PS 3531 
 .R24 M8 
 1918 
 Copy 1 
 
 
 /■ 
 
MOTHER OF MINE 
 
 AND OTHER VKRSE 
 
 BY 
 
 Harry Noyes Pratt 
 
 Copyrighted 1918 
 BY Harry Noyes Pratt 
 
*> 
 
 .4> 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 A^ 
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 To those ivho by their sympathy and understanding have 
 encouraged the production of these verses, they are affec- 
 tionately sent forth, with no apology for such faults as 
 there may be, but with the sincere luish that they may 
 reflect some little of the beauty and joy which has been 
 given me. ^jjfnd to her whose love and care and sympathy 
 are always with me, this little volume is gratefully 
 dedicated — to dear Mother of Mine. " 
 
 HARRY NOYES PRATT 
 1918 
 
 ©Ci.A5 08880 
 
MOTHER OF MINE 
 
 AT quiet eve with all the day's work done 
 I sit within my casement wide 
 And watch the glory of the setting sun. 
 Then mem'ry hearkens through the years, 
 I'm carried back to boyhood's days; 
 
 Again my mother greets me at the door, 
 Upon my head again her hand she lays. 
 Above me bends her dear, sweet face. 
 
 I tell again the day's adventures o'er, 
 
 Recount to her the paths I've trod, 
 The hills I've climbed, the tales of woodland lore. 
 
 Of bird and flow'r and new-made friends: 
 The shimm'ring trout within the stream — 
 
 The robin's nest — it's wealth of dainty eggs — 
 The old sawmill with sunken roof and beam — 
 
 I tell the day's adventures o'er. 
 
 Within her heart I never shall grow old; 
 
 The boy I was I'll always be. 
 And to my mother tales I'll still unfold 
 
 Of day's adventures, problems met. 
 Within her heart I'll solace find; 
 
 Her loving smile and tenderness of hand 
 Will sooth the aching heart, the weary mind — 
 
 Within her heart I'm still her boy. 
 
 Mother of mine, dear Mother of mine, 
 Your hair is as white as the wind-driven snow. 
 
 But the smile on your face is as sweet as the rose; 
 You are young in my heart, and — Ah, Mother — I know 
 
 That your love will be mine 'till the last long repose — 
 Dear Mother of Mine! — dear Mother of Mine! 
 
IT IS NOT TRUE 
 
 THEY tell me that in Flauders you lie dead 
 While o'er you ruddy poppies blow and bloom; 
 That broken is your thread upon the loom, 
 The thread within the fabric just begun, 
 A golden thread within the fabric spun. 
 They tell me that on Flanders field of brown 
 You laid your glorious weapons gently down 
 And fell asleep, your arms beneath your head. 
 
 But down the slopes I see you come to me 
 As in the days of old, all eagerly. 
 The tender grasses bending at your tread. 
 The fragrant apple blossoms o'er you spread. 
 Your smile is tender as it used to be — 
 And yet they say in Flanders you lie dead! 
 
 They wonder why 1 do not mourn for you 
 Who there in Flanders field are lying dead 
 While battling armies pass above your head. 
 They see me in my old accustomed way 
 About the village streets from day to day. 
 They see my undimmed eye and quiet face. 
 They see of grief for you no tear nor trace. 
 
 For in the garden where the larkspurs grew 
 
 When j'^ou were with me in those dewy hours 
 
 Of love among the fragrant, bloss'ming bowers. 
 
 The larkspur blooms again, all slender blue, 
 
 And there in dusk of eve I come to you 
 
 And meet you, hold you, midst my garden's flowers- 
 
 That you are dead in Flanders is not true! 
 
OVERSEAS 
 
 A SONNET 
 
 DEAR girl of mine, 1 wonder if you know 
 That through the long night hours my thoughts of you 
 Are my companions, ever staunch and true 
 As you are true to me. You love me so 
 That I am brave. What matter who my foe; 
 You are my helm, my shield, my armor bright. 
 You give me courage, strength, the will to fight, 
 Nor yield, nor bend, no matter what the blow. 
 Dear girl of mine, this is a wondrous thing 
 That you should guard me, even over seas; 
 That half across the stricken world you bring 
 The comfort of your presence and the ease 
 That comes of faith and trust. I hear you sing: 
 1 rest: I lay my head upon your knees. 
 
LAFAYETTE SQUARE 
 
 HIGH on a hilltop green I stand, 
 The busy streets on every hand. 
 The grime, the strife, so far below. 
 Here quietude and peace I know. 
 The smooth, soft sward beneath my feet. 
 The odor of the jasmine sweet — 
 The song of bird or laugh of child 
 In happiness all undefiled — 
 The freshness of the new-mown sod — 
 A breathing spot, a place of God. 
 
 And far across the sparkling bay 
 Proud Tamalpais guards the way. 
 The circling seagulls shrilly cry 
 About the steamers passing by. 
 Pursuing waves spin white with foam 
 As shoreward they come rushing home. 
 Across the hill come wreaths of mist 
 As salty as the sea they've kissed — 
 I leave the hill; I take with me 
 Full measure of its harmony. 
 
LULLABY-O, BY-O BABE 
 
 WHEN all the little birds have gone to rest 
 An' night winds whispe' soft an' low. 
 When red an' gold am glowin' in the west, 
 Then Mammy holds her baby lovin', so, 
 An' sings to him this lullaby, 
 Lullaby-o, sleepy boy-o, lullaby: 
 
 "Silvah moon am sailin' low, 
 
 By-o babe, mah babe; 
 Off to slumbah Ian' yoh go, 
 
 By-o babe, mah babe. 
 Baby dreams will come to you, 
 
 Keep yoh happy long night through, 
 Whil.'^t yoh mammy watches you, 
 
 By-o babe, mah babe." 
 
 The rivah's lappin' soft upon the shore. 
 
 Shy whip-poor-will am callin' sweet. 
 While star gleams come a-peepin' more an' more, 
 
 or mammy cuddles warm the little feet 
 An' sings to him this lullaby, 
 
 Lullaby-o, sleepy boy-o, lullaby: 
 
 "Silvah moon am sailin' high, 
 
 By-o babe, mah babe. 
 Slumbah Ian' am corain' nigh, 
 
 By-o babe, mah babe. 
 Happy dreams am comin' fast. 
 
 Drowsy eyes am closed at last. 
 All the troubled day am past, 
 
 By-o babe, mah babe." 
 
CHRIST WALKS WITH ME 
 
 CHRIST walks with me across the shell-swept fields: 
 Bare is his head and empty are his hands. 
 Unarmed is he, yet unafraid he stands 
 And unafraid am I amid the strife, 
 For this I know, Christ is my shield and life. 
 Unarmed is he and yet a power wields 
 Which turns aside the sword. No foe may harm 
 With whom Christ walks. And now thrice armed am I: 
 All evil forces harmless pass me by. 
 With Christ as shield I know I am secure. 
 He is my sword, a flaming weapon bright 
 Which wins the strife and sweeps away the night, 
 Which cleans the world of all that is impure. 
 Christ walks with me. With him I shall endure. 
 
LOVES ME, LOVES ME NOT 
 
 I WONDER if of happiness or pain 
 You bring me most? I wonder if you care? 
 You say you love me: all the world seems fair, 
 The sunny skies hold not a hint of rain. 
 My vanished youth seems with me once again 
 And hand in hand I wander with you where 
 Sweet flowers bloom amid the meadows there. 
 And then you say I bore you, that my tale 
 Of love for you, too often told, is stale. 
 Yet when I turn away you call me back 
 And turn to gold again the clouds of black. 
 I wonder if you care? Or is my love 
 A thing for moment's wearing, like a glove. 
 Then cast aside, forgotten, with disdain? 
 
TOUCH NOT MINE ANNOINTED 
 
 1 Chron. 16:20-35 
 
 WE are thine annointed, Lord, who goeth forth today, 
 Resistless as thy will, Oh Lord, we enter in the fray. 
 
 In mighty hosts we're passing across the trackless 
 seas; 
 We bear to heathen nations thy wonderful decrees. 
 Thy glory, thy salvation, declare we unto them; 
 The heathen claims that men are serfs iu thy name we 
 
 condemn. 
 The idols they have made them of will and lust and greed. 
 And unto which for sacrifice they've made thy people bleed. 
 Are hurled from their exalting, are ground beneath thy feet. 
 To thee are made an off'ring, thy triumph is complete. 
 Then shout, ye heavens, in gladness and let .the fields 
 
 rejoice, 
 Let heathen nations tremble at the grandeur of thy voice. 
 Thy mercy is enduring, in Truth all men are free — 
 To thee be thanks and glory; all praise be unto thee. 
 
CAROLAN 
 
 DEAR friend of mine, 
 Tbey tell me you have gone, 
 That you have passed beyond 
 Those gates of pearl 
 Which open but one way. 
 They tell me that your loyal heart 
 Is stilled. I will not have it so. 
 No love like yours, so rich and strong 
 For all mankind, could pass. 
 It may be for a little while 
 You've gone away — beyond the door — 
 Into the garden— otherwhere— 
 But this I know, you are not far. 
 You could not leave for long 
 Those friends who love you so. 
 
 I think I hear your laughter, 
 Hear you call to me — 
 I feel your presence near; 
 You are not far away. 
 
YOU BID ME GO 
 
 You cannot understand. 
 You cannot see why I should wish 
 To go — to leave the old home ties. 
 To leave behind the old, familiar faces 
 And the old, familiar ways. 
 You do not see in me 
 The man. You see the boy 
 Who followed you about. The child 
 On you dependent. He who ran to you 
 With every hurt and care. 
 I am a man. 
 
 Where once to me was given 
 Now must I give. 
 
 The guarding care which held me safe 
 Was but for this, that I might yield again. 
 Protected then, 'tis now I who protect. 
 I am a man. 
 
 Strong to uphold those same ideals. 
 Those principles and faiths 
 For which our fathers fought. 
 And you would have me so. 
 You would not have me craven, 
 Seizing each least excuse to stay. 
 I were not your son 
 
 If I were thus. You who through years 
 And long did keep me, clothe me, 
 Give me ev'ry comfort, ev'ry care. 
 Could not beget a coward! 
 It is the flesh, weak and outworn, 
 Which thus would hold me. 
 Your spirit, strong with its undying youth, 
 Will gladly bid me, 
 Go! 
 
BEYOND THE HILL 
 
 WHAT lies beyond the hill? 
 No easy road to knowledge, ours. 
 But e'er the mystery be solved 
 The rough hill paths 
 We must surmount, until. 
 The summit reached, we see beyond — 
 Behold before us spread 
 Beauty undreamed of; 
 Ready to our hand 
 Our soul's desire. 
 
 Keep then thine eyes upturned 
 To seek the goal. 
 The crag beneath thy feet, 
 The grasping snag, 
 The chasm deep, 
 Unseen is oft unfelt; 
 Unseen is scarcely feared. 
 Watch then thy goal. 
 
A GLADE WHERE VIOLETS 
 GROW 
 
 DEEP down within a fragrant woodland brown 
 I know a tiny glade where violets grow, 
 Where all along the hillside, stars of light. 
 The trilliums lift their lovely heads of snow, 
 Three-petaled on the broad green leaves below. 
 And here spring beauties shake their charming bells 
 Above the mould wherein the bloodroot dwells; 
 The wild plum sheds its spicy fragrance rare 
 Sweet on the rain-drenched, ling'ring springtime air. 
 While silv'ry sweet from out a basswood tree 
 A nesting robin plaintive sings to me 
 Its lullaby of swiftly falling night. 
 Upon the tiny glade where violets grow 
 The soft light of the moon sifts gently down. 
 
THE LOOKER-ON 
 
 I AM standing on the curbing while the boys are march- 
 ing by, 
 I hear the bands a-playing, I see the colors fly: 
 I see the glint of eager eyes, the clench of brown-hued 
 
 hands — • 
 Our boys are marching, marching, on their way to alien 
 
 lands. 
 They have dropped the hoe and mattock, they have left the 
 
 desk and pen. 
 They have gathered to their bosoms the accoutrements of 
 
 men. 
 And as the long, brown line goes by, with quick and sturdy 
 
 stride, 
 I — I watch them pass me, from the curbstone at the side. 
 
 When down the sunny fields of France our boys press 
 
 toward the foe, 
 When o'er the shell-scarred, ragged fields our splendid 
 
 forces flow, 
 When v\'e hear our guns a-thund'ring, like the mighty voice 
 
 of God 
 And the boys press on in glory where despoiling Huns have 
 
 trod— 
 When our eagle shrieks in triumph o'er the German fields 
 
 of slain 
 And the crimson poppies tremble above a darker stain 
 Where men have shed their life-blood, over there beyond 
 
 the tide — 
 Then I — I watch them marching where I'm standing at the 
 
 side. 
 
 But mayhap the time is coming when I, too, may take my 
 
 place ; 
 Mayhap the God of Battle toward me, too, may turn His 
 
 face. 
 Then the splendor of the struggle, all the glory of the fight 
 May be mine as I press onward in the battle for the right. 
 Then no more I'll stand in anguish while the others fight 
 
 for me; 
 I'll be fighting with the others, I shall help to make men 
 
 free. 
 While our boys go marching onward, great Jehovah as the 
 
 guide, 
 I — I, too, shall bear the burden, over on the other side. 
 
 tr 
 
PURPLE MEADOWS OF 
 DELIGHT 
 
 I LEAVE behind that empty shell of mine 
 And through the splendid silence of the night, 
 Along the mystic star-trails, gleaming white, 
 With eagerness I pass among the stars 
 Into that purple meadow of delight 
 Which is our trysting place, our age-old shrine. 
 In flesh you have been mine but once in twice 
 A thousand years: Though that were Paradise 
 More perfect this, when in the star-strewn mead 
 Your very soul is one with mine indeed. 
 And though a thousand years may pass, and more, 
 E'er I shall hold you as I did before. 
 Within this purple meadow you are mine 
 Until the pale stars, dying, cease to shine. 
 
 Beneath the sun I plod long hours through. 
 
 Those waking hours of toil and man-made strife 
 
 Which mortal thought would say makes all of life. 
 
 But with the darkness opens fair the way — 
 
 I leave the body; as a sure-thrown knife 
 
 Speeds from the hand, I speed through space to you, 
 
 The purple meadows of delight I find. 
 
 All thought of flesh and earth is left behind; 
 
 No mortal love was e'er so sweet as this. 
 
 As when among the stars I feel your kiss 
 
 And wander with you o'er the starry sward 
 
 Of purple meadows while the moon keeps ward. 
 
 Oh, love of mine, in meadow sweet with dew. 
 
 Tell me, which life is dream and which is true! 
 
VIOLETS 
 
 WE are all withered now, but yesterday 
 When first we came to you, all dewy sweet. 
 With tinselled stems and tissue wrapped, complete 
 In florist's panoply, you found us fair. 
 You held us to your lips and pinned us there 
 Upon your breast and said, "Oh violets, pray. 
 What message have you brought from him today?" 
 We looked into your eager face above 
 And whispered what you wished to hear, just, "Love!" 
 So though today our leaves are withered, dead, 
 And withered droops each lowly, weary head. 
 You keep us still upon your breast and say 
 We still are fair, for still within us lies 
 The message which brought lovelight to your eyes. 
 
THAT WE REMEMBER 
 
 ACROSS the sodden fields of France 
 The dark clouds sweep, and low; 
 From crumbled cottage, ruined tower. 
 The rain drips, silent, slow. 
 Against the sullen, angry sky 
 The gaunt trees stand, and bare 
 Their ragged branches, specter-like, 
 Outstretched in wild despair. 
 Nor ever cottage window shows 
 The gleam of firelight. 
 Nor ever children's voices sound 
 In innocent delight. 
 
 Here gleam instead the white of bones 
 Where sons of France have died; 
 Here sound instead the drip of tears 
 Where orphaned children cried. 
 And round the mouldy, ruined walls 
 The cold winds sigh and sweep — 
 It is the cry of ravished homes 
 Where stricken mothers weep. 
 Leave then these fields of blood-drenched clay 
 Where crosses, humble, low, 
 Stand vigil o'er the sacred dead 
 Who lie here, row on row. 
 
 Leave fallen wall and shattered tree, 
 Leave trench and battle wound; 
 Leave tangled wire and war's debris 
 Upon this blood-stained ground. 
 That never through the coming years, 
 Whatever they beget. 
 May we, O children's God! forgive, 
 And never may forget! 
 
 If 
 
MY MOTHER'S GARDEN 
 
 IN a quaint old fashioned garden 
 In a dear, old fashioned town 
 Bloomed the sweet, old fashioned flowers 
 All the garden walks around. 
 Marigolds in yellow splendor, 
 Crimson peonies aglow; 
 On their stems, so tall and slender, 
 Hollyhocks their blossoms show. 
 And the Johnny-Jump-Up's faces 
 Peering shyly through the grass; 
 Love-In-Mist with dainty laces. 
 And the Bluebell's azure mass. 
 Bridalwreath, festooned and flowing 
 Near the sweet crabapple tree, 
 Where the petals, pink and glowing. 
 Set their perfumed odors free. 
 But of ail the fragrant flowers 
 Blooming in this garden old, 
 Dewy with the summer showers 
 There was one of joy untold. 
 Bumble bees went di-oning, humming, 
 Tumbling 'round to steal its sweet; 
 In the dusk the great moths, coming 
 Flying, flutt'ring to the treat, 
 Laved their long tongues in its treasure. 
 Hovered heedless close above, 
 Seemed half drunken there with pleasure 
 In this treasury of love. 
 'Twas the quaint old fashioned moss rose 
 That my mother planted there; 
 'Twas the sweet and fragrant moss rose 
 On her breast she used to wear. 
 
 In the dusk when stars are showing 
 And a fragrance comes to me 
 On the summer breezes blowing. 
 Then again I seem to see 
 Sweet old flowers that were swaying 
 In that garden years ago, 
 And again a boy I'm straying 
 Where the sweet moss roses grow. 
 
OLD MAN WINTAH 
 
 DAMP wind blowin' from the souf, 
 (Heah Bob White a'whistlin' on the hill!) 
 Big snowflake come siftin' down 
 Thoo the branches bare an' brown. 
 Oak leaves fallin' — driftin' fast, 
 Win tab sure am come at last — 
 (Heah Bob White a'whistlin' shrill!) 
 
 Soft wind blowin' 'gainst mah face, 
 
 (Heyah, Cottontail, whah yoh gwine?) 
 
 Gray clouds driftin', Avet an' low, 
 
 Oak trees tossin' just below — 
 
 Suah am settled in mah mind 
 
 Dat Old Man Wintah's just behind — 
 
 (Dah you go. Cottontail, 'roun' dat yellah pine!) 
 
 White birch shinin' thoo the gloom, 
 (Or black crow go cawin' past) 
 Crick a'fiowing, smooth an' brown, 
 Golden birch leaves floatin' down; 
 Mus'rat swimmin' up the stream — 
 Golly! Ain't no time to dream! 
 (Crow say Wintah come at last.) 
 
 Down the hill ol' Hetty waitin', 
 (Chimbly smokin', smell dat cookin'!) 
 Dogs go barkin' 'round' de door — 
 Ain't nevah seen me, cohse, befoah! — 
 Ground am gettin' wet an' white. 
 Old Man Wintah come tonight. 
 (Cabin sure am welcome lookin'!) 
 
THE POPPLE FAIRY 
 
 WE all was out in the woods one day, 
 Jus' AUie an' Jay an' me, an' say! 
 The sky was blue, an' the air was still — 
 Was scarce a breeze come over the hill. 
 An' the big, old sun was shinin' hot 
 Till Jay says he'd just as soon as not 
 Lie still in the shade of the popple tree. 
 An' when Jay says that, why, Allie an' me 
 Jus' flopped on our backs. High in the sky 
 A cloud, scarce movin', was floatin' by. 
 Through the popple leaves the sun poured down 
 An' a dronin' bee was the only sound, 
 Or — high over head — a flyin' crow 
 Cawed once or twice to his friends below. 
 But the popple leaves in the quiet air 
 Shivered and quivered and swung up there. 
 An' I laughed an' says to Allie, "Say, 
 Look at them leaves! 'At's a funny way 
 Fer leaves to do." An' he says to me 
 His Ma she says it's a fairy tree — 
 The popple fairies, little an' fat. 
 An' you can't see where they're hangin' at, 
 Ner no one else, but they turn an' swing 
 On the popple leaves, an' laugh an' sing. 
 An' she says if he'll just keep still- 
 But goodness knows if he ever will! — 
 An' listen sharp, why then some day 
 'At maybe he'll hear just what they say. 
 So Allie an' Jay an' me, all three, 
 We watched the leaves on the popple tree 
 Swaying an' swinging high up there, 
 Cool an' green in the silent air. 
 The bees droned on — a locust whirr'd— 
 An' that was the only song we heard. 
 I looked at Jay an' laughed, an' he 
 Laughed back, an' rolled on the grass, an' we 
 All three laughed, an' we didn't know why 
 But we just did, an' I says I 
 Bet a fairy dropped down from the tree 
 An' made us laugh, Jay an' Allie 'n me. 
 
HAULING THE NET 
 
 AT close of day, when western skies 
 Are painted with the gold that lies 
 At Heaven's gate, the sturdy men 
 Of Wedderburn pull in their net. 
 They stretch the barrier frail and then, 
 When from the sea the salmon run. 
 With, "Yo, heaA-^e ho!" they swiftly set 
 The bobbing corks in to the beach; 
 The waters foam and in the sun 
 The salmon gleam, until they reach 
 The sun-browned hand of fisherman, 
 Who flings them dying on the sand. 
 
 Oh, fishermen of Wedderburn, 
 'Neath incensed hills at set of sun, 
 How oft to you my raem'ry turns 
 To see again the salmon run. 
 
THERE IS NO PEACE 
 
 I STOOD last night within tho ruined shell 
 Which once was home. The empty windows there- 
 The blackened hearth, so cold and dank and bare — 
 The littered floor — and on the tattered wall 
 A scribbled taunt, a ribald jest from hell! — 
 Upon the broken tree beside the door 
 A ragged ribbon waved, 'twas one she wore — 
 I called — and echo answered — that was all. 
 "Celeste Marie!" — and thro the doorway crept 
 A gaunt and weary Thing, all worn and bent. 
 With vacant eyes which all their hope had spent; 
 With sunken eyes which all their tears had wept. 
 
 They tell me peace has come, that war shall cease: 
 With bitter heart I cry, "There is no peace!" 
 
 1> 
 
GOODNIGHT, SON ! 
 
 AT evenin', when the shadows lengthened 
 An' got so you purt' nigh couldn't see, 
 My ma, she'd come to our back door an' call to me, 
 An' say, "Now, Johnnie boy, you go an' 
 Clean your face an' hands. What have you done 
 To get so dirty? My good lands. 
 You are the beatenest!" 
 
 An' then I'd go an' get the old tin pail 
 A hangin' in the porch by the back door 
 Upon its rusty nail, an' take it to the well. 
 The old pump'd squeak an' sque-e-ak, 
 An' purty soon the water'd come. 
 So cold and sweet. 
 
 An' then I'd splash an' scrub. 
 
 An' come up splutterin', an' then I'd rub 
 
 My hands and face and head 
 
 Upon the towel, hangin' 
 
 In the porch by our back door, 
 
 An' wash my feet and scrub some more 
 
 B'fore ma'd let me go to bed. 
 
 An' then I'd creep between the cool, soft sheets 
 An' ma'd come an' kiss me, "Goodnight, Son," 
 An' take the lamp away, an' down the village street 
 I'd hear the doors a closin', one by one; 
 The bullfrog's chuggin' an' the cricket's song 
 Would drop away, er rise an' swell an' flow along 
 Until I drifted fast asleep. 
 
 Long, long ago! I've drifted far an' wide 
 An' many years have passed since then, 
 But when the shadows fall an' eventide 
 Brings all the sleepy evenin' sounds 
 Again I live the boyhood days an' see the one 
 Who tucked me in my bed and kissed me, 
 "Goodnight, Son!" 
 
Ferse hy Harry Noyes Pratt, -ivit/i 
 coaler design and decoration by the 
 same, and made into a hook in this 
 month of December, nineteen hundred 
 and eighteen, hy IV. J. IVcisman, 
 hoth of Sacramento, California. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 018 391 061 9