain discover 
 
 By their old wagon, most run down, 
 And its weather-beaten cover, 
 
 That they were people rather worse 
 Off in the world than many; 
 
 The man, I guess, had in his purse 
 But little cash, if any. 
 
 'Twas by the store the wagon halted. 
 
 Within a locust's shade, 
 And soon upon the pavement vaulted 
 
 A lovely mover maid. 
 
 There, in her home-spun country dress, 
 The artless beauty shone; 
 
 I could not think she looked the less 
 Like, as I've often known, 
 
 (57) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 A pretty wild-flower in the wood 
 
 Dressed round with brush and brier, 
 
 And withered leaves — a very rude, 
 Inelegant attire. 
 
 Dark as midnight was her hair, 
 Whose glossy tresses draped 
 
 A neck as perfect and as fair 
 As chisel ever shaped. 
 
 There nature plied her brush so well. 
 
 And all her power spent, 
 'Twas like the soft shades in a shell 
 Of cream and crimson blent. 
 
 And ever as I looked at her, 
 
 Like the modest jonquil flower, 
 
 She'd hang her head as if she were 
 Ashamed to own her power. 
 
 Her cheeks were tinged with the dyes 
 that set 
 
 Aflame the sunset skies; 
 And I could not, if I would, forget, 
 
 I know, those hazel eyes, 
 
 For on me still their vestal glow 
 Doth fall, or so it seems. 
 
 (58) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 (I wonder whose glance shun they 
 now, 
 Where now their soft light gleams.) 
 
 But, ah! too soon our sweet dreams 
 fade, 
 
 Too soon the blossoms blight. 
 And soon, too soon, my mover maid 
 
 Was hurried from my sight. 
 
 My heart is not a truant, no. 
 
 Gone with that girl a-moving; 
 
 It feels somewhat nomadic, though, 
 And not averse to roving. 
 
 My breast, impervious, long has dared 
 The blue-eyed archer's arrow. 
 
 But this escape, though yet I'm spared, 
 Confess I must was narrow. 
 
 ON LEARNING OF THE MARRIAGE 
 OF AN OLD SWEETHEART. 
 
 May Peace, the mild-eyed, gentle dove, 
 
 Attend the happy twain. 
 And all through life the light of love 
 
 Gild wedlock's holy chain. 
 
 (59) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 THE VAGABONDS. 
 
 His name is Tige, an' I picked 'im up 
 
 In Eelinois, w'en he wuz a pup. 
 
 Onery, eh? Wal, that mout be, 
 
 But thar's p'ints about 'im yer don't see, 
 
 An' I wouldn't give 'im fur no man's hoss. 
 
 Yer needn't grin — that's gospel, boss. 
 
 Fleas ? Yes, I obsarve he shakes that lim' 
 
 Ez ef thar mout be a few a-pesterin' 'im. — 
 
 What's that, stranger? P'inter? No. Setter? 
 
 He's not that, nuther, but a dog that's better 
 
 'n any yer fine-ha'red breed. That cur 
 
 I'll put 'g'inst dogs from anywher' 
 
 Fur locatin' varmints in trees an' logs. 
 
 An' standin' guard, an' ketchin' hogs. 
 
 An' the like er that. But these p'ints, sir, 
 
 Ain't the most uv what I like 'im fur. 
 
 D' yer see me, stranger, me. Jack Primm? 
 Wal, I wouldn't be her ef 'twusn't fur him. 
 Now lis'n, pard: Three year ago 
 I worked on a tie contrac', yer know, 
 Down 'n Stoddard County. Livin' wuz rough 
 Down thar, my frien', an' the crowd wuz tough. 
 Ten cents a tie wuz the price they paid, 
 An' yer had ter take it out 'n trade, 
 
 (60) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Jest ez that feller Holliday 
 
 Is makin' 's men do now, they say. 
 
 But I worked along an' enjoyed life 
 
 In them days, pard, w'en Nell wuz my wife. — 
 
 Turn 'er roun', Polly girl, so ez he 
 Kin see yer face. Our Polly — she 
 's our unly child; an* ther' never wuz 
 Two looked more 'like then her 'n 'er mother does. 
 
 I follered tiein* fer about a year, 
 W'en I noticed she acted a little queer, 
 Did Nell — the way she treated me. 
 She wuzn't like she used ter be. 
 It bothered me some, but I thought it best 
 Ter do my part 'n' let her do the rest. 
 So I worked on reg'lar, ez a poor man hez 
 Ter do, 'n' trusted ter luck, ez the feller says. 
 
 One mornin* Nell wuz fussin' an' stewin', 
 Ez she sometimes done. An', jest ter be doin', 
 I joked her a little, an', says she ter me, 
 She wished I'd die so ez Arch Crabtree 
 Could take my place. Ever sence that day 
 Things fer Jack's bin runnin' t'other way. 
 Crabtree wuz the feller that knocked me out. 
 He didn't work, but jest used about. 
 
 It wuzn't long arter, w'en one hot di-y 
 I wuz gittin out ties in the usual way, 
 An* Crabtree come up ter chat awhile, 
 Appearantly in a friendly style. 
 
 (61) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 He set on a log thar 'n hour or more, 
 
 Ez he hed done several times before; 
 
 An' while I wuz workin' with my back ter him, 
 
 Expectin' nothin', he grabbed a Km' 
 
 An' fetched me a lick that turned up my toes, 
 
 An' left me fer dead, ez I suppose. 
 
 I laid thar helpless tell 'way next day, 
 
 An' the nighest house a mile away. 
 
 I hollered loud, and I thought they ort 
 
 'er hev hearn me, but my breath wuz short, 
 
 I reckon, fur he hit ter kill, 
 
 An' he didn't like much uv hevin' his will. 
 
 Tige here wuz with me, an' he hollered, too, 
 
 He barked, I mean — looked like he knew. 
 
 Arter awhile the critter begin ter whine, 
 
 An' come an' put his nose ter mine, 
 
 An' licked my face, then snuffed the air 
 
 A little bit while standin' there, 
 
 An* looked down at me in a pitiful way. 
 
 'Long *bout the middle uv the* day, 
 I reckon it wuz, 'twixt grunt an' groan, 
 I stirred a little an' seed Tige wuz gone. 
 'Twuzn't long tell he come back agin. 
 An' acted ez ef tellin' me whar he'd bin, 
 An* barked an' whined around awhile, 
 An' cried about it like a chile. 
 Then trotted off, then back. Then come 
 The folks with a wagon an' hauled me home, 
 Like a crippled soldier, which once't I'd bin. 
 An' put me in purty good shape agin, 
 
 (62) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 An* patched me up an' I soon got straight. 
 But Nell, she left on the very same date 
 That Crabtree done me up with a lim'. 
 Uv course when she went she went with him.- 
 
 That bell means church, I reckon. Well, 
 Polly, we'll 'tend. I allers told Nell 
 We'd bring up Polly in the way that's right, 
 An' ef Nell her duty's seen fit to slight, 
 I'll try to do the best I kin, 
 Ter keep Polly's feet out'n the ways uv sin. 
 
 When night came on, some miles on the road 
 Out from the town he flung down his load. 
 And the vagabonds struck camp for the night, 
 And soon had a big fire blazing bright. 
 If others' eyes could have seen them there 
 Before sleep came to banish care. 
 They'd have seen the man in reverent thought. 
 And heard this prayer by the angels taught: 
 
 "Father above, watch over Thy own, 
 Take care of poor mother wherever she's gone. 
 If out in the dangerous world there be 
 Other little wanderers just like me. 
 Keep them safe in Thy tender care. 
 This, dear Jesus, is my little prayer," 
 
 (63) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 My Margery, sweet Margery, 
 Each day would very gloomy be 
 Without the pure love-light divine 
 Beaming from those eyes of thine, 
 Comforting and cheering me, 
 Sweet Margery, my Margery. 
 
 When morning's light begins to pale 
 The eastern skies, 'twould not avail 
 To rout the gloom besetting me 
 Without your love, my Margery; 
 Night would linger through the day, 
 And joy take wing and fly away. 
 
 Would count for naught and idle be 
 All the seeming witchery 
 In morning's glow and evening's gloom, 
 In birds that sing and flowers that 
 bloom, 
 Did I not love and were not loved 
 By you whose heart I've constant 
 proved. 
 
 (64) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 I saw you once when sickness pale 
 Had seized on you, and watched you 
 
 fail 
 From day to day. And when I prayed 
 That death's dire purpose might be 
 stayed, 
 His dart glanced from the shining 
 
 shield 
 Protecting Heaven there revealed. 
 
 And you were spared, my Margery, 
 To bless and cheer and comfort me. 
 Long as the sun presumes to burn 
 And bring the day on its return, 
 
 You'll changeless be in your true 
 love, 
 
 And I will likewise constant prove. 
 
 IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 In yonder tree the cat-bird 
 
 Is singing to the sun 
 His roundelay of greeting 
 
 For the day that's just begun. 
 
 (65) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 A hundred thousand flowers 
 Are blooming here and there. 
 
 Lavishly surrendering 
 
 Their sweetness to the air. 
 
 The bumble-bee is droning 
 About from bloom to bloom, 
 
 To bill into the hollyhock 
 
 The humming-bird has come. — 
 
 Ah! yonder sits a maiden 
 
 Under the lilac tree, 
 Pining for her lover — 
 
 Wonder who he can be. 
 
 Poor thing! I'll hasten to her, 
 Wipe her tear-damped eyelids dry, 
 
 Sighing for her lover — 
 Maybe it is I. 
 
 A LULLABY. 
 
 Peeping thro' the window-pane, 
 
 Dancing in the air, 
 Looking at baby 
 
 With the flaxen hair; 
 
 (66) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Peeping through the window, 
 What was it the fairy said 
 
 To little baby 
 In her tiny bed? 
 
 "Sleep, little baby, 
 
 Till the break of dawn, 
 Angels watch o'er you 
 
 Till the night is gone; 
 
 "See that no elfin 
 
 Take baby 'way 
 From her little cradle 
 
 Before the break of day. 
 
 "See that the Winkleman, 
 With the ugly face. 
 
 Steal not baby 
 From her little place. 
 
 "Baby's little slumber ship 
 Is sailing near the moon- 
 Sail on, little voyager, 
 Day will break soon." 
 
 (67) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 WHEN I AM GONE. 
 
 When I am gone whom would I have come round 
 To make things cheerful near my grassy mound? 
 
 I'll tell you what would best 
 
 Become my place of rest: 
 Let my loved favorites of the field and air 
 And circling forest often visit there. 
 
 The lonesom6 Turtle Dove 
 
 There call unto his love 
 At early morn, at noon or eventide, 
 Until his truant mate flies to his side. 
 
 And the Robin there be seen 
 
 Hopping o'er the green, 
 And stately Fiel'-Lark sing his morning song, 
 And Yellow-Hammer, too, come lumbering 'long. 
 
 And early in the spring 
 
 The little Blue-Bird sing 
 About the place. And should not now and then 
 Come there to see me, too, the brown Wood-Wren ? 
 
 (68) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OP VERSES. 
 
 And there from bush to bush 
 
 Should flit the gifted Thrush 
 And music make. The sweet-voiced Cat-Bird, too, 
 Should sing his tender song the whole day through. 
 
 And in the tall trees near 
 
 One frequently should hear 
 The noisy Black-Bird calling to his mate, 
 In leafy spring, at morn or evening late. 
 
 And there should sometimes come 
 
 And sit and beat his drum 
 The gaudy Woodpecker, as if he would 
 Awake to life the sleeper if he could. 
 
 And on some neighboring tree 
 
 A visitor should be 
 The old black Crow, and, as he's wont to do, 
 Look round awhile and caw a time or two. 
 
 Then when the twilight comes. 
 
 And the whirring beetle hums, 
 I hope from out the woods the Owl will fly, 
 And sound his doleful note near where I lie. 
 
 And slyly creeping out 
 From stubble roundabout, 
 
 (69) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Bob White should come and perch and whistle 
 
 there 
 In that lone place unto his lady fair. 
 
 The Red-Bird and the Jay, 
 
 I know, will pick a day 
 And from the thicket come to visit me. 
 And hop and fly about from tree to tree. 
 
 And one should often hear 
 
 That little creature queer, 
 The Humming-Bird, as busy as a bee, 
 Darting 'mongst the blooming shrubbery. 
 
 In gay and joyous spring. 
 
 The Oriole should bring 
 His lady there to hang her nest on high 
 In some tall tree not far from where I lie. 
 
 And on a cloudy day. 
 The chittering Swallows, they. 
 When it has rained, should fly about my mound. 
 Sailing swiftly low down near the ground. 
 
 And when the night is near. 
 
 The Bullbat should appear, 
 And fly around upon expansive wing 
 About the place where I am slumbering. 
 
 (70) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 In snowy winter time 
 Should frequent there and climb 
 About the branches of the trees and sit 
 And peck the bark Sapsucker and Tomtit. 
 
 And one should come there, too, 
 
 The little Sparrow, who 
 Delights to flit around in playful rout. 
 Clinging to the weed-stocks roundabout. 
 
 When come the cold and cleet. 
 The Snow-Bird, too, should greet 
 
 The winter Sparrow there, and there also 
 
 Pay his respects, the little Eskimo. 
 
 And on th* approach of night 
 
 His solitary flight 
 The Heron oft will bend o'er field and dell 
 To pass the place where I am resting well. 
 
 From early spring until 
 
 The frost is on the hill. 
 While other warblers wonder at his power. 
 The Mockingbird should sing there hour by hour. 
 
 In summer-time the Shrike, 
 Upon a mullein-spike, 
 
 (71) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Should sit not far away and look as though 
 He'd lost a friend in him who lieth low. 
 
 The Rain-Crow, too, should fly, 
 
 When it is hot and dry 
 In summer-time, to some tree-top that's green, 
 And croak for rain to come refresh the scene. 
 
 The Redwing Black-Bird, he. 
 
 Flying from tree to tree. 
 Should let his liquid voice in music flow 
 To make it cheerful round the scene below. 
 
 When the moonlight's over all, 
 The Whip-poor-will should call 
 Near by my grave his mate across the hill. 
 Or in the grove along the rippling rill. 
 
 If, then, when I am gone 
 
 None come to look upon 
 My grave but loved ones who bemoan my fall 
 And these dear friends, what matters it at all ? 
 
 (72) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 EVENING BEFORE THE FIRST FROST. 
 
 Hushed now the blust'ring sound 
 Of norland winds; the clouds have passed away, 
 All save a lingering few that gather round 
 
 The couch of dying day. 
 
 From the dark'ning heavens high 
 The autumn moonbeams fall like golden lances; 
 A diamond in the gloomy eastern sky, 
 
 Bright Mars advances. 
 
 The twilight beetle's boom 
 The stillness breaks of some more southern clime; 
 Hark! deep-sounding thro' the thick'ning gloom, 
 
 The town clock strikes the time. 
 
 Chill are the evening airs, 
 And the Borean king, upon some icy height. 
 Now plies his frosty shuttle and prepares 
 
 The earth a robe of white. 
 
 Home from the crowded streets, 
 With buttoned coat, hastes now the business wight, 
 And thus his neighbor at the wood-pile greets. 
 
 With, "We'll have frost to-night." 
 
 (73) ' 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 The noisy cur is still, 
 We note him bark and, playful, leap no more, 
 But, shivering there out in the twilight chill, 
 
 He, whining, paws the door. 
 
 In yonder lot the swine, 
 With instinct true, prepares his grassy bed. 
 And, wheeling, shakes the weeds, a truthful sign 
 
 Of winter near ahead. 
 
 Where is my favorite bird. 
 The many-noted warbler whose sweet song. 
 When comes the peaceful twilight hour is heard 
 
 Th' suburban trees among? 
 
 Snug in some cedar-tree. 
 On whose high top he's wont to sing so gay, 
 Or, hid in yonder sheltering spruce-pine, he 
 
 Awaits another day. 
 
 Oh, see those flowers there. 
 Unconscious all of their impending doom! 
 Knew they their peril would they seem so fair? 
 
 So gaily would they bloom? 
 
 I know 'tis weakness quite, 
 But sooth I scarce can stay the rising tear, 
 So soon to see unconscious beauty's blight, 
 
 Its bright bloom disappear. 
 
 (74) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 See, see how wondrous fair 
 The tree-tops look, gay-gilded by the sun! 
 Their deep-green leaves, tho', tremble in despair, 
 
 For now their race is run. 
 
 Adown the sallow dell 
 By dark December's storms they'll soon be borne, 
 With ruthless violence and hurled pell-mell, 
 
 Of all their beauty shorn. 
 
 Thus for a little date 
 Poor heedless man disports him light and gay, 
 But soon come on the blust'ring winds of fate 
 
 And he is swept away. 
 
 CUPID AND THE SERPENT. 
 
 I took me to the fields one summer's day, 
 When Ceres, rustic queen, her golden hair 
 
 Waved o'er the ripening grain. While on my way 
 I spied a crystal fountain bubbling where 
 O'erspreading trees shut out the sunlight's glare, 
 
 And some few blooms around the margin blent 
 
 Their fragrance with the spicy peppermint, 
 
 (75) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And burdened with their sweets the breezes there. 
 I was athirst, and forth my form I bent 
 To quaff refreshment from that tempting spring, 
 When, lo! a serpent with a deadly sting 
 Leaped thence and stung me, cruel punishment. 
 Long, long I suffered, and I'm sure no dart 
 Could give such pain, tho' it should pierce my heart. 
 
 All this was in the May-time of my life, 
 
 When sprightly youth as yet had never known 
 
 The freaks of Love. Again (earth now was rife 
 With vernal beauty) I walked out alone. 
 The bluebells were in bloom, the haw, new-blown. 
 
 With blossoms white, and fair sweet-williams, too, 
 
 And violet with eye of heaven's blue; 
 
 And sweet was heard the brown thrush's amorous 
 tone. 
 
 But, lack-a-day! I met a maiden who 
 
 Outshone the auburn-tressed Morn, and, lo! 
 
 From by her side Love sprang his fatal bow, 
 
 And sent his wicked dart my poor heart through. 
 Love and the serpent should combine their bane 
 The day that finds me strolling out again. 
 
 (76) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 WALK WITH THY CHILD. 
 
 Thou who didst conquer Death, 
 
 Walk with thy child through this dark vale. 
 Sustain his too imperfect faith, 
 
 Lest it may some time fail, 
 Till broken lies the golden bowl, 
 
 And open stands the prison gate. 
 When, unrestrained, the wistful soul 
 
 Shall seek its high estate. 
 As some skilled player who can wake 
 
 No notes responsive to his skill. 
 On a harp of an inferior make, 
 
 And bids the chords be still. 
 Takes up an instrument of perfect tone. 
 Whereon his wondrous power is shown, 
 So shall the spirit lay aside 
 
 This instrument of coarse design, 
 And, in its power and its pride. 
 
 Strike one with fire divine. 
 
 (77) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 CONNIE'S GRAVE. 
 
 Bring hither, Spring, your choicest flowers, 
 And let them bloom full bonny; 
 
 Bring here your birds, in the long, long hours, 
 And let them sing for Connie. 
 
 Here, Summer, let your sounding bees 
 
 Their busy labors tend; 
 To cheer the spot, the gentle breeze 
 
 And fresh'ning shower send. 
 
 And, Autumn, when you doom to death 
 
 The verdant life around, 
 Oh, do not blow your chilly breath 
 
 About this tiny mound. 
 
 King Winter, curb your noisy car 
 When by this way you come, 
 For fear the sacred scene you mar 
 Around this little tomb. 
 
 (78) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 LITTLE CONNIE. 
 
 BY A. G. McGUIRE. 
 
 Little feet upon the railing, 
 Little fingers grip the gate, 
 
 Pretty eyes peep through the paling, 
 Look for papa, coming late, 
 
 Loving eyes that, every evening. 
 Peep at papa through the gate. 
 
 When the frost came for the flowers, 
 When the winds were growing wild, 
 
 Angels, gathering up the leaflets. 
 Took away our darling child, 
 
 Bore her gently up to Heaven, 
 Where no winds are blowing wild. 
 
 Ever watching at the gateway, 
 Watching at the golden bars, 
 
 Peeping 'way down thro' the darkness. 
 From her home among the stars; 
 
 Calling papa, in the darkness. 
 From her home among the stars; 
 
 Laughing eyes that look for papa. 
 Dancing eyes that come and wait, 
 
 (79) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 All alone poor little Connie 
 Watches at the golden gate; 
 
 Little Connie, light of Heaven, 
 Peeping thro* the golden gate. 
 
 And she thinks we all are coming, 
 
 In her innocent delight. 
 For she knows no other pathway 
 
 But the one that leads to light — 
 Came, and went back up to Heaven, 
 
 In the path that leads to light. 
 
 When our brightest flowers are fading, 
 When the winds are growing wild. 
 
 Let us gather in the pathway. 
 Leading to our darling child. 
 
 AT ASHLAND. 
 
 These hoary pine and cedar trees 
 
 That drop their feeble bows to rot. 
 And nod so doubtful in the breeze, 
 
 Will pass away and be forgot; 
 But, Clay, long as our flag shall wave 
 
 O'er city, town and plain and steep, 
 So long shall garlands deck your grave, 
 
 And patriots there be seen to weep. 
 
 (80) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 OLD BLAZE. 
 
 In early spring, oft when the weary day 
 Crept down the west and slowly entered in 
 
 Its golden gate, and breezes died away, 
 
 He would leave the village and its hated din; 
 
 And yonder where that hill looks down the brook 
 O'er meadows stretching to the distant wood. 
 
 Is where the lonely man himself betook, 
 In solitude o'er nature's charms to brood. 
 
 Long would he linger there upon that hill 
 To listen to the frog-choir's quivering song, 
 
 And to the calling of the whip-poor-will. 
 Whose curious cry is heard the whole night long. 
 
 And well I mind, when I was yet a child, 
 How often I would meet a lonely man, 
 
 Out in the fields, or in the forest wild. 
 Or wandering where the shadowed streamlet ran. 
 
 That time I knew him as the town-folks did, — 
 "Old Blaze." Forsooth, he bore no other name. 
 
 (81) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Perhaps beneath his dingy garments hid 
 A soul that may have felt the poet's flame. 
 
 Mayhap Old Blaze's was a bosom which 
 
 Confined a soul with powers that fall to few, 
 
 Tuned to a Burns' or Bryant's tender pitch, 
 Or felt the flame a Milton's spirit knew. 
 
 Time slipped away, and soon the whip-poor-will 
 And meadow-choir sweet music made no more; 
 
 The fields, the brooks, and his accustomed hill 
 No charms for duller spirits ever bore. 
 
 Old Blaze passed off, his smothered spark went out; 
 
 None ever saw its bright and heavenly gleams. 
 But somewhere far away from here, no doubt, 
 
 Unsmothered are its bright and heavenly beams. 
 
 ODE TO A HONEY BEE. 
 
 When the sun bursts through the eastern gloom, 
 And the day unfolds like a flower in bloom. 
 And the amazing skill of the Master Hand 
 Has spread His glory o'er the land, 
 
 (82) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Like an arrow speeding from the bow, 
 Forth from your waxen home you go. 
 
 Lost to the sight that is given me, 
 
 But Another's eye doth follow thee, 
 
 And marks thy flight from bloom to bloom, 
 
 And thy return when the shadows come. 
 
 All day long among the flowers, 
 
 And the blossoms sweet in the sunny hours, 
 
 No selfish motive urging you, 
 
 Your ceaseless labor you pursue. 
 
 For others' good, from day to day, 
 
 You toil your little life away. 
 
 Bringing from the wood and dell 
 
 Wherewith to fashion, cell on cell, 
 
 The only handiwork we know 
 
 Touches perfection here below, 
 
 Gathering from the flowery fields 
 
 The honied store that nature yields. 
 
 Oh, wonder-working little bee, 
 
 Stop a moment and tell me 
 
 Whence comes your power to form at will 
 
 Your hexic cell with matchless skill. 
 
 Assembling, like a master mind, 
 
 Th' unerring rules of science, combined 
 
 With those of art, till men have gazed 
 
 Upon your work and stood amazed. 
 
 (83) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 (Why boast, proud man, to you is given, 
 Alone, the spark divine from heaven? 
 Behold here in the little bee 
 The same light God has given thee.) 
 
 Little brown bee, a tiny thing, 
 Rich tlie lesson you do bring. 
 In you we mortals may behold 
 The philosophy of life unfold. 
 The purpose reaching down from God 
 Through man, through you, unto the sod- 
 That all the worry, all the strife. 
 The plan, the purpose of this life 
 Is but to labor like the bee. 
 Toiling on unselfishly. 
 Our wasting energies employ 
 For others' good, for others' joy, 
 With faith unfaltering that the eye 
 That marks the bee will, by and by, 
 When the shadows of the evening come, 
 Follow still, and guide us home. 
 
 (84) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written in anticipation of a hunt in the Big Swamp forty miles south of Jackson. 
 
 Swift, swift fly the days and bring round the glad 
 morning 
 When swampward we'll tramp it light-hearted and 
 gay, 
 When we'll strike for that shanty, the hut that's 
 adorning, 
 A wilderness wild some few miles down the way. 
 
 How I long to be there where the light deer are 
 bounding 
 
 Through bramble and brake, o'er bottom and bog, 
 And hear through the day the wild hunter a-hounding, 
 
 And watch for my chance by some tree or old log! 
 
 How I long to be there where the owl's nightly 
 screaming 
 Disturbs the dark stillness like an old witch's wail. 
 Where at night the cold stars through the cypress 
 are beaming 
 To light the lone coon on his foraging trail! 
 
 (85) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 By the black "Otter Pond" let me soon be a-wan- 
 dering, 
 And down where "The Opening" its grandeur un- 
 folds; 
 Along the "Big Slough" let me soon be meandering, 
 Or out where the ghostly "Big Overflow" scolds. 
 
 Than the wolf's hungry howl what music is sweeter, 
 As deep in the dark night he venture's to roam ? 
 
 Than the sv/amp hunter's pleasure what pleasure's 
 completer, 
 The forest his field, a rude shanty his home? 
 
 BUNNY DEAD. 
 
 When I got home an' foun' my Bunny dead, 
 I turned away f 'om him an' hung my head 
 
 An' cried, 
 I wus so sorry. Bunny looked so spry 
 An' happy when I left. I wonder why 
 
 He died. 
 
 (86) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 If Fd knowed he wus sick I'd stayed away 
 F'om school, I would, an' doctored him that day. 
 
 That's what 
 A feller gits by goin' to school all time. 
 Schools ain't no 'count nohow, ain't worth this dime 
 
 I've got. 
 
 When papa come an' sister called an' said 
 To him that my poor little squir'l wus dead, 
 
 He then 
 Said somethin', an' I looked at him an' tried 
 To keep f 'om cryin' 'n' couldn't, an' I cried 
 
 Again. 
 
 Mamma said come in to dinner, there's somethin' 
 
 good. 
 But I went 'round behind the house an' stood ^ 
 
 Awhile, 
 An' wiped the tears away, an' never cried 
 No more, but straightened up my face an' tried 
 
 To smile. 
 
 But I must come to dinner, mamma said; 
 But all I et wus just a piece of bread; 
 
 An' then 
 I started back to school, an' v>^ent 'round by 
 His cage an' looked at him, an' had to cry 
 
 Again. 
 
 (87) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 When school let out, down under th' apple tree 
 Me an' sister dug a grave, an' soon as we 
 
 Got done it, 
 We buried Bunny there, then hunted 'round 
 An' laid some weed tops for flovN^ers that we found 
 
 Upon it. 
 
 An' I went an' got a brick, one that wus red, 
 An' put it for a tombstone at his head 
 
 To stay, 
 An' scratched his name on it, an' then we bent 
 Down by the grave an' spelled his name an' went 
 
 Away. 
 
 AN EDITOR. 
 
 Tired and sleepy, fingering his mail, 
 The editor sits in his big armchair, 
 
 Close by his side, thimbling away. 
 His little wife sits mending a "tear," 
 
 Just such a one as, many a time, 
 
 He'd mended himself when he hadn't a dime. 
 
 m) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Scoffed at and scorned by the cruel world, 
 Sometimes he is driven almost to despair; 
 
 But down Goodluck Street a loved one waits 
 To smile away the clouds of care — 
 
 Just such clouds, if he hadn't a wife, 
 
 Would darken his path and shadow his life. 
 
 LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 Lightly as the dew-drop lying 
 
 On the leaf at peep of dawn, 
 Gently as the snow-flake, flying, 
 
 Kisses what it falls upon, 
 Thus, oh Time, thus gently lay 
 
 Your hand on her you should not wrong. 
 Sweet girl, I would that every day 
 
 Might pass with her like some sweet song. 
 Whose dying numbers, as they roll. 
 
 Lull to sleep the ra^jtured soul. 
 Misfortune, with your ugly mien, 
 
 Never let your presence mar 
 The soul whose radiant light, I ween. 
 
 Is envied by the evening star; 
 But, Heaven, grant her much below, 
 
 (89) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And, Hope, your every promise bring; 
 Let joy from all its fountains flow; 
 
 On every hand let blossoms spring, 
 To cheer her path through life, and bless 
 The very soul of loveliness. 
 
 'MAMMY'S" DEATH. 
 
 Now, after eighty years have passed. 
 That left her old head very hoar. 
 
 Tardy Death has come at last 
 And ferried old black mammy o'er. 
 
 Dear old mammy, good old slave, 
 
 She watched my steps from childhood on. 
 
 And till she sunk into the grave, 
 My joys and sorrows were her own. 
 
 And though she now has joined the good, 
 God's ransomed fold on Zion's hill, 
 
 I'll bet, 'way over Jordon's flood, 
 My erring feet she watches still. 
 
 (90) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 How often, since a man, I've thought 
 Back o'er a careless time that's ended, 
 
 When each good thing she'd get she brought 
 And gave it to the child she tended. 
 
 The hand that gave unto the child, 
 Whate'er it had the world did own it; 
 
 A sister's rags her heart beguiled, 
 
 And took her shawl or Sunday bonnet. 
 
 When war came rushing on pell-mell, 
 And every darkey left his master. 
 
 To those old mammy loved so well 
 War only made her stick the faster. 
 
 And when the news would come and tell 
 Of some big battle fought somewhere. 
 
 She would not ask how many fell, 
 But, "Were any of our people there?" 
 
 Work? None need order her or ask; 
 
 With busy broom or garden hoe. 
 She'd ply her self-appointed task. 
 
 And all the time was on the go. 
 
 But now the broom stands in the corner, 
 Old mammy wakes, to work no more, 
 
 (91) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Where God will place a crown upon her, 
 'Way over there on Canaan's shore. 
 
 I'll not forget, I will be bound. 
 
 My old black friend no longer here; 
 
 Such worth as hers, wherever found, 
 Commands remembrance and a tear. 
 
 LUCAN AND MIRIAM. 
 
 'Tis said, for truth, that once upon a time 
 
 Two lovers dwelt them in a happy clime. 
 
 The two were paired like doves, were just as fond; 
 
 They lived to love and had no thought beyond; 
 
 Prayed to no heaven — their heaven was all below — 
 
 And feared no fate but death's dissevering blow. 
 
 'Twas ever theirs to wander at their will, 
 
 At that calm season when on tower and hill 
 
 The dying day's slow-waning splendor gleams. 
 
 Or when the heavens were rich with stars, whose 
 
 beams, 
 The darkness piercing, lent their feeble light. 
 But chiefly when the lady of the night 
 In radiant splendor walked her heavenly path, 
 O'erspread the slumb'rous landscape with a bath 
 
 (92) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Of dusky light, delighted they to stray, 
 And loiter, lovers-like, the hours away. 
 
 Thus dwelt they, happy, till, in evil hour. 
 Hard-hearted death sought out their quiet bower, 
 And bore the gentle Miriam, pretty dove, 
 Forever from the arms of her true-love. 
 
 The story goes that Lucan (such the name 
 Her lover bore) ere long to ruin came. 
 The world, which erst was full of light and cheer, 
 To him was dark now, very dark and drear. 
 The hours which, so full of light and gladness. 
 Flew by like golden-plumaged birds, in sadness 
 Now dragged them on. Each loved, familiar haunt 
 Which they would seek when on a lovers'-jaunt. 
 The songs they used to sing, the little river 
 They so much loved to visit, and seemed never 
 To weary gazing on its peaceful flow. 
 All, all combined to fill his heart with woe. 
 Thus pressed with grief, beneath its weight of pain 
 His mind at last, unequal to the strain. 
 Gave way, and reason left its post forever. 
 And sorrow with it, more to rack him never. 
 Vague fancies now possessed his clouded mind. 
 He'd hear his lost love calling on the wind; 
 Or oft at eve, out in the golden west 
 Her form he'd see, in heavenly raiment dressed. 
 Poised on some pretty cloud; or when the day 
 Flushed in the east he'd turn his face that way. 
 And think, above the trees on th' crimson plain, 
 He saw his darling coming back again. 
 
 (93) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 One night, though, when the moon superbly shone, 
 
 And fancying that the pure soul that had flown 
 
 In some such world as that, as bright and fair, 
 
 Must be at rest, must wait his coming there. 
 
 He longed to seek his lost; and gazing on 
 
 The moon, where fancy told him she had gone. 
 
 He yielded up his life, one victim more 
 
 To join the host that love had slain before. 
 
 Ah, better in the moon to dwell alone 
 
 Than in this world whence your true-love has flown! 
 
 JEANIE Wr THE SOFT BLUE EEN. 
 
 (In the Brogue oi the Scotch.) 
 
 One morn when spring was at its brightest, 
 An' flowers gaily bloomed about, 
 
 An' ilka birdie's hairt was lightest, 
 Wi' waefu* step I wandered out, 
 
 As aft I do when troubles bother, 
 
 An' this harsh warld does sair annoy. 
 
 To see gin, haply, I might gather 
 Frae bird an' bloom a little joy. 
 
 (94) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 The low-voiced winds were gently blowing, 
 I heard the turtle's far-aff croon, 
 
 An' stopped to catch, frae the locust flowing, 
 The red-winged blackbird's liquid tune. 
 
 Oh, sad maun be his hairt, an' weary, 
 An' fu' o' wae his breast maun be, 
 
 Wha canna join in nature's merry 
 Round o' joy an' jollity! 
 
 But sae it was wi' me that morning; 
 
 The clouds at dawn o' day I saw, 
 When ower the east the sun was burning, 
 
 A' took them wings an' flew awa; 
 
 But neither sun nor daylight's coming, 
 Nor song o' bird nor sound o' bee. 
 
 Nor flowers a' about me blooming. 
 Could drive the cares awa' frae me. 
 
 Distracting troubles, mirk and many, 
 Strolled wi' me then adoon the green, 
 
 Till 'roond the hill I spied my Jeanie, 
 My Jeanie wi' the soft blue een. 
 
 Her gowden tresses, loosely streaming. 
 Were burning in the morning's flame, 
 
 (95) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 An' her sma', light feet in the wat grass gleam- 
 ing 
 As soft as the tread o' an angel came. 
 
 A bonnie tune my luve was humming, 
 
 Wi' flowers her snaw-white apron teemed, 
 
 An' the roses in her cheeks a-blooming 
 As sweet as the blush o' a peri seemed. 
 
 But, oh, 'twas when her quick glance met me 
 
 The rosy dawn o' beauty broke. 
 An' ilka passion that beset me 
 
 Frae its drowsy slumber woke. 
 
 An' thus I spoke unto my Jeanie: 
 "The sweetest flowers I ever saw 
 
 Are in this meadow blooming many, 
 But ye're the sweetest o' them a'. 
 
 What brought ye out this hour sae early? 
 
 I wot it may be truly said 
 Ye cam' to shame the morning fairly, 
 
 An' mak' ilka flower hang its head." 
 
 I took her pearly hand an' pressed it. 
 An' a flower frae her dewy pack, 
 
 (96) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 An' to my bosom I caressed it, 
 
 Then thought just one sweet kiss I'd tak' 
 
 "Na, na," spoke up my timid Jeanie, 
 "I canna now sae forward be, 
 
 But wi' this bunch o' flowers bonnie 
 I gie my hairt a', a' to thee." 
 
 I thanked her for the flowers dearly; 
 
 My hairt had gane somewhere awa', 
 An' I pressed them to my bosom merely, 
 
 An' — wranged her o' a kiss or twa. 
 
 An', oh may heaven's fiercest fury 
 Owertak' me in some hour unseen, 
 
 Gin I forget to luve my dearie, 
 My Jeanie wi' the soft blue een. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 Once when a child I saw a pretty bird 
 
 High in a tree. Upon its burnished wing 
 
 The sunlight flamed; and in me there was stirred 
 A wish that I might catch the pretty thing. 
 
 (97) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 As if to satisfy my longing, quick, 
 
 Down fluttering, near my side the songster drew: 
 But when I put forth there my hand to pick 
 
 My pretty birdie up, away it flew. 
 
 And later on in life I saw one day 
 
 A hope come gleaming by, and in my breast 
 It lodging took, and v/ould not go away. 
 
 But lingered there until I found no rest. 
 
 And there was born that day a bright ideal, 
 A purpose; and the future then seemed fair; 
 
 But, oh, a change did come! and what seemed real, 
 And in my grasp, lo! vanished in the air. 
 
 Again, still later on in life. Love came. 
 
 So blind is Love that for it beauty glows 
 In splendor on a thistle just the same 
 
 As flashes from the petals of a rose. 
 
 And there was one who came before me. Love, 
 Foolish Love, did paint her perfect and most fair; 
 
 But time that fades all colors soon did prove 
 This bauble also fickle, light as air. 
 
 (98) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Now all about me seems a barren waste, 
 
 A desert with no oasis in view; 
 My hopes, my fair ideals, all erased 
 
 From out my heart, which once their presence 
 knew. 
 
 AN ODE TO MUSIC. 
 
 I saw thee sitting in a shady nook, 
 
 When on the bosom of the brook 
 
 The morning's sunlight threw 
 
 A dazzling sheen, 
 
 And set the meadow green 
 
 Aflame with sparkling drops of dew. 
 
 The flute in thy fair hands was passing rude. 
 Of reed-stock fashioned it seemed to be, 
 
 From the forest solitude. 
 The abiding-place of sweetest harmony. 
 
 Rapt with the strains of thine own heaven-born skill. 
 You sat and played at will. 
 Eolus gave his whisperings soft, 
 
 (99) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And from the boughs aloft 
 
 The liquid notes came wave on wave 
 
 From the song-bird's happy heart, 
 
 Child of the heaven-born art, 
 
 To whom is given, 
 
 Alone with Poesy, a glimpse of Heaven. 
 
 Fast from thy presence, heavenly Music, fled 
 The ugly brood of Passion's baleful train. 
 
 Each hanging in shame its hideous head. 
 As never to fret my poor weak self again. 
 
 Again I saw thee, sitting now 
 
 In Evening's dusky tent with harp in hand, 
 
 A crown of russet leaves upon thy brow, 
 
 By Autumn placed. 
 
 And deftly interlaced, 
 And again the master skill at thy command. 
 
 And as you touched the chords departing Day 
 
 Did linger in the fading light. 
 And in the eastern heavens grey 
 
 Listened on-coming Night. 
 
 The trees 
 
 Did whisper silence to the breeze 
 
 That fanned their boughs that they might hear 
 
 Thy melody, heavenly visitor. 
 
 (100) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 In olden days 
 
 A virgin mother once invoked thy power, 
 To chant her joy and praise, 
 
 In that glad hour 
 When Heaven adorned her breast 
 With that bright Jewel which the world has blessed. 
 
 From Syrian skies angelic forms descended. 
 
 And, listening, rejoiced 
 As they attended 
 
 The matchless hymn you voiced. 
 
 Who is it would set bounds 
 
 And mark the limits of thy influence, power divine ? 
 By voice or instrument you stir sweet sounds 
 
 To thrill the human heart, or souls that shine 
 In glory in the heaven. 
 
 To thee, sweet charmer, it is given 
 
 To tune the voices of the angelic throng 
 
 Within the courts of paradise. 
 
 Where praises to the King arise, 
 
 Or condescend 
 
 To earth and even lend 
 
 Thy influence to prompt the linnet's song. 
 
 Or the lullaby that charms 
 
 To rest the infant in its mother's arms. 
 
 (101) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Thy spirit, Music, would be ill content 
 To dwell alone in voice, or reed, or stringed instru- 
 ment. 
 
 Thy melody is in the storm-cloud's roar, 
 As well as in the breezes soft at close 
 
 Of the strenuous day that little more 
 Than lightly mar the leaf's repose. 
 
 I hear it in the rain 
 
 That beats against my window-pane. 
 
 In the booming of the beetles when they come 
 
 As the shades of evening lower, 
 In the brown bee's hum 
 
 At the noontide hour; 
 
 In the liquid monotone 
 
 Of the water as it rolls 
 
 O'er the brooklet's pebbly shoals. 
 
 I hear it when I walk alone 
 
 Out in the quiet shadows of the night. 
 
 And contemplate the voiceless heavens. Space, 
 
 Eternity — even these great silences of the universe 
 That speak no language to the human race, 
 
 And have no message to rehearse. 
 To the poet's finer ear 
 Are vocal with thy melody, 
 
 (102) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And there come scyunds, subdued, but yet distinct and 
 
 clear, 
 Low murmurings that seem to be 
 Music from the very depths of mystery. 
 
 Oh Music, matchless power divine! 
 
 I ask this meed of thee — 
 Enter thou this heart of mine, 
 
 Fill it with thy melody. 
 Fill it with thy beauty, too, 
 Thy beauty and thy melody. 
 That if at times I fain would sing. 
 Let the song a message bring, 
 A message of the good and true. 
 That some poor soul, aweary of its pain, 
 May listen and take heart again. 
 
 GONE FOREVER. 
 
 No star a ray of light 
 Shot athwart the windy night. 
 For the hour was dark and there was no sky. 
 A distant gun boomed now and then. 
 An owl who-whoed, again, and again; 
 The wind without and my heart did sigh 
 The moment I saw the old year die, 
 And the troop of might-have-beens pass by. 
 
 (103) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 HE CARES NA MAIR FOR ME. 
 
 (In the Brogue of the Scotch.) 
 
 I dinna know, nor do I care, 
 
 How soon pale death may ca' forme; 
 My laddie dotes on me na mair, 
 
 An' I might as weel lie doon an' dee. 
 
 Yestreen he passed the time away 
 Wi' the lass wha has the midnight ee. 
 
 An' I know his hairt has gane astray, 
 An' cares na mair, na mair for me. 
 
 Last night I greef u' took my bed. 
 An' couldna do a thing but weep. 
 
 An' sigh an' wish that I were dead. 
 An' in the deep grave fast asleep. 
 
 However faithless he may prove, 
 As he I canna cruel be; 
 
 I'll bear for him my perfect luve. 
 As lang as life is spared to me. 
 
 (104) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 LOVE ALL-EMBRACING. 
 
 I well remember as a thoughtful child, 
 
 While lying prone upon the autumn grass, 
 
 A serious brown, touched by the matchless skill 
 
 Of Winter's advance artists of the air, 
 
 I often gazed out on the boundless, blue 
 
 And trackless sea above me at a flock 
 
 Of cranes, slow circling in the distance dim; 
 
 One moment lost to sight, and then the next 
 
 Their silvery wings, still higher circling, down 
 
 Upon my eyes the sun's bright rays reflecting. 
 
 I then would wonder in my boyish way 
 
 Whence sprung their journey and where would it end. 
 
 This lesson then was taught my youthful mind, 
 
 More comforting as nearer draws the end, 
 
 Amid conflicting creeds, than may be found 
 
 Upon the written page, or from the lips 
 
 Could ever fall: Beyond the heavens high 
 
 A love exists as all-embracing as 
 
 Is space itself, and as eternity 
 
 As everlasting. And that love it is 
 
 That guides the feathered wand'rers in their flight 
 
 Unto a place in some fair sunny clime 
 
 Prepared for them, where, when the sun goes down, 
 
 And darkness well-nigh shuts the world from view, 
 
 Low through the gathering twilight they can bend 
 
 (105) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Their tired wings and settle on the ground, 
 Rest and refreshment find, from danger free. 
 
 The same kind power that through the trackless 
 fields 
 Of blue o'er-arching heaven guides the wild 
 Fowl in its flight has also brought the child 
 In safety thus far on life's weary road. 
 And as the sunlight glancing from their wings 
 Revealed, though dimly, to my sight the forms 
 Of those strange wand'rers through the upper air, 
 So likewise to my longing heart the bright 
 And shining wings of faith, far from the earth 
 High soaring in those fields, reflect down from 
 A more resplendent Sun the light that gives 
 Me glimpses of a fairer, brighter land. 
 
 And is it too presumptuous to dare hope 
 The same kind hand that upholds in its flight, 
 And guides the wild fowl on its toilsome way, 
 Will also bring at last my weary feet 
 To some bright haven in a better land, 
 When twilight falls and ended is the day? 
 
 (106) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 HIS FAITHFUL DOG. 
 
 Tracing the tracks of the riderless horse, 
 He searched for the missing man, 
 
 *Long the swamp-path's wild and lonely course 
 That through the forest ran. 
 
 The day was dark and the big rain-drops 
 
 Began to patter free, 
 The wind through the lofty cypress tops 
 
 Moaned mournfully. 
 
 What sees he now in the dark wildwood 
 
 That makes him stop and stare ? 
 He is tracing now some clots of blood 
 
 Scattered here and there. 
 
 He follows the trail through the timber gray, 
 
 Till, aside from yonder log, 
 A low growl comes. He looks that way, 
 
 And sees a faithful dog. 
 
 A man was murdered out in the swamps in one of the lower counties. His 
 horse having come home with bridle and saddle on, a party rode off in search of 
 the man. Following the horse's tracks through the woods the rider came upon 
 the dead body of the man and a dog lying beside it. 
 
 (107) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 There was the man, forever mute. 
 In the bloody leaves Impressed, 
 
 And lying there was the faithful brute 
 Across his master's breast. 
 
 The noble animal all night lay 
 By the master he loved so well, 
 
 And bayed the beasts of the forest away, 
 A faithful sentinel. 
 
 A FATHER'S LULLABY TO HIS IN- 
 VALID CHILD. 
 
 (In the Brogue of the Scotch.) 
 
 Daddie's little bairnie sweet, 
 Hae mony thousan' charms, 
 
 Tho' frail o' body, weak an' pale, 
 Here faulded in his arms. — 
 
 Why, what is bairnie smilin' at, 
 Tho' closed her little een? 
 
 Sees angel bodies hov'ring near 
 In heavenly raiment sheen.* 
 
 (108) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Oh, angels, dinna linger lang, 
 Your presence seems to say 
 
 The gude, kind Ane wha gied my sweet 
 Maun tak' her soon away. 
 
 My tiny flowsr unfaulded first 
 In the garden o* the blest, 
 
 They sent the wee thing doon to earth 
 To adorn its mither's breast. 
 
 But like the dew that fades awa' 
 When morn glintsf ower the green, 
 
 My precious bairnie soon in death 
 Maun close her little een. 
 
 Then daddie's days will a' be dark, 
 
 Nae little bairn to keep. 
 An' cuddle in his gude, strong arms 
 
 Until she gaes to sleep. 
 
 * bright. tpeeps. 
 
 (109) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 FOR JULIA FRANK McGUIRE. 
 
 On Her Thirteenth Birthday, May 1 0, 1 899. 
 
 In the joyous month of May, 
 
 When flowers were blooming gay, 
 And smiling nature wore a gaudy dress, 
 
 Of green and blossoming white. 
 
 And pink and violet bright, 
 Our little daughter came our home to bless. 
 
 Fine little girl of ours, 
 
 Born in the month of flowers, 
 
 Oh, may she always just as pure be found 
 As the sweet flowers, and be 
 From sin and stain as free. — 
 
 With deeds of kindness may her life abound. 
 
 Then, when her days are done. 
 
 Her life's setting sun 
 Will go down in a bright and cloudless west, 
 
 And one eternal May, 
 
 With flowers blooming gay 
 Will wait her in that bright home of the blest. 
 
 (110) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 MARK. 
 
 He was a dog (four-legged one), 
 
 As good as death e'er seized upon. 
 
 His virtues sparkled just as bright 
 
 As the lamps that hang in the sky at night, 
 
 And in him all were nicely set. 
 
 Like jewels in a coronet. 
 
 Not strong like others of his race, 
 He started on life's rugged chase, 
 And easy 'twas for the reaper grim 
 To follow up and o'ertake him. 
 
 Like a tree that springs from rarest root, 
 And a little while bears choicest fruit. 
 Till the axman comes with cruel blow, 
 And soon prostrate it lieth low; 
 Or like the glow at set of sun, 
 A short time pleases, then is done, 
 So in his youthful prime and pride 
 The noble fellow left my side — 
 So young in years, mature in worth, 
 Too good a creature long for earth. 
 
 In field, when hunting, he was there 
 As good as ever scented air, 
 Or signalled when the game v/as round, 
 Or fetched it in when brought to ground. 
 
 (Ill) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 I little thought, when first I knew, 
 Poor Mark, disease had seized on you, 
 So soon I'd make your dying bed. 
 So soon, so soon, would see you deadt 
 
 They told me, as they stood about, 
 You might be mad, — I should look out. 
 I would not this suspicion share, 
 But nursed you with the tenderest care, 
 And rubbed your face, and softly spread 
 A pillow for your restless head. 
 And watched you through the livelong day, 
 And saw your life slow ebb away. 
 
 And as I sat and fanned the flies 
 From your noble face and death-dimmed eyes, 
 And saw your life-thread there unrolled 
 And drawn away like a skein of gold, 
 I sighed and said to myself: "Some place 
 May there not be Vay out in space 
 Where worth like this meets its reward 
 And rest succeeds this suffering hard. 
 And dogs like Mark, in merry round, 
 Enjoy a happier hunting-ground?'' 
 
 Your biped master, blind like you, 
 Can not the curtained future view, 
 And in his weakness fancies he 
 Would rest content if his could be 
 A heaven where we cross some streams. 
 And fences, hollows, and where gleams 
 The autumn sunlight, and where steals 
 The chittering quail o'er stubble-fields, 
 
 (112) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And there with you, in endless round, 
 Range over such a hunting ground. 
 Forgetting sometimes he is dead, 
 I hear his bark or rustling tread, 
 Or through the ways of fancy steals 
 The thought I hear him at my heels. 
 But away these fancies soon are driven. 
 Like gold-fringed clouds by winds at even, 
 And my thoughts again are hovering round 
 Where I heaped o'er him a little mound. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 This is the time when "whip-poor-will" 
 Is faintly heard borne from afar, 
 
 The season when the lightning-bug 
 A moment flashes like a star. 
 
 Oh, look you there, the western sky 
 Is now in crimson beauty drest! 
 
 Too soon dark Night will spread a shroud 
 Over the day dead in the west. 
 
 Slow the shades are westward creeping. 
 Darker grows the upland green; 
 
 (113) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Out on the hill young lovers, strolling, 
 Hand-in-hand, may now be seen. 
 
 While sleep the winds on prairies broad, 
 And the red moon routes the eastern gloom, 
 
 How sweet the music from the marsh 
 Doth on my raptured spirit come! 
 
 Adieu, fair day, now fading fast! 
 
 A pleasant one you've been to me; 
 Oh, may the night that takes your place 
 
 As gentle and as pleasant be! 
 
 WINTER AND SPRING. 
 
 Whither, whilst falls the snow. 
 And early birds that came refuse to sing 
 Against the biting norland winds that blow, 
 
 Art thou, sweet Spring? 
 
 Why, here am I! 
 Yestreen, when gray old Winter tried to squeeze me, 
 To cloudlands near the sun I thought I'd fly. 
 
 Lest he might freeze me. 
 
 (114) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 NIECENE. 
 
 I mourn for the fair one gone to sleep, 
 Niecene, Niecene. She lieth by 
 The willow tree where the light 
 winds sigh 
 
 And whisper to me to come and weep. 
 
 To weep for the lady fair in whom 
 All womanly virtues shone as bright 
 As the stars in heaven that come at 
 night 
 
 To look in pity upon her tomb. 
 
 No music is there in the roundelay 
 The wild bird sings in yonder tree; 
 Out of the world, it seems to me, 
 
 Music with Niecene went away. 
 
 And void is the world of the beauty it 
 gave. 
 For when in a snow-white gown they 
 
 dressed 
 The fair Niecene and laid her to rest 
 They buried beauty in the selfsame 
 grave. 
 
 (115) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 OLD YEAR DEAD. 
 
 The old year's gone 
 And out of sight: 
 Death, prowling 'round 
 At dead of night, 
 Bore him 
 Away. 
 
 A snowy shroud 
 
 Death raised o'erhead 
 And flapped in the cold 
 Night wind, and spread 
 It o'er him, 
 They say. 
 
 Goodbye, goodbye, 
 
 Goodbye, old year! 
 Above your grave 
 I'll drop a tear 
 And sigh, 
 I will, 
 
 To think how soon 
 I, too, must go, 
 
 (116) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And in a bed 
 
 Beneath the snow 
 Will lie 
 So still. 
 
 He weeps for yon, 
 
 Old year, whose fate. 
 Or death come soon 
 Or tarry late, 
 Must be, 
 I know, 
 
 To feel the sting 
 
 Of the chilly breath 
 Of the cold, cold world. 
 Till long with death, 
 Like thee 
 I go. 
 
 Who'll weep for me. 
 
 Old year, as I 
 Now weep for you, 
 When low I lie 
 Beneath 
 A stone? 
 
 (117) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Ah, one there is 
 
 Will softly tread 
 The turf above 
 
 My lowly bed, 
 And sigh for me, 
 And cry for me, 
 
 Till her last breath 
 Is gone. 
 
 MY ANNIE. 
 
 They say the queenly rose 
 Of all the flowers many. 
 
 Is the fairest one that blooms — 
 Still fairer is my Annie. 
 
 The wanton little brooklet 
 That laughs along its way 
 
 As my artless little Annie 
 Is not half so gay. 
 
 As the dew-drop on the leaf 
 Reflects the morning's beams, 
 
 So from the eyes of Annie 
 Heavenly beauty gleams. 
 
 (118) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Now, since my darling of all fair ones 
 
 The paragon doth prove, 
 Who can wonder that she's empress 
 
 Of my bosom's world of love? 
 
 LOVE SORROWING. 
 
 Whither, whither, spirit pale, 
 Hast thou taken him av/ay? 
 
 Hither, hither, do not fail 
 Soon to come for me, I pray. 
 
 What of life is left, for me 
 
 Longer here on earth to dwell, 
 
 Since I can no longer be 
 Near the one I loved so well ? 
 
 Gone is light from out my life, 
 Night has swallowed up the day; 
 
 Why prolong the bitter strife. 
 
 Heart of mine, with sorrow, pray? 
 
 Sing no more, you birdies there. 
 Flitting light from bough to bough, 
 
 Sorrow says I must not care 
 Any more for pleasure now, 
 
 (119) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Bloom no more throughout the year, 
 Flowers, in the bright sunshine, 
 
 Sorrow says you must not cheer 
 Any more this heart of mine. 
 
 IN THE CITY. 
 
 Not in forest dark, primeval, 
 
 Where the hunter, wild and rude, 
 
 Scorning noisy walks and civil, 
 Trusts his rifle for his food; 
 
 Not where rugged cliff, depending, 
 Darkens with its savage frown 
 
 The scene below, itself defending 
 By the terror it sends down; 
 
 Not out on the barren prairie. 
 Where the howling coyotes roam. 
 
 And the trav'ler's way is weary. 
 Would my spirit scorn a home; 
 
 (120) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 But where soulless Business ever 
 Hums her harsh, discordant strain, 
 
 Calm contentment, gracious giver 
 Of life's sweets, I court in vain. 
 
 Were I doomed my days to languish 
 'Neath the city's cheerless sky. 
 
 What were life but bitter anguish 
 And a wish, ah! soon to die! 
 
 Greedy souls who seek to treasure 
 Up of wealth a glittering store, 
 
 Find, perhaps, a fancied pleasure 
 Mid the struggling city's roar; 
 
 But like rural heavens brighter. 
 
 And like woodland songs more 
 sweet, 
 
 So our rustic hearts are lighter, 
 And our pleasure's more complete. 
 
 Now, while chill October weather 
 Goldens every field and wood, 
 
 I would strool some well-known 
 heather. 
 Or some forest solitude. 
 
 (121) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Speed, oh time! I loathe to tarry 
 Where at ease I can not rest; 
 
 Haste the day that will me carry 
 To my home out in the west. 
 
 THIRTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 I took a trip to Jackson, Jim, 
 
 Back in old Girardeau, 
 Where you and I were reckless blades 
 
 Some thirty years ago. 
 
 I sauntered down the sidewalk, Jim, 
 
 And halted at the door 
 Of one of those booze dens, you know, 
 
 As I oft had done before. 
 
 The one who handed out the drinks 
 Was not the chap we knew, 
 
 Who used to smile when we'd drop in 
 'Way back in 'eighty-two. 
 
 (122) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 The web he wove for you and me 
 About himself he wound, 
 
 And when I asked, they told me he 
 Was planted in the ground. 
 
 And few were left of that old crowd, 
 Whose cash he gathered in — 
 
 The rest had glided out and down 
 The toboggan-slide of sin. 
 
 But round about the door, old friend, 
 
 I saw a younger brood. 
 And lined up at the counter, too, 
 
 Where once their fathers stood. 
 
 Neglected women, worn and wan. 
 With broken hearts, yet true. 
 
 Still stand and watch and wait at 
 night. 
 Just as they used to do. 
 
 And anxious, care-worn mothers pray 
 Their wayward boys may be 
 
 Saved from the tempter's snare, as 
 ours 
 Oft prayed for you and me, 
 
 (123} 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 I stood and watched the people, Jim, 
 As they used to in old days. 
 
 Both old and young come trooping in 
 From many walks and ways. 
 
 But few remained of our old class, 
 The others were all gone, 
 
 Were carted off as rubbish, Jim, 
 Many a broken demijohn. 
 
 I thought me of the graveyard, Jim, 
 And wandered down that way, 
 
 And stood beside the grave of one 
 I loved in the olden day, 
 
 Who used to watch and wait for me 
 At the door or at the gate, 
 
 And pray for me while baby slept. 
 When I often stayed out late. 
 
 Now we are old, and time will soon 
 Foot up our big mistake — 
 
 A few more useless days, and then 
 The silver cord will break. 
 
 (124) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 A COUNTRY BURIAL. 
 
 The sun comes up and brings a cheerful day, 
 The time is in the summer month of June. 
 
 From the busy world the scene lies quite away, 
 Where beauties blend like harp-strings all in tune. 
 
 The country dwelling stands upon a hill, 
 A few thin-leaved old locust trees among, 
 
 And through the lowland nigh a sparkling rill 
 Gayly runs its winding course along. 
 
 The neighboring folks are gathering to the cot, 
 From every way, with pace sedate and slow, 
 
 Good men, goodwives, old folks and young. I wot 
 It must be death has laid somebody low. 
 
 Yes, death a cruel wound has dealt that home, 
 And fourscore years are ready for the grave; 
 
 At last the welcome call from Heaven has come 
 Unto the good, the patient and the brave. 
 
 (125) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 A gentleman is dead, forsooth the pride 
 
 Of the little world wherein his life was led, 
 
 A man but little known 'mong men, but wide 
 In a world somewhere beyond his glory spread. 
 
 The older folks, companions of the dead. 
 
 Who long with him had walked in virtue's way. 
 
 Their children, schooled in duty's paths to tread. 
 All here had come their last respects to pay. 
 
 Now, slowly moving, see the cortege go, 
 Plain people, all, in unaffected guise. 
 
 Bearing the form of him they gladly know 
 Rejoices in a home beyond tha skies. 
 
 A woodland pasture lies not far ahead. 
 
 And there, marked by a few enclosures rude. 
 
 O'er which a weeping-willow's branches spread, 
 The family graveyard lies in solitude. 
 
 And there the corpse arrives, and all stand 'round 
 To look once more upon the peaceful face. 
 
 Expressive of the faith that did abound, 
 E'en until life had run its lengthy race. 
 
 With feeble step a gray-haired man appears. 
 His face revealing hope as bright as day, 
 
 (126) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And joy, which wets perforce the eyes with tears, 
 And with a trembling voice begins to pray. 
 
 His eyes to heaven the holy man doth raise, 
 And asks the Lord the dear bereft to take, 
 
 And never let them walk in sinful ways, 
 Where woes unnumbered crowd in pleasure's wake. 
 
 For plainly we are taught in that good book, 
 'Tis virtue brings us peace, contentment brings. 
 
 And hope, which bids the faithful Christian look 
 Beyond this world of failing, fleeting things. 
 
 And next, while all with strict attention hark, 
 The reverend father from the Bible reads. 
 
 How many are the paths of sin, and dark. 
 
 How careful each should be wherein he treads. 
 
 His duty done, the old man slow retires. 
 The sacred trust unto the grave is given, 
 
 And oh, how many are the heartfelt prayers. 
 The dear bereft may meet their lost in Heaven. 
 
 The grave anon is filled, and homeward now 
 
 The sorrowing crowd betake their various ways. 
 
 All talking how the old man lived, and how 
 He was beloved, and always met with praise. 
 
 (127) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 But who is it that now her body throws 
 
 Upon the grave? His old goodwife is she; 
 
 These many years she's shared his joys and woes, 
 And resting with him now she longs to be. 
 
 glorious scene, where joy and sorrow blend! 
 
 When looked upon what is it starts the tear 
 But beauty seen, we longing to ascend 
 
 To Heaven, where all beauty doth appear? 
 
 When death has singled out some haughty lord. 
 Whose soul no doubt has seen its brightest days, 
 
 Mark with what show the poor remains are stored, 
 And see how men upon him shower praise. 
 
 Alas for him who seeks for fame alone. 
 
 And shapes his acts to gain the rabble's nod! 
 
 Oh, when to all the world will it be known 
 It is no flowery road leads up to God? 
 
 The paths of virtue go an uphill way, 
 
 Their promised joys far off we dimly see. 
 
 And onward press; but if we step astray. 
 And fall — mark, then, with what facility. 
 
 What boots it if your power be that of kings. 
 Your glory such a Caesar well might vie, 
 
 (128) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 And what if praises flow from a thousand springs, 
 If after all you can not Christians die? 
 
 You over-wise, who preach and proudly boast 
 Of faith as firm as Plymouth Rock, ye famed 
 
 For weighty thought, but for religion most, 
 The country cotter can make you ashamed. 
 
 ACCIDENTAL DEATH OF A BOY 
 COMPANION. 
 
 The sun came up and brought a lovely day. 
 
 The woods and fields their autumn beauty wore, 
 
 And everything so bright that one would say 
 There never was a fairer day before. 
 
 The rustic farmer sang his morning song 
 As trod he fieldward to his daily work; 
 
 The current of affairs flowed smooth along, 
 And none thought midst the scene that harm could 
 lurk. 
 
 (129) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 But evil fates, to ply their deadly arts, 
 And work distress and ruin, leap upon 
 
 Us in the brightest moments of our hearts. 
 As to wait its prey the serpent seeks the sun. 
 
 So with the bright-hoped youth of whom I write. 
 Whose heart in unison with nature beat, 
 
 XJpon this lovely day, and bounded light 
 As the hopes that to him danced with fairy feet. 
 
 We each have marked some time a gay, bright flower 
 Spring up, rejoicing in its youthful bloom. 
 
 And in one unexpected, evil hour 
 Its life yield to the blasting touch of doom. 
 
 But little further he would travel on. 
 
 Thought he, poor boy, and then return once more; 
 And so we all thought he would not be gone 
 
 But few weeks yet, perhaps some three or four. 
 
 And oh! he did return — relentless, cruel fate, — 
 But not in joy to greet his friends and kin, 
 
 All in a mangled, bleeding, dying state. 
 
 To sleep, too soon, the dread, dark grave within. 
 
 (130) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 THE DYING TRAPPER TO HIS DOG. 
 
 Come here, old doggie, *n* listen what I say; 
 Creep close up, for my voice is weak to-day. 
 Come right up here and stand beside the bed 
 So I can put my hand upon your head 
 And talk to Bulger some before I die — 
 Cheer up, old doggie, cheer up, don't you cry. 
 
 I hear a voice outdoors a- calling me; 
 It's not the voice of man, for now I see 
 You do not hear it, else how quick you'd bound 
 Away to see who 'tis that's prowling round. 
 It's God who calls me now — I hear Him plain. — 
 
 "Take not the rifle from its rack again; 
 The shot-pouch and the powder-horn," He says, 
 "Must hang just where they are rest of their days." 
 
 So good-bye, for I'm going soon, but you 
 Must stay behind, you can not go 'long too. 
 I know you want to follow, just the same 
 As when we go out on a hunt for game. 
 God will take care of Bulger, for you see 
 He's a friend to you same as He is to me. 
 I'm dying, Bulger, — but don't grieve that way; 
 You'll find a place where they will let you stay. 
 Of course you'll miss your master, 'n' he'll miss you 
 In that strange country he is going to. 
 
 (131) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 But sometime, Bulger, your days, too, will end. 
 Then you will track me up, my dear old friend. 
 And find me somewhere in another shanty. 
 Where timber's thick and where the game is plenty. 
 
 ON A TRANSIT OF VENUS. 
 
 That planet you see, away up there, 
 Venus, the bright and beautiful, 
 
 Watched by thousands everywhere, 
 Her veil of feathery clouds did pull 
 
 Over her face so very fair, 
 
 And we saw not the transit, scene so rare. 
 And our cup of grief was surely full. 
 
 But why should we grieve because denied 
 A glance at a single star that beams 
 
 Beyond the moon, on the other side 
 
 Of the mystic, mythical realm of dreams 
 
 While here at home, in their beauty's pride, 
 
 Along our streets, on every side, 
 Many and many a Venus gleams? 
 
 (132) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD. 
 
 "I wish three weeks would hurry by," 
 Thus spoke a mother, sighing, 
 
 While sitting by the little bed 
 Where her sick child was lying. 
 
 "For about that time, the doctor says, 
 My baby '11 be well again." 
 
 And hope treamed brightly from her 
 eyes, 
 And she was happy then. 
 
 One, two, three the days passed by. 
 Each seeming to get longer. 
 
 As patiently she watched and nursed 
 The child that grew no stronger. 
 
 And then there came a heavy shade 
 
 That gathered all about 
 The mother's face until it made 
 
 The lamp of hope go out. 
 
 The three weeks passed quite soon, 
 but she 
 
 Her babe no more caresses, — 
 The little form the good, kind earth 
 
 Close to its bosom presses. 
 
 (133) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 ROLL THE STONE AWAY. 
 
 "Brother Jones, I often think 
 That things are out of joint, 
 
 But where the fault lies I confess 
 I'm not prepared to point. 
 
 "All 'roundabout, on lower ground 
 Than we can deign to stand, 
 
 Sinners vile outside the church 
 Infest our blessed land. 
 
 "In rags and patches, filth and dirt, 
 
 Too foul for us to touch. 
 Unless we would pollute and stain 
 
 Society too much. 
 
 "So dead in sin, like Lazarus, 
 Whom Christ new vigor gave. 
 
 Some nineteen hundred years ago, 
 They stink within the grave. 
 
 "What's to be done I cannot see; 
 
 It doth conclusive seem 
 To save the elect, destroy the herd 
 
 Is part of Heaven's scheme." 
 
 (134) 
 
LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 So spoke good Deacon Smith, and 
 Jones 
 
 Replied, and thus he said: 
 "These creatures are but hungry souls 
 
 And need but to be fed. 
 
 "Has Christ not said, whoever will 
 May free himself from sin. 
 
 Put on new faith, renew his life, 
 And Heaven enter in? 
 
 "Though dead in sin, as in the grave 
 
 Was Lazarus of old, 
 Touched by His grace, renewed by 
 faith, 
 
 They are numbered in the fold. 
 
 "Oh, let the Church but once its proud 
 
 Toploftiness discard, 
 Descend and give the helping hand. 
 
 And the task will not be hard. 
 
 "As at the grave the Savior bade 
 
 The dead new life begin, 
 So can the Church these sinners raise 
 
 From the depth and death of sin, 
 
 "The stone that lies before the grave 
 Is pride of wealth and worth: 
 
 Roll this stone away, and then 
 Lazarus will come forth." 
 
 (135) 
 
INDEX. 
 
 A Grave 1 
 
 The Birth of Christ 2 
 
 The Broken Heai c 4 
 
 A Summer Twilight 6 
 
 Santa Claus 8 
 
 No Distant Day 9 
 
 The Holy Spirit 11 
 
 Stanzas 13 
 
 Lines to a Toad 15 
 
 On the Death of a Little Child 16 
 
 To a Mocking-Bird 17 
 
 Sonnet 19 
 
 A Childhood Idyl 20 
 
 Souter Johnny's Death 22 
 
 One Who Did Not Come 24 
 
 To 28 
 
 An Ode to Death 29 
 
 To My Friend, Dr. H. Hildreth 33 
 
 Sylph 34 
 
 For an Album 36 
 
 Ode to the Month of May 38 
 
Spring 39 
 
 To a Wood Wren 40 
 
 Eugene Field 42 
 
 Flowers 44 
 
 Lines to a Bird 45 
 
 Dick 46 
 
 Ode to the East Wind 47 
 
 To a Little Chicken Found Out in the Cold 51 
 
 To a Little Child 53 
 
 Pity 54 
 
 Brother Ben 55 
 
 The Mover Girl 57 
 
 On Learning of the Marriage of an Old Sweet- 
 heart 59 
 
 The Vagabonds 60 
 
 Margery 64 
 
 In th 3 Garden 65 
 
 A Lullaby Q6 
 
 When I Am Gone 68 
 
 Evening Before the First Frost 73 
 
 Cupid and the Serpent 75 
 
 Walk With Thy Child 77 
 
 Connie's Grave 78 
 
 Little Connie 79 
 
 Old Blaze 81 
 
 Ode to a Honey Bee 83 
 
 Lines 85 
 
 Bunny Dead 86 
 
 An Editor 88 
 
 Lines For an Album 89 
 
 "Mammy's" Death 90 
 
 Lucan and Miriam 92 
 
 Jeannie Wi' the Soft Blue Een 94 
 
Disappointment 97 
 
 An Ode to Music 99 
 
 Gone Forever 103 
 
 He Cares Na Mair for Me 104 
 
 Love All-Embracing 105 
 
 His Faithful Dog 107 
 
 A Father's Lullaby to His Invalid Child , 108 
 
 For Julia Frank McGuire 110 
 
 Mark Ill 
 
 Twilight 113 
 
 Niecene 115 
 
 Old Year Dead 116 
 
 My Annie 118 
 
 Love Sorrowing 119 
 
 In the City 120 
 
 Thirty Years Ago 122 
 
 A Country Burial 125 
 
 Accidental Death of a Boy Companion 129 
 
 The Dying Trapper to His Dog 131 
 
 A Transit of Venus 132 
 
 Mother and Child 133 
 
 Roll the Stone Away 134