IMP WSm mm WeS <"><*. Poems %%%Z%%%2 Short Stories and Poems. BY NELLIE H. OWEN. WHITTET & SHEPPERSON, Printers, Richmond, Virginia. Copyright by NELLIE H. OWEN. 1909. © AUG/* WW CI. A 2 4 5 9 8 AU310 1909 1*! JDcbication. So &entutfep, mp Jlaribe &>tatt, anb to Virginia, rfje J^omt of mp glboption J Bebicate ttjis igoofa fc&r Swrfjor. CONTENTS. STORIES. Page Barbara Carlyle, 9 Valley Farm, 18 My Sister Madge, 26 From Tenement Walls, 39 "Elmwood" During the War, 47 POEMS. My Old Battered Canteen, 61 Hail, This Easter Day, 63 The First Easter Morn, 64 He Simply Sleeps. Written on the Death of Dr. Moses D. Hoge, 66 From Prison Walls, 68 A Poetic Tribute — On the Fiftieth Anniversary of Rev. Dr. Moses D. Hoge's Ministry Before the Second Presby- terian Church, Richmond, Va., 7° Hollywood, 72 'Neath the Palm and Willow, 73 To the Rev. Dr. J. B. Hawthorne, 74 Hollywood Memorial, 75 Tribute to Little Agnes Cunningham, 76 Lines on the Death of Little Willie Cook, 77 I Built a Bridge of Fancies, 78 They've Sold the Farm, 80 6 Contents Page Maud's Picture, 82 My Angel Grace, 84 The Clarabel Lee, 86 In Quilting Days, 89 A Sabbath Day With Mother's Bible, 93 Ben and Ned, 94 Little Brown Hands, 97 We Little Know, 98 You are a Subject of His Mercy, 101 To Mrs. C. H. West, 103 Grandmother, 104 The Lord, My Shepherd, 106 Separated, 107 My Treasure Chest, 109 Old and Alone, 112 When John and I were Young, 114 The Old Wood Fire, 118 Shall We Know Each Other There, 119 In Memoriam — To Miss Wortley Scott Embrey, 121 The Old-Fashioned Home, 122 The Old Year and the New, 123 To a Friend of Former Days on the Death of a Child, 124 Tribute to Rev. N. G. Terry, the Pastor and Teacher of my Girlhood, 125 On Memory's Shore, 127 Let There Be Peace, 128 Preface. The greater part of these stories and poems have appeared in various newspapers, magazines and in book form. The Author. Short Stories and Poems. BARBARA CARLYLE. It was one of those cool, damp evenings in the early Fall, that Aunt Barbara and I felt the need of a fire. We found ourselves seated in the library beside a cheer- ful blaze; it seemed that we did not partake of its cheerfulness however, for from some cause we knew not why, both were bordering on a melancholy state. Could it be the season I wondered, and my thoughts naturally reverted to William Cullen Bryant's beautiful poem, "The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year." We had sat so long without speaking, that the very silence grew embarrassing. I glanced at my aunt to see if I could divine her thoughts. Ah me, they seemed so far away, that even my presence had no effect upon her. I had learned from my mother that there was a romance connected with her beautiful sister's life, for who could look into her face, as she sat in the fire-light beside me, and not be impressed with its beauty. Yes, she was a lovely woman, and the patrician was strongly marked upon every feature. Why she should on the verge of one-half century, have found herself unwed, was a question all would ask. She occupied the house wherein she was born. My dear mother and brother had married and left it, but she true as the needle to the io Short Stories and Poems pole, seldom found herself outside its walls. Grand- father and grandmother had long since been laid to rest in its beautiful family burial-grounds ; only Aunt Babara and its trusted servants left. I came and went at my will; I loved the dear old house and its beautifully-kept grounds, and who could know Aunt Barbara but to love her. It was her wish to have me always with her, but of course I couldn't entirely abandon my own home ; but so unselfish was mother that she seldom forbade me going when aunt felt the need of company. But in all my visits to this beautiful woman, I had never seen her so absorbed in thought, as on that memorable Fall evening. I had longed ever since I grew old enough to feel an interest in such things, to hear her life's romance from her own lips; but not for world's would I have touched upon such a delicate subject unbidden. But it seemed to me my darling aunt was communing with absent ones to-night, for her thoughts were so far away. She finally awoke from her reverie, and turning to me exclaimed, "You have been a dear little girl, Carlyle, to leave mama and your lovely city home so much, and come to brighten a cheerless woman's life." Aunt Barbara could never realize eighteen summers had passed since she first held me in her arms, and sang lullaby songs to me, it was always "little girl" with her. Well after breaking the silence, she relapsed into a deeper train of thought, if possible. I became restless, and walking to the window stood for several minutes peering out into utter darkness. Aunt Barbara finally moved her chair to one side, saying as she did so, and in a nervous and unusual tone, "Come here little girl and sit upon this otterman at my feet." I had never seen Short Stories and Poems ii her in such a mood, what could be its meaning. I went unhesitatingly as bidden and sat beside her. She held up her hand as if to shade her face from the fire's bright glow, and in a faltering voice said: "My thoughts are wandering to-night, Carlyle, they have taken me back thirty years, into the bitter past, and why I find the great impulse to speak on a subject, that has been locked in my bosom all this time, is a mystery. Not for years have I spoken to your mother as I will to you, my darling. "You see me here a lone, lone woman, you have often traced sorrow's lines upon my furrowed brow, and often have you smoothed the silvery locks long grown so, and braided them into a coil, to suit your fancy. Well these furrows and silvery hair tell their own story; ah, me, it seems plain enough for all the world to read. At twenty years of age, Carlyle, I was a loved and loving woman, fortune had been lavished upon me, and they told me that beauty and grace were also my portion. I was the gayest and wittiest in every crowd in which I mingled, all vying for my hand in the dance, or a quiet tete-a-tete whichever it might be. "During one of the gayest winters through which I had passed, and at one of the most fashionable balls, I was introduced to two gentlemen, princely in their bearing, words cannot express their grandeur. Young and giddy as girls of my age usually were, I fell des- perately in love with each, but after a few weeks, I found that I had become entirely enraptured with Howard Grahamme, while I still admired the other, yet I realized as I had never done before the true meaning of affection. I endeavored to conceal my real feelings, for I had never before truly loved, and I had an idea 12 Short Stories and Poems that my popularity as a belle would quickly wane when society knew my choice was made. I'd as well have tried to change the course of a mighty river, as to have kept my love for Howard Grahamme a secret. Did not my very blush betray me? Yes, Carlyle, it was written in every feature of my face. His rival, Cecil Wayne, like others soon knew all. I had no idea, little girl, I had stirred such emotions in this strong, proud man's breast, haughty and reserved as he was, and up to that time withholding his affections from the fairest women. I met him as I had always done, and treated him as I did other gentlemen acquaintances. I would often meet him in company with Howard, and in all instances would show no preference. "The winter passed quickly by; the last fashionable ball was soon to be given. Howard was to be my escort. Your dear grandmother had lavished this world's goods richly upon me, for this crowning event, yes, my costume would have graced the courts of royalty. I was resplend- ent in diamonds, and the rarest laces, and how con- scious was I as I swept through the long, crowded ball- room, keeping time to the grand march, that all eyes were riveted upon me. May God forgive me, Carlyle, for all the vanity felt that night. Oh, I trust, little girl, He has made my heart whiter than snow in all these years of suffering. Howard Grahamme seemed enraptured in my presence, and although a man not given to soft speeches, he could not refrain from saying, "Babara, you are queenly to-night." Then Cecil Wayne came up to offer his hand in a favorite waltz. After it was over, he invited me to sit with him in one of the beautiful conservatories, until we had rested from the fatiguing dance. It was there, Carlyle seated in a remote corner, Short Stories and Poems 13 hidden by the lovely plants and flowers, he poured forth his unbounded love. Never I think in looking back to it to-night, did such a strong appeal ever fall from the lips of a man. He was a lawyer, learned in the profes- sion, but he never argued a case as he did that night ; and when he realized upon what grounds he stood his indignation knew no bounds. Being a conceited man he could not realize how I could prefer another to him- self. He seemed to pass like magic from the confines of reason into wild delirium — his very soul seemed on fire. Little did I realize the extent of that fire. Jealousy, one of earth's greatest monsters, wove fancies of an in- nocent man's treachery. His frenzied brain grasped the idea that Howard Grahamme, to appear the brighter be- fore me, had maliciously maligned him. He believed that untold indignities had been thrust upon him. "On the next morning a challenge was sent to Howard Grahamme, in which he was accused of de- faming the character of the challenger. In those days no man of honor could fail to accept such. The paper read they must meet on the morning after the acceptance. Howard came to see me the evening before, but never once in the slightest way alluded to what was heaviest on his heart. He left at his usual hour, and at parting held my hand and looked into my face in a way he had never done. He turned aside as he emerged from the door, and said: 'Good-bye, sweetheart, may God watch over you if we never meet again.' Ah, me ! is there one day in all the year those words don't haunt me? Yes, I can hear and see him in the silent hours of the night, when all the world is wrapped in slumber. Oh, Carlyle, he was so grand and noble ! My emotions are fast overpowering me, forgive a weak woman. 14 Short Stories and Poems "In the gray misty dawn of the following day, How- ard Grahamme and Cecil Wayne met in the suburbs of the city. Only the doctor and seconds knew that such would be. "My heart stops still, as visions of that gray morn- ing's dawn come over me, the morning that witnessed my darling's fall. Yes, he fell by the hand of Cecil Wayne, and his life's blood ebbed away on that damp, cold ground, and his noble heart ceased its beating there ; the hand, that had held mine so lovingly, in parting only a few short hours before, grew motionless there; his lips that had called me endearing names grew silent there ; those large wistful eyes, that had looked so plead- ingly into mine when he bade me his last farewell, grew sightless there. Was there ever a sadder day? It seemed to me that my life from that time on was as a day without the sun, a night without a star. I raved in delirium for weeks, verging on the confines of the grave. I never saw my heart's love more, they knew too well I could not endure to look at his dead, cold face. He was carried to a distant city, the home of his birth, and tender hands laid him away and left him sleeping. Yes, he is sleeping, Carlyle, God and the angels re- ceived him ; I know that his last night on earth was spent in sweet communion with his Maker, and then was he not always just and good. "You see me here, little girl, a sad, cheerless woman ; many winters have passed over my head, leaving their snow upon it, yet I know it will be summer, eternal summer, when Howard Grahamme and Barbara Carlyle meet." Blinding tears were coursing their way down her cheeks as these last words fell from her lips. This here- tofore emotionless woman was deeply stirred to-night. Short Stories and Poems 15 Whether to leave her alone with her grief, or to throw my arms around her in loving sympathy, I scarce could tell. After a few bitter sobs she exclaimed, "Never, Carlyle, in all these thirty years, has my heart given vent to its feelings, but in some way, I know not how, the fountain has burst forth to-night. Forgive me, little girl, if I have given you pain, you are far too young to know aught of earth's sorrows." My dear aunt lost sight of the fact that she was only two years my senior when that bitter cup of woe was placed to her lips, turning youth into old age, and the fair bud into a faded flower. My whole soul went out in sympathy to the suffering, uncomplaining woman. Leaving my low seat at her feet, I arose and threw my arms caressingly around her. "Oh, my dear, darling aunt Babara, would that I could have shared your grief all these years, if in that way I could have mitigated one moment's pain, or been a balm to your wounded, bleeding heart I" The melancholy of the early evening only deepened with that sad recital, and although I had always longed to hear Aunt Babara's romance, yet it pained me beyond expression, to see the ashes of the bitter past so deeply stirred, and to see that beneath them were the brightest coals, coals that would never cease their burning. Oh ! with what patience and silent resignation this sorrow had been borne, never bewailing her fate, or cast- ing her grief upon others. Her heart is almost worn out I thought, as I looked into her face that night. The urn containing the rare flowers is fast crumbling. I had never before had such feelings as took possession of my very being as I sat and gazed upon my aunt after she had unlocked the innermost recesses of her heart and 16 Short Stories and Poems laid it bare. After a little while she withdrew to her chamber. I sat with busy thought gazing into the dying embers. A presentiment of coming evil haunted me. Can it be that I am to hear that father or mother are ill; I must go into the city on the morrow and spend a while with them. I sat harboring such unpleasant thoughts until the little clock on the mantel pointed to the hour for retiring. I arose and went to my room. After a prayer for all loved ones, I retired with a de- termination to drive away all presentiments and fears. But reader they come sometimes only as a gentle re- minder of a storm, so as to stay its hand and force. I had scarcely fallen into a sweet slumber, before Emily, my aunt's maid, came in the most startling man- ner to arouse me. ""Miss Babara is very ill, do Miss Carlyle come right now." I hastened at the greatest speed to my aunt's \room, and found as I instantly thought, and the family physician immediately said, that it was all from the heart, just its giving away. On the following morning mother and father came in answer to our summons. They found the spirit tak- ing its flight; she only looked into their faces pointing upward. In a little while the angels bore her home. Mother was utterly crushed, the shock and suddenness of it all, was more than she could well bare, she and Aunt Babara had been such loving sisters. We laid her away to sleep, just as she said they did Howard Grahamme. Her grave was bedewed with bit- ter tears, for we loved her dearly. Yet we felt that Howard Grahamme and Babara Carlyle had been re-united up there; and that earth's winter was passed, and she was basking in heaven's eternal sunshine, where it was summer always. Short Stories and Poems 17 In looking over her effects we found stored away where she knew I would find it — her will. She be- queathed the old house and grounds, together with her handsome jewels, to me, and mother an equal amount of property in an adjoining town. I looked around on my vast possessions and thought, I love you old house, and every inch of ground for miles around, but never could I live within your walls. In fancy I could ever see Aunt Babara as she sat that night unlocking the innermost recesses of her heart, and it seemed in fancy I could hear the cords snap asunder, as they soon did. I am a woman grown to wife's estate. I have a little Babara the very image of the dead one, but in all these years, my thoughts cannot revert to that one sad night without a shudder, and I find myself saying as did my darling aunt, "But it will be summer, eternal summer when Howard Grahamme and Babara Carlyle meet." 18 Short Stories and Poems VALLEY FARM. Where to spend the summer? was a question per- plexing mother, Kate and me. We had been to Long Branch, Saratoga, up the Hudson, stopping off at the various picturesque points; summered at the Adriond- acks, Cape May, and many other fashionable resorts too numerous to mention. ''Mother," exclaimed Kate, "I am tired of all this fashion and folly, I do so long for a quiet, sweet rest some where. All the winter attending german after german, reception after reception, giving entertainment after entertainment, until it has become a horrid bore. Going out often when you would give the world for an evening at home ; in fact living the life of a martyr." Mother, dear good woman as she was, believed in girls living brilliantly, as she termed it, not sitting down snuffing ashes around their own heartstone, but, like a butterfly, flitting from place to place sipping the sweets in fashion's whirl. "Kate, I am surprised you can't appreciate the ad- vantages given you, advantages so many girls are de- prived of ; I think you show a very great want of grati- tude," was mother's curt answer. "I wouldn't have you feel that way about my ideas on the subject, but you know it is but natural to wish a change ; yet, dear, good mother, take us where you wish." Time wore on, yet there was no more said about where we should go until the parching June sun made us mindful some move must be made. Mother had never spent a summer in the city, and, not being very strong, we knew it was necessary she should be making her plans. Short Stories and Poems 19 One day a letter came to her from her sister Ruth, one of the sweetest characters that ever lived, the very- salt of the earth, whose home was in the Valley of Virginia. "Read it," exclaimed Kate and I in one voice; we did so delight in hearing from the dear creature. It was the sweetest, tenderest letter in which she expressed what happiness it would give her to have us with her during the summer, and how much joy it gave her to know that mother felt she would be glad to come. Now that was our first intimation that one word had been written to Aunt Ruth on the subject. Mother had kept it all to herself, just waiting to give us a happy sur- prise when the answer came. Kate and I could scarcely coax sleep to our eyelids that night. Far happier were we than if we had been planning a tour around the world. Well we remembered the few visits made to that unpretentious valley home. We knew a queen reigned there, crowning each subject within its walls with joy and peace. And oh what a worry and brain work was spared us, for did we not have an over abundance of everything needful in the way of a summer outfit for Aunt Ruth's home. So we had but to pack our trunks and speed away. We were a day and night in reaching the valley. When we arrived at the nearest little station, we found a large old-fashioned country gig awaiting us, with Aunt Ruth's old trusted driver, who had come into the family when mother was in long baby clothes, seated on top ; and whose dear old head should be peering out, but our darl- ing aunt's. Kate and I exclaimed aloud at the sight of that familiar face that had remained the same for twenty years. Mother often said she didn't believe it 20 Short Stories and Poems would ever grow old, like other faces. With kisses and hugs 'till our hats were all to one side, and our hair in disheveled masses, we finally proceeded on our way. After an hours jogging and trotting over the country roads, and talking all at once 'till we were almost hoarse, we reached dear old ''Valley Farm." There we found awaiting us, another face grown beautiful with age, Aunt Hulda's, though no relation of ours, merely a sister of Aunt Ruth's dead husband; but she had been a fixture at "Valley Farm" for years, and it wouldn't have been the same place to us without her. She gave us all such a cordial greeting, exclaiming, "And this is Mary, Kate and Berta, come back after all these years. La ! Berta has grown so large Aunt Hulda would not have recognized in her the little wee baby she used to lull to sleep on her knee." We hadn't been to the farm for several years, and it seemed an age to these dear old people. The next to offer greetings was old Aunt Dinah, the cook at grandma's home when Aunt Ruth was beseiged with lovers ; and mother a tiny babe. "La bless me, here dese chilluns dun come back; well if dey ain't as grand a two as you'd ever wish to see, jest good 'nough for Aunt Dinah's eyes to rest on, any way." After a little quiet, for we were quite worn out from our journey, we were invited into the little summer dining-room, where, I can tell you, Aunt Dinah had everything in abundance: nice, fresh milk and butter, steaming hot waffles, chickens, fried as brown as a bun, and the most delicious preserves, of Aunt Ruth's and Aunt Hulda's own making. Every thing in the city seemed stale in comparison with Aunt Dinah's repast. Short Stories and Poems 21 After taking a little stroll in the flower garden, the pride of Aunt Ruth's heart, we were obliged to retire and rest our wearied frames. Now did any one ever see two purer, sweeter rooms than Aunt Ruth always kept as guest's chambers. The snow white dimity curtains were looped back with deli- cate ribbons ; and the antique furniture that had been handed down from sire to son ; but no other could please Aunt Ruth so well, and so immaculate was it kept that it was a gem of cleanliness, and never looked old. "Oh, mother !" Kate said, as she entered these rooms, "dont ever talk to me of your fashionable resorts again. I wouldn't give one month of Aunt Ruth's sweet rest and peace for one-half dozen summers at Long Branch, Saratoga or Newport. Here one has time to think, and cultivate the mind God has given." We arose next morning with the sun. Aunt Ruth was strictly business, and every detail was executed with perfect system and regularity. Although she was the dearest little hostess in all the world, yet she would per- mit no sluggards in her home. We spent the earlier portion of the day in rambling over the farm, except mother and Aunt Hulda, who re- mained to keep her company. Mother never liked the country, and could see no pleasure to be derived from such a ramble. But how we did enjoy the cool, running brooks, and wild flowers growing on the hillside. Were there ever such lovely ferns? Aunt Ruth was so pleased to see us such lovers of Nature, she said it brought us nearer to Nature's God. The first Sunday of our stay was hailed with delight. It had been so long since we had worshipped in any but our own stylish city churches ; here we could go and re- 22 Short Stories and Poems ceive an inspiration divine. The old lumbering gig was brought out in full time. Kate and I donned white mus- lin robes and rustic hats. We felt they were in better keeping with the costumes of our neighbors. After a ride of over two miles, we reached the dearest, sweetest, little church nestled in a shady grove. I thought, as we entered it, "Here is Kate's haven of rest." Aunt Ruth had occupied the same pew for twenty years; of course they were all free, yet every one knew just who loved that one particular place, and so it was always assigned her. It was directly under the pulpit, therefore we had to occupy a very conspicuous seat, if we pleased Aunt Ruth. We were enraptured at the beautiful congregational singing. No paid choir in Aunt Ruth's church. How beautiful the Father was praised in those simple hymns, and the little organ as it pealed forth its melodious notes, seemed in such perfect keeping with the surround- ings. When the rector, a handsome, graceful young man, stepped forth, all eyes were riveted upon him. His ser- mon was full of pathos and power, his pronunciation faultless. "It seems," said mother, on our return home, "Mr. DeVille would seek a wider field, he could surely com- mand a handsome salary in one of our city churches. "You forget, my dear," quickly replied Aunt Ruth, "money is not what our dear rector is seeking. He has had several fine offers, but he says his flock is here, and he, the tender shepherd, cannot leave it." Aunt Ruth found an opportunity after services to in- vite him to Valley Farm on the following Wednesday Short Stories and Poems 23 evening, so that we could meet her dear pastor and know him just as she did. He came, and it is needless to say we were all well pleased, even fastidious mother could but express her great admiration. The farm doors were ever open to the young man, and need I say he often found his way there during the summer. For, to make a long story short, he was well pleased with Kate from the first. Aunt Dinah's eyes were soon opened. "I do think de rector do cum to Valley Farm enuf. I thought he did cum of 'en to see Miss Ruth and Miss Hulda; den he'd cum once a week, but 'fore my marster! he is comin' here, eber two or three days now, why I've dun cooked three suppers for dat man dis week. It peers mighty plain to old Dinah he's sot eye on Miss Kate. Well to my thinking, he'd not find her betters in many a days walk, so let him cum. You know Dan'l, how of'en you use be cumin' 'round me, when we'd sot our eyes on one nudder." This little secret was poured into the ears of old Uncle Daniel, the coachman, as he sat half dreaming un- der the shade of a wide-spreading oak in the back-yard. Mother had her ideal husband for Kate and me, many a towering air castle had she built. Our ideas were so different from mother's. How she did love pretention and style. She had hurried us into society at such an early age, that by the time we were old enough to make our debut, we were thoroughly weary with its false glitter and show. So it seemed to us if there was an earthly eden, it was right here at Aunt Ruth's home, in Virginia's valley, and how we did enjoy worship at the quiet country church, where all was simple, pure and Christ-like ; shut out, as it were, from a false world of vanity and show. 24 Short Stories and Poems Our summer hadn't been half spent before mother saw her visions of splendor were fast crumbling to de- cay, for Kate lost no time in telling her the rector had proposed, and only awaited her sanction. Aunt Ruth was the happiest old soul; and told us it had been her prayer ever since we came. Mother could not suppress her admiration for the talented young man. "But, oh, if he only did live in the city. How could she endure to see Kate isolated from all the world." Her wishes had always been paramount, yet Kate couldn't let them lie between her and happiness, and she well knew, in time all would be well. Aunt Ruth had always a great influence over mother, and she, if nothing else, would bring things about all right. Then, wasn't the rector grand and noble, speak- ing for himself? He insisted the marriage should be near the last of our happy summer ; neither he nor Aunt Ruth could hear of Kate going back home to have the rites solemnized. Aunt Ruth must be present, and she didn't feel equal to such a journey; then the rector was anxious all his dear flock should witness the ceremony. Mother wouldn't listen at the proposition when it was first made her, but, after awhile, she relented and gave her full consent. The day arrived at length, a day divinel/ fair. All nature seemed to smile upon the nuptials. The little church was a bower of roses and ferns ; it was my ideal of an earthly paradise, as I gazed upon it. No pains had been spared by a devoted congregation to make all things pleasing to the man that stood before them, pointing the way to God. Our rector from the city had been invited to perform Short Stories and Poems 25 the ceremony. As he stood, the reverent man, with silvery locks, uniting those two young hearts, with youth's promises before them, and the world's glitter and show behind them, I thought — how beautiful the love that God hath given. Aunt Ruth gave a lovely reception, after which the happy couple, accompanied by our rector, mother and me, went to our city home. A few days with us, and the two were off for a tour. After that was over they went back to their little flock; Kate taking possession of the cosiest little nook, her life's dream. Aunt Ruth and Aunt Hulda were two delighted souls to have her and the rec- tor so near, and mother in time laid aside her foolish pride and ambition for show, and became to feel that this life is made up of something grander and nobler, and to take infinite delight in Kate, her little home, and last, but not least, the rector. 26 Short Stories and Poems MY SISTER MADGE. Were there ever two happier maidens than Madge and me ? Do you wonder when I tell you we had the dearest most indulgent of parents, and our beautiful country home was a perfect little eden. We had an abundance of worldly goods, our wishes were gratified by the ask- ing, and we could but revel in the sunshine of home-com- forts, to our heart's content. Our education had of course not been neglected, and after we had outgrown the dearest, sweetest of governesses, we had our finishing touches at one of the finest city seminaries for young ladies. We went back home thoroughly equipped for our entrance upon the "arena of life." How we did en- joy our little eden bower after all these days of toil in school. Our parents were so delighted to have us back after all those weary months of separation. Well do I remember with what "an air of pride" father watched us a few mornings after our return from the city, as we sat out on the lawn perusing some favorite poem ; after looking at us for awhile he exclaimed : "Ah ! my little doves, how glad father is to have you come back to the dovecot again." And putting a hand upon each head, he said: "Home wasn't the same without our Madge and Carol, in fancy I could hear your loving voices about the house when I guess you were delving into your Latin or Greek. Your mother's eye had often a far away longing look, I knew too well she was thinking of her absent girls. Well you have come back now and we have but to make this home our little paradise," with this he turned and walked down the lawn. "How happy it should make us," said Madge, "to see our father and Short Stories and Poems 27 mother appreciate our home-coming; I wonder if two girls ever had such dear, darling parents. "We are indeed blessed," said I, and do you know, Madge, I am such a little simpleton as to imagine such earthly pleasure cannot last, that sooner or later the alloy will come into our gold." "Oh ! why do you think so, Carol ? I am sure there are no signs of a coming storm ; your head is too young for such sage predictions, why one would think you were dear mama talking." This was in the beginning of the golden summer ; the June roses were shedding their fragrance all about us ; the beautiful little summer birds were carolling over our heads. All nature had donned its brightest garb. Per- sons from the city were fleeing countryward for com- fort, leaving parched walls and blistering streets and go- ing where the wild-flower and thyme grew in luxuriance. On one of these hot June afternoons a stranger came to our eden home. My father was the first to greet him as he came up the long, winding walkway leading to the house. He was ever hospitable and kind and no one seeking shelter with him was ever turned away. He grasped the stranger's hand with as much cordiality as if he was meeting a tried and trusted friend. The stranger perceiving the manner of man he was meeting, lost no time in making his wishes known. He was a gentleman from the city; he had brought down his artist brushes, etc., intending to spend a few weeks in that romantic part of the country where he was sure of finding an abundance of material for his sketches ; he had been at- tracted to our lovely home by its beautiful surround- ings and was sure he could but find peace and comfort within its walls, if father would but admit him as a summer boarder. 28 Short Stories and Poems Father ever ready to put others at ease instantly showed him a seat on the beautifully kept lawn, and tell- ing him there could be no objection, but, of course, wife must be consulted, hastened quickly into our little sitting- room where mother sat with some light work which she delighted so in doing; her dear hands were never idle. With a heart overflowing in kindness towards all the world she quickly told father to hasten back and bid the stranger welcome to our little eden. The guest chamber was always kept in readiness. He was immediately shown up where everything for his comfort awaited him. After refreshing himself from a day's journey, he was invited into our little parlor and introduced to mother, Madge and me. He had told father his name out on the lawn, and to his surprise and delight had found him to be a nephew of an old boyhood friend. That settled it all with father, no more recommendations were neces- sary. Madge and I had donned some light, airy, summer fabric so becoming to girls of our type, and the fair stranger was handsome to behold as he walked into our presence. I could but note the mutual admiring glance as Madge and the stranger met, and I thought as I looked at my sister that I had never seen her fairer than on that June evening, clad in that soft, clinging gown, with the fragrant June roses at her throat, and a faint color suffusing her fair cheeks. Yes, my sister was truly a beautiful woman and queenly in her bearing. I did not wonder the stranger failed to conceal his admiration. After a dainty tea, we again repaired into the parlor where music was the order of the evening. Our guest seemed to thoroughly enjoy it, and never did Madge's voice ring out so clear and sweet; she seemed to be inspired. I almost held my breath, so amazed was I. Ah ! the stranger I could see was enraptured. Short Stories and Poems 29 After Mr. Fenton (for such was his name) had re- paired to his room, father, turning to mother exclaimed : "Well, wife, we need not regret giving our Madge vocal lessons this last term, why I had no idea she possessed such a voice." It seemed from that time on everything she did was perfection. She rode with more grace, she talked with more fluency, she smiled more sweetly, she dressed more tastily, if she placed a bunch of flowers at her throat or belt they seemed as natural as if growing in mother earth. Can you wonder the stranger had no eye for anything but our Madge? Ah ! those long summer days were happy ones to them, between riding, boating, and long strolls through the vast grounds surrounding our home, the hours flew on wings, and but little time did the young artist have for sketching. He showed his wonderful skill, however, by a picture of Madge and me standing among the roses, and our little eden in the background. He insisted it would not be complete without father and mother, and after several entreaties they consented to be sketched. He named the picture "Eden Bower," and it was a fair likeness of our happy family and lovely home when this stranger entered it. The long summer drew to an end, as does all things earthly, and Mr. Fenton's visit was over. What a change came over our Madge as the few days allotted for his stay were rapidly passing, and although she would not admit it to any of us, I well knew that her heart had been given to the summer boarder. The last night of his stay, however, he called mother and father into the parlor, saying he would like a short conference with them. He then told them that their daughter Madge had completely won his heart, and that he could never 30 Short Stories and Poems return to the city a happy man unless they gave their consent for him to come in a few months and make her his wife. What a painful struggle it was for these dear parents to consent to such a proposition, but Mr. Fenton assured them he had won her heart and all she wished for was their consent. When did such a father and mother refuse to do anything that would promote their children's happiness? So they could but tell him if such was Madge's wish they could never stand as a barrier be- tween her and her future happiness, and if she remained unchanged toward him until the time set for his return to make her his own, they could but give their consent. "But Mr. Fenton," said our mother, "to see Madge go- ing away from us and belong to another touches a cord in my heart and snaps it in twain, she has been a dear dutiful daughter, and how can we give her up?" "Yes, little wife," said father, "your own mother felt the same way when I took you from her tender loving arms, such is life, my dear. We rear our children but to see others come between and supplant us in their affec- tions." And turning to Mr. Fenton he continued, "You must realize sir this is no trifling jewel you have won, but that the possession of a woman's heart is riches far above precious stones set in gold unalloyed, and some- thing you cannot too highly value." "I fully realize," he quickly exclaimed, "the love of such a woman as Madge is a fortune to any man, and I can assure you sir my life's effort will be to become worthy of the trust." On the morning following this conversation, our boader took his leave amidst hand-shakings and general regrets. Madge, to conceal her deep feelings, complained of headache and repaired to her room immediately after Short Stories and Poems 31 Mr. Fenton's departure. It was then I had a private conference with mother. Some how those old presenti- ments would live and grow with me, let me try ever so hard to dispel them; so I must unburden my heart to some one, who so worthy the confidence as our dear mother, who always held a listening ear to all our joys and sorrows. "Oh, mother I" I exclaimed, "do you know I have a presentiment of coming trouble in this little summer ro- mance of Madge's. What it is I cannot exactly tell, but something whispers there is a cloud gathering over our little eden. I can't say Mr. Fenton is not all I would have him be, that his love is not genuine and sincere, that he is not worthy the love Madge bestows upon him, but oh, there is a horrid something, I can't tell just what, that haunts me constantly !" Mother turned her eyes toward the beautiful September sun that came peeping through the sitting-room windows, and there sat in deep- est thought for some minutes; then turning to me, she said: "Well, my daughter, I am sure I can't tell why such presentiments should fill your young head. Mr. Fenton has noble blood in his veins; his uncle was your father's trusted friend, so he does not come to us en- tirely unknown; he tells us what progress he has made in the art world and that he is fast rising to distinction. He and Madge have been constantly together since the first day of his coming among us and should therefore know something of each other's disposition; their hearts seem so strongly linked together, your father nor I can well break the chain. I have known parents to inter- fere in cases of this kind and thereby bring the bitterest woe to loving hearts. We will but do the best we can, leaving the unfinished work to God." 32 Short Stories and Poems After laying my heart bare to mother I felt an un- speakable relief, and could but upbraid myself for har- boring such foolish thoughts. And as letter after letter came from the absent lover and Madge found in them the sweetest comfort and peace, so overflowing were they in love and tenderness that I felt more and more what a simpleton I had been, and my conscience did so smite me that I felt like apologizing to some one, I knew not whom, for entertaining so foolish a presentiment. We had gay visitors from the city, and in my en- deavor to make their stay pleasant, all thoughts of com- ing evil were dispelled. Whenever a letter came Madge would forget all else and steal gently away, holding sweet communion with her absent lover. If he should not prove true, I thought, what would be the result, for no girl it seemed to me was ever so deeply in love. There, I thought such foolish ideas were dead, how hard when mistrust once steals into the heart to uproot it. But hers was such a big loving heart so overflowing with sensitiveness and pride that I knew a false act of his would send an arrow through it, piercing it to death. No one knew Madge as I, not even our mother. Our guests' visit was over. They had not long re- turned to the city, before a loving epistle came clothed in such tenderness, telling Madge that all business ar- rangements were about perfected and but little remained for him to do but hasten to "Eden Bower" claiming his bride. Preparations commenced from that day. Father was very lavish, withholding nothing necessary to a handsome trousseau. Madge's taste was exquisite, and she was not long in sending to the city orders for the loveliest, daintiest outfit. In a few weeks box after box came containing these costly articles. Madge's whole Short Stories and Poems 33 heart seemed centered in her lover and her trousseau. Her confidence knew no bounds in the man to whom she was plighted, but I never opened a box or closed it but to feel some hope was crushed beneath its lid. Ah, me ! that bridal robe of the costliest, richest, rarest satin, old lace fit for a queen to wear adding elegance to the satin gown. It seemed as if my heart ceased to do its bidding when that robe was spread out to view, but mother and Madge were delighted with its splendor, and why should I not be? I determined they should neither know my feelings, so after a few hasty compliments I left the room. Mother turning to Madge, exclaimed: "Carol dis- likes to look at all this ; she realizes how soon you are to leave us ; poor little dove, how lonely she will be for there never lived two more loving sisters." Madge turned aside to brush away a tear, saying: "Yes, mother, the separation is painful to us both, but Carol can spend so much of the time with me, and you and father are so mindful of your children's pleasures that she will ever find some diversion here." A few days after the above conversation Madge re- ceived a letter from her lover saying he had been un- expectedly called away from the city, and as no definite day had been set for the wedding nothing would be said about it until his return. The night the letter came I tossed from pillow to pillow, at last fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming that Madge was standing over a fearful precipice, one step would hurl her into eternity. I awoke crying aloud, and begging some one to save my sister. The dream so un- nerved me that I was unable to leave my room for several days. 34 Short Stories and Poems Alas, dear reader, little knew I what news awaited me ! November with its chilling frost had come. Father, mother, Madge and our dear governess, who was with us on a short visit, were seated in our cosy sitting-room around a glowing fire, when I suddenly opened the door and walked in. They were all delighted that I should be well enough to join them, and exclaimed, as if in one voice, "What a delightful evening we shall spend." I had scarcely gotten seated before the messenger father usually sent for the mail, returned, handing in a letter in Mr. Fenton's well known hand. My sister in- stantly broke the seal, but to read a few lines and fall back in a swoon on the chair in which she was sitting. So excited were we that no one could look at the false missive at once. Ah ! when we did : listen, all who feel for woman's woes : "Dear Madge: — "I come to you with a burdened heart, for well I know you are one of earth's noblest women, therefore I would do you no farther wrong. "I never told you of a little girl I loved before she'd grown to womanhood, and how she was coyed away from me, placed in a convent, and I never permitted to see her face. She is now a woman and with a fortune in her hands defies bolts and bars. It was in answer to a letter of her's that I left the city when I wrote you not many days ago. Just one sight of that woman, Madge, and all my old love was rekindled. Well I know I can never love another as I do her. She knew nothing of our engagement for she is the truest of women, and would never cause one heart pang to another. Short Stories and Poems 35 "I have laid the case before you, and if you feel you could be happy wedded to a man whose heart is another's, I ask no release, but I could not stand before the altar with all this locked in my breast. "Had I never seen this woman more the love of other days would have been as nothing to me. I would not give you a pang for all the world ; but I feel in justice to us both you should know all. Act as you think best, you are a woman capable of judgment." When the contents of the letter had been read, I fell on my knees and sobbed aloud. The whole house was deeply moved. Father, strong man as he was, walked up and down the long hall unceasingly. Woman's pride, what lengths and breadths it has. Poor Madge suffered as much from that as from the loss of the man she had so trusted. Mother and I carefully hid away in an unused trunk all those lovely articles that had given her such joy to receive, but somehow the pain was no more to me to see them laid away than it had been to receive them, my forebodings had been so great. Father answered Mr. Fenton's letter releasing him forever. Under no circumstances would he have one of his daughters wed a man whose heart was another's. His letter was short and just to the point. So ended Madge's summer romance. Alas ! could it have ended in every sense of the word, but my sister was of such a proud and sensitive nature, that do all we could, nothing could divert her. The idea of having bestowed her love upon a man whose heart was another's, haunted her by night and day. Christmas came, always a joyous season to us. We 36 Short Stories and Poems planned to have the festivities go on as usual ; our same number of friends were invited. The house was dec- orated with mistletoe and evergreens. Apparently Madge was happy with her guests, but ah me, I knew full well it was only feigned, the heart was breaking! The warm spring days came only to find our dove drooping its wings lower and lower. Finally mother, father and I grew desperate and came to the conclusion something must be done. We planned a trip abroad. Italy, fair Italy, would certainly awaken new thoughts, causing her to forget the past so far as woman could forget. She acceded to our wishes with great reluctance. Earth held no charms for her. Italy, with its soft genial clime, would be no more to her than her native land. She, in company with father, went, however, but as she predicted, all to no avail. Father seeing nothing could benefit her, and as she was continually longing for home, mother and me decided to gratify her wishes to return. Can I ever forget the look of despair upon father's face the day of their home-coming? How tenderly he lifted her out of the carriage into our dear mother's arms. Ah me, what sorrow had the summer boarder brought to "Eden Bower." Madge was borne by loving hands to her room, and laid upon her own bed, there to languish away. No pain. The most skilful physician pronounced it simply a broken heart. That was a sorrowful night at "Eden Bower." We all saw too plainly our Madge would be with us but a few short weeks. Father and mother shed their tears together. Short Stories and Poems 37 A few days, and June has come, the month of roses. Just one year ago the stranger came. Madge called to me one morning in the beginning of the month, and bade me sit beside her and hold her thin white hand in mine. "Do you know, Carol, just one year ago he came, the June roses were blooming all about us just as they are now. Do you remember how we bedecked ourselves in them, and awaited his coming in the parlor? Oh, Carol, Carol, would he had never come to 'Eden Bower !' " She turned away, closing her eyes, and said no more. It was the first time she had made such strong allu- sions to the bitter past. We all decided from the first it was better never to mention it to her. Father merely told her he had answered Mr. Fenton's letter, leaving nothing for her to do. How heart-breaking it was to see our Madge fade away day by day, and know her stay on earth could almost be counted by the hour. Our dear governess came to be with us until the end came. We were all seated around her bedside a few days after she opened her heart to me, I saw she had some- thing she wished to say, finally her faint voice broke the stillness : "Carol, the roses will still be blooming, and I be gone, they are refreshed by the soft summer rains, and the gentle dews of heaven, but nothing can refresh me; and Carol, when I am gone place a bunch of the purest and whitest on by bosom just as I wore them — that night." Poor mother's sobs were heard throughout the room. Turning to her, Madge said : "Mother, why do you weep? The gates of the beautiful city are left ajar to receive me, and there I shall find an 'Eden Bower' where you will all come soon. You and father have been kind, 38 Short Stories and Poems loving parents, but nothing can hinder my journey heavenward." Our trusted friend realizing our intense agony, arose and commenced stroking the fair hair of the dying girl. With that she gently fell asleep, and sweetly slept during the night. On the following morning we saw her breath was growing fainter and fainter, and we knew too well her young life would soon be spent. In scarcely audible tones she summoned us to her, and pointing upwards whispered : "The angels are waiting, good-bye. " For the first time death had entered "Eden Bower" and borne away the fairest of its flowers; how could we lay away from sight one held so dear? The pure un- worn bridal robe was brought from its hiding place — we felt nothing else would be so appropriate — and the white roses were arranged just as she wore them — that night, for in fancy I could see her as she looked when she appeared before the stranger in girlhood's sweet sim- plicity. You that have had death enter the threshhold, and seen loved ones borne away, can conceive our bitter an- guish when we gazed upon our darling robed for the tomb. But what a consolation, the angels had received her triumphantly, and that she had found an eden far more resplendent than ours. • Short Stories and Poems 39 FROM TENEMENT WALLS. (A Xmas Story.) "To-morrow is Christmas, the merriest, happiest time of all the year, Annette, but to us, it only brings sadness. Oh ! does it not recall one year ago, when father, you and I dwelt in our little cottage home, and all was bright within. Would that I could dream the day away, dream that we were again in that cottage home with poor, dear father." "Louise, my dear, your talk is vain, the little cottage home is now another's, and dear father, in heaven. All your sighs, dreams, and tears can make no change in us, we can but make the best of the present, and be thankful for the little we have." "Oh, Annette ! had not that base man, that father so trusted, defrauded us, we could still have occupied the little cottage. How could he have been so wicked, as to rob his partner's helpless children." "Some men, my dear, will stoop to anything for money. He knew father had left all the books and ac- counts with him, and that we knew nothing of business ; but, dwelling on that, makes our condition no better ; we can never regain one copper that is ours. It is a great shadow in our lives, but don't let it forever exclude the sunshine." "Annette, how can any sunshine enter these tene- ment rooms? I passed the cottage yesterday, and, do you know, I sobbed like a child at the sight of it. I drew my veil closer to hide the tears. In imagination, I could see dear father sitting in the south window, bask- ing in the sunshine; just as we saw him a few hours 40 Short Stories and Poems before that fatal accident, when he lost his life on that ill-fated train. And don't you remember how he sat there on last Christmas day, when the earth was so beautifully covered with snow, and peered out into the streets, and how he said God had clothed the city in such a lovely Christmas robe, so becoming the season; and don't you know the little cottage was all bright with holly and mistletoe, and how much pleasure he took in its adornment; and when the few invited friends came in to dinner, how welcoming was his smile. He had such an entertaining gift, no wonder our home was always bright, and, Annette, how he loved to hear us sing. His old favorite songs, how they forever haunt me !" "Louise, my dear, do not brood over the past, I am sure our father would not have it so, for did he not always make the best of everything?" "Yes, I know he so often would say: 'Louise, my child, always hunt the silver lining to every cloud, it will be such a solace to you through life. Learn a lesson from your sister, she is a ray of sunshine. Why, if she comes into my chamber the darkest winter day, she makes it all bright and sunny there.' " "And how he did love a sunny nature; and for his sake, Louise, cultivate sunshine in the heart. I know these tenement walls are obnoxious to you, but, my sister, could they not be more barren? Are we not comfort- able ? Doesn't the little annuity left us by grandfather pay for these rented rooms ; and the little mite taken in from our music and art meet our other demands ? You forget, my dear, there are thousands of poor working girls in this great metropolis that haven't near the comforts that fall to our lot. What, if we do have to rise early, and Short Stories and Poems 41 work late; hasn't God given us health and strength? Just look into one of the windows on Fifth Avenue, that we pass every day, at that poor girl, who has to be wheeled from room to room in an invalid's chair; she has riches, but would you exchange your tenement home for her Fifth Avenue residence, and give her your health, and take her burden on yourself? Let in the sun- shine, my dear, throw wide the windows, and let it pene- trate these poor tenement walls. As for me, I am thank- ful each night, that our great, loving Father has clothed, sheltered and fed me, through the day ; and how humbly do I ask for His help on the morrow." "Annette, you were always better than I. God has showered riches in your heart, my dear sister; He has filled it with contentment." "So would He fill yours, Louise, if you would only let Him. What is that you have in your hand?" "It is only the morning paper, lent me by a lady in the first tenement : she has read it, so said I need not re- turn it, consequently, I have been in no hurry to read it. I always scan the want columns first, thinking possibly there may be some outlet from these dreary walls, for you and me." "There it is again, Louise; don't look on your home as being such a dark prison. Of course I should be thankful if the want columns did point to something bet- ter, but I find comfort here, my dear, and why can't you also? If you peruse that paper far, you will see many a heart has as much, or more bitterness than we have ever known. Father and mother are gone, my dear, but have they not gone to heaven? And we should strive each day to live nearer our God than on yesterday, so, when the summons comes for us to follow them across 4 2 Short Stories and Poems the dark river, we should feel and know that Christ would be our pilot, and heaven our home." "You were always an earthly angel, Annette, and as near heaven as one ever gets in this world." "Ah, Louise ! would I could live nearer and nearer every hour. It seemed dear father grew more spiritual day by day; and the very last hour that was given to mother on earth, was spent in telling us what beauties awaited her beyond the golden gates ; and that she could see them ajar, as if to let her in." "Religion is such a consolation, Annette, but our crosses are so heavy, I do grow weary." "Remember, my dear sister: " 'That the cross hard to be borne, Will shine all the brighter before the white throne.' " "Well, Annette, there is no use talking, I never could come into your presence with the sunshine all shut out of my heart, that you didn't open it's windows and let it in someway. What would I be without you? I am go- ing to read my paper, and forget my woes." With that she seated herself in a low rocker, and commenced its perusal. As usual, the want columns was first looked up. She had not proceeded far, however, before she cried out, almost breathlessly, "Listen, An- nette, can my eyes see aright; after one long, long year hunting for Uncle Philip, has he really come?" "What do you mean, Louise, surely you see nothing there of Uncle Philip?" "Oh ! here it is, read for yourself !" And with that, the excited girl handed the paper to her cool, collected sister. Short Stories and Poems 43 "Wanted — to know the whereabouts of Lucas Barton, who came over to America from England, about the year i860, in the ship 'Umbria.' An answer to this ad- vertisement will be gladly received by Ms brother Philip. Address, Philip Barton, care Hotel Vienna." When Annette read the above, without speaking one word to her sister, she clasped her hands in thanks to her God, for being the instrument in bringing her uncle safely to them. In vain her father had endeavored to know of his brother's whereabouts, but in some way they had lost all trace of each other. The two orphans lost no time in hastening to Hotel Vienna, and calling for their uncle. The resemblance to their dead father was so discernible in the living uncle, that both wept bitterly when he came into their presence. They told him that the brother, he had come so far to find,' had been dead for twelve months, but they were his children. "Ah ! my dears, you need not tell me that, for do I not see the eyes of my brother in one face, and the firm, clear-cut mouth in the other?" Uncle Philip then told them that soon after his brother left England, he was stricken with a severe malady, and was taken to a hos- pital, where he lay at death's door for months. When he recovered, news reached him that the "Umbria" in which his brother sailed, had gone down at sea, losing all on board; and he never knew anything to the con- trary, until he accidently met a gentleman from New York, who told him he knew Lucas Barton, and he was a resident of that city. Both girls exclaimed in one voice, "Oh ! uncle Philip, father always thought you died in that hospital. Your name, he said, came out in the death list." 44 Short Stories and Poems "Yes, my children, through some mistake, my name was put on the list of the dead." Strong man that he was, as he sat and looked at the children of his dead brother, the tears would come. Then they told of their bare tenement walls and how their idolized parent had, after years of toil, been defrauded of all his earnings by the man that should have proven the orphans' friend; how comfortable and happy they had been in their cottage home till the fatal accident took their father away. "Uncle Philip is an old man, my dears, older by five years than your father, and it appears mighty plain to him that it is only the goodness of God that has brought him over the ocean, finding two children to love him, yes, and care for him, as he walks down life's valley. Your tenement walls shall be exchanged for fairer ones, my dears, your uncle Philip has not come to you empty- handed, but with a well-filled purse. Fortune favored me after that year in the hospital, and although then on charity, every dollar was repaid with interest, and I now ©we no man." "Oh ! uncle Philip, uncle Philip !" exclaimed the en- thusiastic Louise, "can we have back our cottage home ?" How that girl had always loved that spot! "Yes, my dear, or one far more pretentious, if you prefer it." They both told him that their father had always in- stilled in them, not to cherish a spirit of show and vanity, and they had grown up loving their own little home, and had added to its comfort, until none could ever take its place. It was then let to strangers, the rental going to their father's partner, as he had claimed that, with all else belonging to them. Short Stories and Poems 45 Uncle Philip soon hailed a passing cab, and he and the girls lost no time in driving out to see the cottage. He then went with them to their home, and saw just how cheerless it was, and how the poor girls had to live under the same roof with people so far beneath them in culture and refinement. He immediately had them removed to Hotel "Vienna," until they could regain the little cottage, which they did, after paying its unjust and mercenary possessor twice its value. New York contained no happier girls than these two, the day they returned to their cottage home, and Uncle Philip's heart was overflowing to see such appreciation. "Oh! Uncle Philip," exclaimed Louise, "Annette has so long been telling me to open the windows of my soul, and let the sunshine in ; but, how hard it was to do that in that horrid place, but I do believe, my dear old uncle, the sun will shine here forever." "God has been so good to us, Louise, how can we ever again shut out the glad sunshine? Has He not brought Uncle Philip away across the sea to take dear father's place, and has He not given us back our home, and given mother and father one in heaven ? Oh ! Uncle Philip ! my life's aim will be to show Him my apprecia- tion, in giving you to us, and in doing that, He has given us all things needful." How happy these two girls made the old man, repay- ing him for all the years of toil in the old world. He had never had any children to call him father, so these girls were all in all to him. Annette's lovely disposition was so apparent to him, and Louise did let in the sun- shine. It seemed the year of privation taught her a lesson she might never have learned. Her daily contact 46 Short Stories and Poems with her sister had a wonderful effect, and she grew into a lovely woman. The old uncle bequeathed all his wealth to the two girls at his death, and be his days many or few, a fortune awaited them. They never grew weary of smoothing his silvery hair, of singing a soft lullaby that he loved, as they would to a little babe, of kissing his furrowed brow, or taking his withered hands caressingly in theirs. They knew Uncle Philip's journey would soon be over, that the staff on which he leaned, was almost broken, but, they said to each other, "What an inheritance is his, beyond the pearly gates." Short Stories and Poems 47 "ELMWOOD" DURING THE WAR. Our two dear brothers had enlisted and gone to fight for their country, leaving father, sister Alice, and myself, in charge, you might say, of Old Aunt Chloe and Uncle Joel, servants that had been handed down as heirlooms from sire to son. Our home was situated near Fussell's Mill, about twelve miles from Richmond, on the Darbytown road, and midway be- tween McClellan's and Lee's lines. Herbert and Paul were such bright, cheerful char- acters, that when they shouldered their muskets and marched out of the house, all of its sunshine went away with them. Father was growing old ; he had never rallied from the death of mother, which occurred two summers before the Civil War. He was naturally despondent, and I can see him now, as he stood in the doorway and watched his boys, which were the apples of his eye, leave home. With a shake of his head he exclaimed, "Oh ! Herbert and Paul, your poor old father will never see both, if either of you again." Sister Alice and I did all we could to make the best of a bad matter. "Oh, father," said Alice, "don't be so despondent ; many a soldier boy will live to see this cruel war over, and come home crowned with laurels." But, with all our encouraging words, it was many days before he was half way himself. What a sad time it was for my sister and me, though we had to keep up our spirits always when in father's presence; yet, when we saw the vacant seats at the family board, and when we gathered in our little sitting-room at evening, and saw not only one but three vacant, our hearts were almost crushed. Herbert and Paul were 48 Short Stories and Poems dear lovers of music, and with Alice, who was a beauti- ful performer, to play our accompaniments, we formed, what the neighborhood termed, a fine quartette. It was days after the soldier boys bade us adieu before we dared raise the lid of the piano, that had always been such a comfort and pleasure to us, as well as to our friends. Old Aunt Chloe never failed since she first came into our family, two generations back, to notice everything going on in it. She saw Alice and myself were on the way to make ourselves sick; so, coming into the sitting-room one evening, she threw the old piano wide open, and turning to Alice said: "You git right up dar, Miss Alice, and play one of dem dear old songs, and you and Miss Nettie sing loud as you kin hollow. I'se dun tired all dis moping over Marse Herbert and Marse Paul, when dey dun gone to fight for dar country ; sides dat, you only make ole Massa wusser dan he would be." Now, Aunt Chloe felt the absence of these boys almost as much as we did, for had not the good old soul fondled them on her knee, and sung a lullaby song to them many a night when all around were asleep. Yet her common sense told her to look on the bright side. Well, according to her bidding, we sang as loud as we could, although every song brought the absent back more vividly. Yet we learned a lesson from Aunt Chloe. The neighbors would come in whenever it was possible and help to pass off our monotonous days. Reading was our greatest solace. If we could only keep in good literature, we could manage very well. Father's eyes had long since grown dim, so Alice and myself would read aloud to him. How eagerly were the Richmond papers, Whig, Examiner, and Enquirer Short Stories and Poems 49 sought for. Uncle Joel went every other day to the nearest point to get them, as well as our letters. Herbert and Paul would try each time they wrote to buoy us up by making us think war life wasn't as dark as painted ; but well we knew how keenly they felt the many comforts denied them. Herbert was always a brave lad, and he was soon, by some daring act, made captain of his company. They would never write on the eve of a battle, but often, after all danger was passed, would come a thrilling letter. On one occasion Herbert wrote : "Oh, father, we had a grand skirmish yesterday ; had you been there, and seen how we boys routed the enemy, it would have done your heart good. We fought all day ; the contest was a difficult one ; the Union fellows fought like heroes, but we gained the victory in the end, and bore off the banner." "Oh, my dear boy," said my father, as we read, ,T am afraid one of these days you won't bear off the banner; your heart is set on the war; may God defend you." In a few days after this cheerful letter, came one that made our hearts' blood run cold. It was after the battle at Seven Pines : "Our hearts are sad to-night, dear father and sisters ; the battle is over, but alas, poor Charlie Trevillian is no more ; yes, the cruel bullet did its work, and he fell among the slain. You know how Paul loved him. Well, the boy stood over the dead body of his boyhood friend, and wept like a child. I tried for five hours to staunch his life-blood as it ebbed away. So many lay on that ghastly field Ave had to bide the surgeon's time. He sent many loving messages to his dear old mother. Looking up into our faces, as the pale moon shone upon him, casting its mellow light upon the battle-field, lined with the dead 50 Short Stories and Poems and dying, he said : 'Tell mother I die happy for God and my country; tell her not to think I go into the presence of my Maker in spotted robes, but that they are whiter than snow. War has never caused me to forget the precepts she taught me, and the prayer I lisped at her knee. And there is another, bend lower, Herbert, my breath grows faint; tell her, my Annie, on the battle-field I died; I had hoped to come back bearing all the honors of a young soldier, and cause her heart to leap with joy and pride, and one day to have stood before the altar of our little church and been made man and wife ; but God has willed it other- wise. Take a tress of hair for her and mother, and tell them not to weep for me. And Paul when you go back to our dear old home, and see the large, spreading tree, under which we so often sat and talked together, and where we carved our names, only a few days before leaving, you'll think of me and miss me there.' His voice grew fainter, and holding up his trembling hand, he shook each of ours by turn, then closing those mild blue eyes, the sight of which I can never forget, he said: 'Good bye, old boys, I am going now; defend your country and honor your God.' I had to rally my spirits after this death-scene the best I could, on poor Paul's account, he was so depressed and crushed ; they had been chums at home and in war. I have written to both Charlie's mother and Annie, telling them all. Alice, you and Nettie must lose no time in going to see them, and do all you can to assuage their grief. This battle was a great defeat to our cause. The blue coats won the victory, but the next day we came out conquerors. I have not been so concerned since leaving home ; but, ah, it was that death scene in the pale moonlight that caused it. I will be all right Short Stories and Poems 51 after a clay's march. Don't you, dear ones at home, dwell on the death of Charlie. You know such must be expected in war." But, notwithstanding this, our little band was deeply moved ; many a tear was shed for the dead sol- dier boy. We loved him dearly ; he had grown up with Paul, and our house was home to him always. Father grew more heart-weary than ever, after Charlie's death, and commenced longing for his boys' return. But they could never desert their regiment, and unless fur- loughs could be obtained, they must fight it out, though we greatly feared father's health would in time give com- pletely away. We went, as Herbert bade us, to see Charlie's mother and his sweetheart. They lived within a mile or two of each other. We found them heart-broken, and went back home sadder than before. As we have said, books and papers were our chief solace. Uncle Joel had been to Richmond and came back with a heavy supply. We had some friends in the city that sent us literature whenever an occasion presented itself. He came into the little sitting-room, where Alice and myself had seated ourselves, awaiting his return. "Oh, here he comes," exclaimed my sister as he entered the room with his packages. "Yes, and if you and Miss Nettie read all dese here papers, yo' eyes will be stone-blind, I tell you dat." How eagerly we listened to all the old darkey had to tell — what they were doing in Richmond, what they said, and what he saw. "Oh, Uncle Joel, is the war most over?" I asked. "What you dun talking 'bout chile; dis here war is jest begun ; dar is got to be signs and wonders carried out dat dat good old Book tells 'bout yet, 'fore dis war 52 Short Stories and Poems is ober. No, no, Marse Herbert and Marse Paul have got to fight many a battle 'fore dis war am ober." And with this encouraging revelation he left the room in search of Aunt Chloe and the supper she'd kept await- ing him. Alice and I were soon lost in the perusal of the Examiner, when a rap was heard at the front door. Aunt Chloe always kept every outlet locked and barred long before the shades of night came on. "Whose dar?" she called out before venturing to let- any one in. "Friends," was the answer, "Fred Barks- dale and Clifton Allen." These were two familiar names to Aunt Chloe. Many a meal had she prepared for Fred and Clifton, and many a time had she stood and watched them as they drove off so gaily to church, or a drive through the country with Alice and myself. How quickly she unbarred the door, and bade them welcome. These were neighbor boys that had enlisted about the time our boys did, but in a different division. They were then encamped near our house, and had gotten the countersign and come to spend the evening with us, as they had on two or three other occasions. How pleasantly the hours were passing, when we heard the sound of horses' feet ; we rushed to the win- dow, and peering out into the darkness saw the glit- tering swords and the blue coats could readily be dis- cerned. They made a halt before our gate. Aunt Chloe, ever on the alert, was in the sitting-room as we discovered who they were. "Fly for your lives wid me," she said to Fred and Clifton. They lost no time in obeying. She showed them into the kitchen, and hid them in a large pantry connected thereto, behind two empty old flour barrels. The foragers, for such they Short Stories and Poems 53 proved to be, rapped loudly at the door. Uncle Joel this time asked: "Whose dar?" "Soldiers! Let us in." The old man knew better than not to heed their cry, so he instantly opened the door. They immediately told him what their mission was, and that they were hungry, and had stopped at the first farm-house they'd come to for something to eat. Of course there was no repulsion in the case, so Uncle Joel said : "Yas sar, yas sar, des walk in, ise shore ole Massa won't 'fuse you a supper, tho' it is precious little we'se got to set 'fore you, gintlemin." "Well, bring out what you have, old man, is all we can ask," one of them replied. "Des walk into de settin' room dar, and wait till my ole 'oman makes ready fur you, all we had cooked dun been eat up, sars," said Uncle Joel. Alice and myself were deeply agitated, but we nerved ourselves for the emergency, come what would. Aunt Chloe had in- tended they should only find their way into the dining- room, but they had been so long without food their impatience knew no bounds ; so, before she had time to prepare a hasty supper, they went in search of the kit- chen. Our hearts almost ceased to beat when we saw them start in that direction. We knew Aunt Chloe had deposited our visitors somewhere in that locality ; but the old soul had never been caught asleep in all her life, so she was ready for them. They were four in number. "You des set right down dar, gintlemin, Fse nearly ready," and throwing wide open the pantry door she said : "We'se not got anything but a piece of ham and a little meal, but you is welcum to dat, and wid some strong tater coffee I'se in hopes you kin make out." "You just give us what you have, Auntie, and we will go on our way rejoicing," said one. The old soul seemed to take renewed courage from that, 54 Short Stories and Poems for never was a supper more quickly prepared, and I can truthfully say more hurriedly devoured. When they were thoroughly satisfied, they arose from the table and were lavish in their thanks to "Auntie," as they called Aunt Chloe. Then coming by the sitting- room, where Alice and myself still sat almost breath- less, they in a polite manner reiterated their thanks, and bowed themselves out. Was the departure of four guests ever hailed with more joy! The pressure under which my sister and myself had been subjected threw us into an extremely nervous state, and, falling into each others arms, we cried like children. "What is you cryin' 'bout I'd like to know, fur ain't Marse Fred and Marse Clifton safe as mice in traps, 'hind dem two ole barrels in de pantry, dat is if dey ain't skeered to death; lemme see," said Aunt Chloe. And with that she went and bade our soldier friends, "Git up from 'hind dem ole barrels, de Yankees dun gone, de horses have went up the road in a big trot." Our kitchen, as all old Virginia ones, was built separate from the dwelling. As soon as sup- per was prepared, Aunt Chloe was but too glad to hustle the foragers into the dining-room, as it was rather too close quarters in the kitchen. How thankful we were that father had retired quite early. He was always a sound sleeper, and being in a remote part of the house, was not awakened. "It was very risky in us coming to-night," Fred said to Clifton, after they had been rescued from behind the barrels. "Yes, replied Clifton, "but what is it a soldier won't risk when an opportunity presents itself to see old friends?" They had each been home a few evenings before, and had met with no adventure. Mrs. Barksdale and Mrs. Short Stories and Poems 55 Allen lived about five miles from where they were encamped. It was with many misgivings that we bade them adieu, about an hour after we did the foragers, and saw them depart. We knew not what difficulty they might encounter before reaching camp ; but, on the morrow, an old colored man of their regiment came with the joyful tidings, all was well. A few weeks after this occurred, a letter came from Herbert. It was just after the battle at Meadow's Bridge. It told us Paul was wounded, Paul, the youngest and the pet. Oh, how we feared to tell father. "Will it be best?" I said to Alice; but we had each promised him the day the boys left home to withhold nothing from him, so we read the letter just as Herbert wrote it. "Paul has received a slight flesh wound ; give yourselves no alarm ; he has been sent to the soldier's hospital, Chimborazo, at Richmond, where all attention will be given him. His trouble is so slight, I scarcely need write, but feared you might have an exaggerated account of it from some other source." Poor father, always despondent, exclaimed, "Oh, what a fatality Is connected with those boyhood friends ! Charlie has passed over the river, and who knows how soon Paul may follow?" How depressed the dear old man was; how deeply the ravages of war were cutting into his aged fame. "I shall go immediately to Paul," said Alice. "Yes, my daughter," exclaimed father, "have everything in readiness by an early hour on the mor- row, and let Joel drive you into Richmond ; you can stop with your friends and go to see your brother every day." As the last words died on his lips, he gave vent to great, convulsive sobs. A powerful, strong man he had been in his time, but now a child. "Herbert writes 56 Short Stories and Poems so encouragingly, father," I said, " and you know h^ was always the soul of truth, and with Alice's care, Paul will soon be himself, and ready to shoulder his musket again." "You don't know, my child," said my father, "you don't know." "Elmwood," the name of our country home, was the scene of great restlessness that night. Alice made all preparations for an early start to Richmond on the morrow, and as the gray dawn of morning stole o'er earth, she and Uncle Joel started to look after our boy. My sister was kindly re- ceived by her dear friends. One of the ladies accom- panied her to the hospital. How delighted Paul was to see Alice. "Oh, if I could but go back to "Elm- wood" and die," he said. The Surgeon told my sister, with good care, the wound would soon cure, and that her presence would be a healing balm. Paul sent many messages by Uncle Joel to father and me, never forgetting Aunt Chloe. He wasn't so sanguine in war as Herbert, but longed for home. How the hours dragged after Alice and Uncle Joel left, until we saw the faithful old negro nearing the house, as the shades of evening came on. I couldn't await his alighting from the carriage, but ran out to meet him, begging him to tell me how he found Paul. "Marse Paul is not gwine to die, I'se dun sot my eyes on him once agin in dis life ; yas, de dear boy has dun shook ole Uncle Joel's hand dis bery day." "Oh, Uncle Joel, I am so glad," and woman-like, commenced to cry. Father dwelt on every word that fell from the old man's lips. I could see the cords of suspense relaxing, and a feeling of relief pass over the dear face, as Uncle Joel told just what he thought of Paul, and how kindly he was being cared for. Many a prayer went heavenward Short Stories and Poems 57 from me in humble thanks that affairs were no worse than they were. In a few days came a long letter from Alice. Paul was rapidly recovering, and would in a week or ten days set out to rejoin his regiment. "Would he was setting out for home," said father. "Let us rejoice,'' I replied, "that he is able to resume his march." The next we heard of Alice she wished us to send the family carriage to Richmond that she might return home. Notwithstanding her mission, she had spent a pleasant time with friends, and the monotony was broken a while. Paul had returned to his division, all the better for the rest he had obtained. Life at "Elmwood" contained no variety for some months, except an occasional letter from the boys, as well as from Fred and Clifton. There were no events worth relating. The two last mentioned soldier boys' letters were almost as eagerly perused by Alice and myself as were our brothers', for had they not been our dear, loving neighbor friends long before Aunt Chloe ever secreted them so unceremoniously behind the two old barrels in the pantry. They had been moving from point to point, and now found themselves many miles from home and loved ones, but they loved the cause and fought nobly. Each had been promoted from privates to commanding officers. We saw through the Richmond papers that Picket's division was engaged in the battle of Gettysburg. Father would have us read him every word, though we feign would have kept him in ignorance. Ah, the sus- pense into which we were thrown, only those can tell who have passed through similar trouble. Uncle IV el kept a close watch for the mail, and alas, reader, the fatal missive came. It seemed to weigh 58 Short Stories and Poems like lead as I took it from the old man's hand, and trem- blingly broke the seal, and in a faltering voice read: "My dear Father and Sisters: — The battle of Gettysburg is over, and our dear Her- bert is numbered with the slain. How can I write these fatal words? My pen almost ceases to do its bidding. There is nothing more cruel than war, and have I not thoroughly tested it? Yes, I've stood on the battlefield and seen my boyhood's friend breathe his last, and now have I not seen my only brother slain before my eyes, with never a word or a good bye. But, oh, he was fore- most in the fight, which was glory enough for Herbert. He said to me the last night of his life : 'Paul, I had rather die in battle, than not to fight for my country and its cause.' Had he survived the battle of Gettysburg, he would have been made Colonel of his regiment. The Colonel was slain by his side, and he stood foremost in the estimation of Gen. Pickett, and was a universal favorite. Poor, dear father, would this blow could have been spared you in your old age; but remember your boy died like a hero. Our charge was a gallant one, but we met with defeat in the end. We are on the retreat, and I havn't time to write a long letter. Bear your trouble bravely; 'tis God that dealt the blow. Your loving Paul." Words, where were they to express our anguish? Herbert our oldest and our staff. We had expected so much from such a brother. Father's days, we knew, were few, so we naturally looked to Herbert. "Elmwood" was under a shadow; for days we ex- Short Stories and Poems 59 pected the death messenger to bear away our father. Poor Aunt Chloe loved Herbert more than she did any of us; her cup of grief was bitter; she seemed to be dazed, so far was she from her natural self. After this letter, we heard nothing of Paul for months. We were in great suspense again, thinking he might also have been killed. Finally a letter came from Fort Harrison. After that was captured, we heard nothing more of him until the fall of Richmond, and the final surrender at Appomattox. One bright morning, the last of April, to our great joy, we looked out and saw our soldier boy approach- ing home, all foot-worn and weary. Our pleasure was marred by the contrasting picture we drew when he and Herbert started out side by side, nearly four years before, and our thoughts naturally reverted to father's prediction that he'd never see both, if either, again. Paul wept like a boy when he reached old "Elmwood." A few days after his arrival Fred and Clifton came home. After a few days rest with loved ones, they came to see Alice and myself, no more to be disturbed by foragers, or be compelled to retreat behind Aunt Chloe's old empty flour barrels. Had our loving Herbert and dear Charlie been with us, our joy would have contained no alloy, but the pres- ence of the others brought them vividly to memory. The war had greatly impaired the fortunes of every family in the neighborhood, but the soldier boys soon turned their swords into plowshares, and went to work with a vim. In a year after their return, Alice was wedded to Fred, and I to Clifton. We had watched so long over our father that he would not consent to have us leave, so we lived as one family at "Elmwood." Old Aunt Chloe and Uncle Joel still 60 Short Stories and Poems occupied their quarters, unconscious, as it were, that their freedom had been given them. It would have broken their poor old hearts to have left "ole Massa and the chilluns." The roar of the cannon-ball was heard no more over the land, and "Elmwood" was again at peace. POEMS. MY OLD BATTERED CANTEEN. It has been in the war, comrades, It has passed through many a scene, But, oh ! how I treasure This old battered canteen. It is to me a lovely picture, As I sit and gaze on it here, Why I am growing weak, But I can't keep back the tear. Can it be Charlie's voice I hear, As he lay on the cold battle-plain, With naught but the sod for his pillow, Among the dying and the slain? "Just a little water, Harry, To cool my parched lips ; Bring the old canteen, my boy, That I may have a few sips." Many a fevered brow you've cooled, My old battered treasure, And to many a brave soldier boy, Have you given new life and pleasure. You were pierced by the enemies' bullet When the battle raged that day, And but for your protection, My life might have ebbed away. 62 Short Stories and Poems You have moistened my parched lips, On a long and heated tramp ; You have kept sentinel with me When far away from camp. You have cooled my heated brain From the Summer's scorching sun ; Yes, I love you, old canteen, For the good that you have done. Say, what is it I hear? Can it be the bugle's loud call — On, on to the march, boys, To the right with Stonewall; What difference does it make To our tired, weary frames, No such word as defeat Shall darken our names. The cannon's loud roar, Is borne on my ear, As we charge up the hill, All heedless of fear. The bullets pass by, In their deadly flight; But, with Jackson in command, We will come out all right. All yesterday in battle, But we won, did we not? Yes, many an enemy Lies cold on the spot; Many a mother's boy Yielded his life to his God; Oh ! soften, I pray Thee, The hard-chastening rod. Short Stories and Poems 63 Why, comrades, I've wandered, In war am I again, On the gory battle-field, With the dying and slain ; I hear the loud bugle, It is only a dream, And things are not real, Or just what they seem. My brain is growing clouded, Each give me a hand, And say you will meet me In that bright, better land ; We will there know no battle, No pain or distress, But in the arms of our Saviour We will all sweetly rest. HAIL, THIS EASTER DAY. Bring flowers on this Easter morn, And let us all the world adorn ; Let their fragrance fill the way On this blessed Easter Day; On the day our Lord did rise ; Then let praises rend the skies. We cannot imagine a cold, dark tomb, Our Saviour there in all its gloom; For He arose this Easter Day, Which to the world did plainly say, That the Father only lent the Son, And His mission here was done. 64 Short Stories and Poems No rose-lined pathway did he tread, But thorns were around Him spread ; They even pressed His blessed brow — A thought bitter to us now. Then why not hail this glorious day, That took our Lord from grief away. No broken urn lies at our feet, But the vase is all complete ; No crushed flower that could not bloom, Since Jesus, our Saviour, arose from the tomb, Showing to the world below That He could to His father go. THE FIRST EASTER MORN. {To Richmond's Beloved Pastors I Dedicate This Poem.) Years have come and passed away Since the first Easter day, Since the first Easter morn, When Christ arose before the dawn ; . When the women came around, Standing on the hallowed ground, For, in the sepulchre near by, Did not their loved Saviour lie? But what must be their consternation ! When the Lord of all creation Slept no more in the tomb, But had risen from its gloom ; Short Stories and Poems 65 Risen from the cold dark bed, Now no longer was He dead, But would pass into Galilee, His dear disciples there to see. Mary Magdalene to the sepulchre did go, For did not she truly know What the Lord for her had done, What a victory had been won? Had her robes not whitened been? Had she not been cleansed from sin? She could not too early be At the tomb her Lord to see. Quickly did she go and tell What at the Sepulchre she beheld. Then John and Peter went to see If anything so strange could be. Then, stooping down and looking in, They only saw where He had been; The linen raiment lying there, Their Saviour gone, they knew not where. Mary, returning to the tomb, Found angels only in its gloom. "They have taken my Lord away, On this sad and sorrowful day ; Laid Him, oh ! I know not where." How her cries did rend the air, Piercing cries from a heart of grief, That in some way must find relief. But what joy when He came, Gently calling her by name ; 66 Short Stories and Poems Then He bade her go and tell His disciples, all was well. Yes, the tomb for Him was past, And death's pangs o'er at last; Thorns no more would pierce His brow, All to Him was peaceful now. One disciple, Thomas by name, Could not believe He was the same Lord and Saviour crucified, For had not His Master died? He could not believe from wounds he bore He would see his Saviour more, Until He spake, then Thomas knew All the disciples said was true. Then Jesus did a sermon give, To teach and show them how to live, How to tread the narrow way Leading to the perfect day. With what compassion and pity he gazed, As they stood by so amazed. Then His farewell words were given, And in the clouds He ascended Heaven. HE SIMPLY SLEEPS. (Written on the Death of Dr. Moses D. Hoge.) He simply sleeps, there is no death, It did not come with expiring breath, Only a life resplendent came, Short Stories and Poems 67 And ease for a tired, worn frame, His earthly work so nobly done, And now he rests with Christ, the Son. Who for him ought shed a tear, For he had no thought of fear, Better by far, let tears be given For him who has no hope of heaven ; Not for a man all purified, Who before His Maker is justified. Not for a man whose robes are white, Whose soul will bask in eternal light ; Not for the one who is now at rest, Among the sainted and the blest; But for the one all tempest-tossed, And who may be forever lost. Is not the warriors' warfare o'er, And peace found on a fairer shore? And the truths he expounded so richly here, Are realized on another sphere. E)eem it not a chastening rod, The soldier has gone to meet his God. And now in beautiful Hollywood, Where sleep the just, the pure, and good, He has been gently laid to rest, With immortelles upon his breast ; And the river, flowing to the sea, Will sing forever his lullaby. 68 Short Stories and Poems FROM PRISON WALLS. What is it I hear, Warden? Is this just what you say — That I'm to go from these prison walls Into the bright sunlight to-day? I came here in the year ninety, And now it is ninety-five ; Why, I never expected, Warden, To leave this place alive. Have you been and told my Mary? Tell me just what she said ; I never thought that this would be, The day that we were wed ; She was a blithesome, merry maid, A woman fair and proud, And rather than have had me here She'd have seen me in burial shroud. That fancy picture on the wall — It hangs without a frame ; But if you will turn it over You'll see written there a name ; It is that of my daughter Fannie ; "Tell father it's all I could send, But he will know by this token That he has yet a friend." It is only a common picture, A scene on some little river; But, oh ! I treasure it, warden, Just for the sake of the giver; Short Stories and Poems 69 Yes, my own darling daughter, The message that came from you Was a balm to your poor father- He knew that your heart was true. I am growing giddy, Warden, My brain it does so burn ; These prison-walls seem rocking Each way that I may turn. You say that I'll go into the sunlight ; Well, it has no charms for me; I now prefer the darkness, It suits me better, you see. Ah! my heart kept time with Mary's, The day of our bridal vow; I can scarcely believe this is myself Standing before you now. Oh, Mary, my own loved Mary, False men did put me here. Why, Warden, can you believe it? I am brushing away a tear! Well, take me out in the sunlight, Let God's own genial rays Shine down upon me. Warden, As they did in happier days ; I will not think the contrast. Too great for my burdened soul, For God is mighty. Warden. And can make this crushed heart whole. ?o Short Stories and Poems A POETIC TRIBUTE. (On the Fiftieth Anniversary of Rev. Dr. Moses D. Hoge's Ministry Before the Second Presbyterian Church at Richmond, Va.) For fifty years this man of God Has stood before his congregation, Teaching the simple Gospel truth From Genesis to Revelation. He came here in manhood's prime, And how faithful has he been, Showing his people paths of light From the dark depths of sin. Many hearts he has linked together, In all these fifty years ; Many prayers for such been given, His blessings and his tears. He has seen them from the altar go, Start on the highway of life, The man so full of promises With the loving and trusting wife. To this same church the mourner has come All bowed with bitter grief; The chastening-rod has been so great, Where could there be relief? A loved one has been called away, A father, mother, sister, son, Yet would this reverent man of God Point to the comforting One. Short Stories and Poems ?i He wears the impress on his face Of dignity and power, And whatever the occasion may be He always holds the hour; His fame ends not upon our soil, He is known in foreign lands, And loved and reverenced there As his worth and truth commands. His is a large, expansive heart, He stops not in his congregation ; But loves to take the masses in, Whatever their relation. He believes in unity of souls, Of breaking the barriers down, And seeing the people of every creed Stand on one common ground. And in his anniversary He shows the loving heart; "Let all the people come," he says, "And every one take part." He knows in the great beyond, If their robes are pure and white There will be no difference made By Him who metes out right. And methinks beyond the river, When he gathers with his fold, That his crown will be resplendent Of the purest, brightest gold. He has labored for the Master, His life has been so fervent, That the plaudit of Heaven will be : Well done, good and faithful servant. i J2 Short Stories and Poems HOLLYWOOD. (To All Who Have Loved Ones Sleeping Within Its Gates, Do I Dedicate These Lines.) Tread softly here where angels sleep, Let no harsh sound disturb their slumber deep; The river flowing onward to the sea, Murmurs its softest, sweetest lullaby. The birds caroling in the grand old trees, Mingling their music with the evening breeze, Seem to sing in a quiet, subdued tone, Their merry, glad notes are here unknown. The violets fanned by zephyrs soft and low, Are whispering as they gently come and go : "We must pass lightly here, for around your bed Are sleeping many that the world calls dead." The queen of every flower — the rose, Here in its beauty and fragrance grows ; The lily pure, white and divinely fair, Wafts here its perfume o'er the balmy air. We seat ourselves beneath this quiet shade, For why need mortals here be e'er afraid? We can hold communion with nature and her God, We that have passed 'neath the chastening rod. A mystery, it seems, why loved ones are taken, But the thought comes that they shall awaken. Did not our Master lie in the cold tomb? And why should not that dispel every gloom? Short Stories and Poems 73 The very air seems freighted with angel voices, And every heart awakens and rejoices; Ah ! in fancy, we see them before the white throne, A glorified throng in a heavenly home ! No question arises, Shall we know them there? The father is too merciful that blessing to spare. They will stand at the gate and welcome us in, All we whose robes are white and spotless from sin. 'NEATH THE PALM AND WILLOW. (Lines Suggested by a Sermon of Rev. Dr. J. B. Hawthorne's.) There are no willows for the man Who obeys the Lord's command ; He can but sit beneath the palm All peaceful and serenely calm. If adverse winds should blow his way, They do not his spirit sway ; He knows it is the Father's will, And at His word all will be still. The palm tree over him will be, Matters not how wild the sea ; He will not 'neath the willow sit, If the shadows do about him flit. Hope shows the little beacon star, And to this man it is not far ; He can but reach across the night, The star is gone, but there's the light. 74 Short Stories and Poems Willows seemingly may weep, But o'er his soul they do not sweep; He sits beneath the wide spread palm, A stranger to the least alarm. TO THE REV. DR. J. B. HAWTHORNE. Oh, fearless man of God, Why wait until the sod Shall fall upon your quiet breast, And you forever be at rest, Why not bring immortelles now And place them on your living brow? You've seen the haunts of sin and vice, And know they do the world entice; Fearless of men you've laid them bare, Showing how they do ensnare. Then let us tell what you have done And what a victory you have won. You speak for Christ whene're you can, What He is to your fellow-man — In language beyond compare, You tell of angels and the home up there; You stand and point to the narrow way That leadeth to the perfect day. And as the evening shades are falling, Ere long you'll hear your Saviour calling; But fearless man your robes are white, You can but enter into light. And when you stand before His fold, The King in His glory you'll behold. Short Stories and Poems 75 HOLLYWOOD MEMORIAL. They only sleep beneath this quiet shade, Then why should mortal halt or be afraid, For none will ever harm or molest — Many of these sleepers are God's chosen best. The warrior famed in song and story, Who died upon the battle-field all gory, The monument above his head here stands, To perpetuate the memory he commands. Great men, by noble deeds made renowned, Here sleep the deep sleep, so quiet and profound; We can only bring garlands bedewed with tears, Which we shall do through all the coming years. Sleep on in this beautiful, grand old spot, What you have done can never be forgot ; The flowers we bring will fade before the sun, But not the good you noble men have done. Hush ! this is holy ground, tread lightly here, For these sleepers are to many hearts so dear. The mother standing by her boy's grave, Would have freely died, his life to save. The wife beside the husband of her youth, Remember vows he gave in love and truth ; The brother by the sister he did revere, But angels bore her to another sphere. Bring flowers, to this city of the dead. And let them o'er the silent graves be spread ; Forget not the soldier boy though humble and poor, Remember he left some fond mother's door; Some mother may weep o'er her boy to-day, Though he sleeps in Hollywood, far, far away; His name may not be carved in marble and stone, But his daring and bravery have both brightly shown. j6 Short Stories and Poems TRIBUTE TO LITTLE AGNES CUNNINGHAM, Daughter of Capt. Frank Cunningham, Richmond's Sweet Singer. Little Agnes, up in heaven, Hears no longer papa's voice, But the angels' songs around her Make her little heart rejoice. After awhile, she will hear him When he joins the heavenly choir, When his work on earth is ended And he is called to come up higher. Then sleep, little one, sweetly sleep, Angels will sing your lullaby, Father and mother, why need weep, Why for Agnes will you sigh? Thorns would be around her pathway, But in heaven are flowers eternal, And her little feet will ever Wander over fields all vernal. In your home a chair is vacant; On your hearts is sorrow, deep ; But little Agnes, all unheeding, Lies so peacefully asleep. Short Stories and Poems yy i (Lines on the Death of Little Willie Cook, Who Died From a Fall in Madison School Yard, Nov. 19, 1894.) Monday came, the day for study, Mother watched him start to school; Mayhap whispering as he left her : "Willie, mind the teacher's rule." Little did she think her darling Walked within the jaws of death, That there lurked a stone so theach'rous As to rob her child of breath. You who watch your children coming From their studies day by day — Watch their bright and beaming faces, Hearing what they have to say; You can know this mother's anguish, When she saw her dying child. That they brought within her presence, Looking strange and wierd and wild. Had the blow been not so sudden; Had some warning word been giv'n ; Had she sat beside his pillow, Hearing angels call from Heav'n ! But alas ! so few the hours Since she watched him in his play — Since she saw him join his comrades, And in gladness haste away. Can she realize her darling Lies in death's cold, dark embrace ; That only God and the angels Look into his loving face? — 78 Short Stories and Poems Ah, the rose-leaves all are scattered — Faded is her lovely flower ! Yes, but mother, you have a promise, It is blooming in Heav'ns bower. I BUILT A BRIDGE OF FANCIES. I built a bridge of fancies In my early girlhood days, The structure seemed so very strong, And perfect in its ways, I felt that all of winter's storms And all the summer's sun Might blow and shine against this bridge, But the work was firmly done. This bridge was strewn with rose-leaves, And with flowers rich and rare, Hope entwined its tendrils 'round And made it all so fair. I sat and gazed upon it, And felt I'd softly tread, Upon those rare exotics, That were o'er this structure spread. Hope bade me step upon it, Perseverance, too, said start. How bright and buoyant I felt, How glad my girlhood heart; Rosy morning dawned upon me, The sky was clear and blue, All nature seemed so smiling, So gentle, kind and true. Short Stories and Poems 79 There were no barriers in my way, No stones to turn aside, My feet were all unfettered, How softly would I glide ; Who could not tread on rose leaves, On lilies pure and fair ; There were no thorns to prick me, On my bridge just over there. The flowers were all so fragrant They filled the air around, I fancied I would soon Tread upon fair Eden's ground ; The star of hope shone brightly — It illumined all my way; It made the darkest night One bright, bright summer's day. I wondered why all men Did not tread this path of flowers, Why they found so many obstacles In this beautiful world of ours; Why they stopped so oft by the wayside, All tired and weary-worn ; Why their brows were marked with sorrow, And their hearts had anxious grown. But, ah ! the problem is solved, As I stand and gaze from afar, I see the rose-leaves have vanished, And gone is my hope's bright star ; My flowers too are withered, For the sun of a summer's day Shone down all too warmly, And faded fancy's bridge away. 80 Short Stories and Poems And now, since I have older grown, The dreams of my early youth I see are but illusions, That the world is a sad, sad truth. We need build no bridge of fancies Expecting it to last ; It is too frail for human tread, And will crumble sure and fast. THEY'VE SOLD THE FARM. Three times to-day I've started To leave this dear old home, But somehow or another This heart has tender grown ; I thought to live right here The remnant of my day, But the children have planned To have it another way. They say it is very useless That I should live out here, But that I must come to the city And it'll not cost them so dear, That why should they have The expense of an extra home, And that it doesn't look right For me to live here alone. I can divide my time between them, First with Mary then with Tim, And Jonathan, the eldest boy, Says he'll always want me with him ; Short Stories and Poems 8i But this poor heart is all sorrowful, For I've seen the old cast out, And in their gay and fashionable homes They'll not long want me about. I am now very old and fogy, And hard it will be for me To change my life into theirs, And see just as they see; How much better to leave me Alone on this dear old farm, I'm sure the few days I have to stay Would do none of them much harm. It was here I came with Mary, Just fifty years ago, But she long since has left me To sleep under the beautiful snow, And as I take my walks, All around this dear old place, There's not a spot upon it But reminds me of her face. Ah ! tender memories you have For this poor old feeble man, But I this day must leave you To do the best I can; My heart will always turn To this dear old familiar spot, For not a scene about you Will ever be forgot. But I must follow the children, They say they can't have me stay ; %2 Short Stories and Poems Oh ! God ! how I wish I could only have my way ; But my purse has grown quite empty By giving them a start, And with one thing and another, Until I and the old farm must part. I was once a powerful man, Can this really be me, With the tears coursing adown my cheeks, As weak as a child might be? Well I'm old now and can't help it, But I'll go as they have bidden, And when they wound this poor sad heart, May I keep the scars all hidden. MAUD'S PICTURE. I've been looking through an album, Of friends in Auld Lang Syne, And I've come across a picture Of Maud and mine. She the blue-eyed maiden, With the beautiful golden hair, There never lived another then Half to me so fair. We went to school together, Across the meadows green, We gathered daisies and violets, And made a wreath between ; Short Stories and Poems 83 We said that this wreath should be An emblem of our vow, That is should be unbroken, But where are those promises now? For Maud you did prove treacherous, School days were scarcely o'er Before you were wed to Harry Gray, The beau of Ellen Moore ; Ellen, a gentle trusting- one, Did pine and sigh for Harry, And rumor has it she's ne'er been the same Since you two did marry. Well, Maud, I thought you very fair, And the dearest girl I knew, But let me tell you now I found another far more true; And I'll be candid about it, I am thankful the fates favored me, For I should hate to have wedded, A girl so fickle to see. Do you remember, at school, The little girl Annabel Lee, The one with long, flaxen curls? Well, she was the one for me ; Oh, what a dear little creature, The soul of honor and truth, Her pathway in life is heavenward, And has been since her vouth. 84 Short Stories and Poems I hope that you and Harry Are as happy as Anna and I, For our life is all sunshine, With ne'er a cloud passing by ; And our children are as lovely As we need wish to see; How I thank the good Father above For sending me Annabel Lee. MY ANGEL GRACE. The house does seem so strange, Stillness has stolen into each room, Robbing them of sunshine and light, Shrouding them in darkness and gloom ; I find myself listening to hear The tread of busy little feet, And often do I turn to gaze Into a face so sweet. I find a dress now laid away, A little shoe she used to wear. And all to itself and tied with blue, Is a ringlet of her golden hair: Her little treasures, the source of such fond joy, The chair in which she sat beside my knee, Are put away and held as sacred As anything could ever be. How often do I go into the room And sit me down beside each little toy, And feel she would come soon, Short Stories and Poems 35 In all her innocence and joy, Just as I've seen her before, With childish glee upon her face, Asking me in her winning way, "If I'd turn tu p'ay wid baby G'ace." My fancy leads me far astray — I turn to greet my lovely child, And when I see she is not there It almost makes me wild ; I fall, earnestly, upon my knee, And fervently pray that God Will bend my heart in submission To His own chastening rod. It seemed that while I knelt, An angel band did come, And, pointing upward, say: "There is your darling's home — Why mourn you here on earth? Why would you have her stay, When there, up there, is heaven, And she treads that golden way?" How bright the room became — The darkness fast did go ! It seemed a heavenly radiance, Did shine on all below; And that I did see my darling With a crown upon her brow, And did hear her whisper : "Mother, why mourneth thou?" 86 Short Stories and Poems "My home is now in heaven, And why need you shed a tear? For only a few short days will pass, And you, too, will be here. Mother, I'll be watching As you leave that earthly shore ; Yes, I'll be waiting at heaven's gates, Where I have passed before." The river that flowed so darkly Between me and my child. Did cease its wild roar, And seemed now so calm and mild. I arose from my silent prayer Feeling that God had given Only to take away And bring my soul to heaven. THE CLARABEL LEE. Well, Margery, I've taken my last voyage, And now I've come home to you, For I love you dearly, Margery, And I love old ocean grand and blue I stood on the deck this morning, Of my beautiful Clarabel Lee, And, Margery, I cried like a child, That our parting so soon should be. A friend she has been to me, These twenty years or more, And how I loved that old ship, Margery, I never knew before. Short Stories and Poems 87 Don't you know how hard it was To leave you and baby May, And how fast the tears did flow The day Clarabel sailed away? But we are creatures of habit, dear, And the ship soon seemed like home, But, of course, I missed you and our babe Wherever I did roam. Ah! those were grand old days, When you did sail with me, Were there ever two happier ones, Out on the deep blue sea. And then I looked for the time When our ship would homeward steer, I could see this flower-wreathed cot, And the little garden near, And you standing in the doorway, Waving and kissing your hand, To us weather beaten sailors, That were nearing so close to land. Ah ! what a beautiful picture How vivid to memory dear, I wish some grand painter had it As it did to me appear. You were a lovely woman And joy lit up your face, Margery, I can never That image from memory erase. And when the day did come around That Clarabel must sail, 88 Short Stories and Poems Of course, Margery, you had a cry — When did woman ever fail — You imagined all kinds of things Would happen to you and May, That you would die and be buried And I be far away. But in the next seaport town There'd be a letter from you, Often the clouds had blown away And all seemed smiling and true. Our little May soon grew Into a charming girl, And here next the old sailor's heart Is a beautiful flaxen curl. It takes me back, Margery, To her own childhood days, She was a lovely little one, So cute in all her ways. Well, you say she is happy now, With the husband of her choice; Somehow it seems all about the house, I can hear her loving voice. Well, what a quiet time Margery, for you and me, Here in this flowery cot, Beside the rolling sea. I shall build a little ship And call it Clarabel Lee, Ah! Margery, I'm growing old And childish it is very plain to see. Short Stories and Poems 89 But I must have something With which to employ my mind, And to make this little ship Is all that I can find. I know in my dreams I'll be Out on the briny deep, That I'll be at the larboard watch While all around are asleep. But, Margery, it won't be long That the old sailor'll have to stay, The golden cord will loosen soon And life fast ebb away; I shall go out on the ocean, This time the ocean-death, And Christ will be my pilot, At my last expiring breath. IN QUILTING DAYS. Yes, Lucy, things have grown quite strange Since you and I were girls; Then we wore our hair right straight, If not in natural curls ; There was no such thing, my dear, As rolling it up for days, To see if we could change it From its old accustomed ways. Our gowns were always made quite plain, 90 Short Stories and Poems But neat, as neat could be ; I well remember the cambric one That mother bought for me ; She said that I, the eldest girl, Should have the finest dress, But father said there should'nt be A difference shown to Bess. And don't you know with how much pride, He came home from the town, And handed you so neatly tied, That pure white cambric gown? Ah ! we were two delighted girls, When the last stitch we took, And laughingly, you know, we said, The beaux would at us look. And on the next Sunday morn, We dressed ourselves with care, And started to the village church, Two maidens bright and fair; Our bonnets were of the rustic kind, And matched quite well our gowns, Aunt Ruth had sent them out to us From one of the nearby towns. Ah ! well the lads did stare, you know, But they could not be blamed, For we were known the country o'er, And for our beauty famed. Short Stories and Poems 91 May God forgive us, sister Lou, For the vanity we felt, And if our hearts were far away, When we at His altar knelt. We felt a great deal finer then, In those plain simple things, Than our girls ever feel, In anything wealth brings. For what are silks and velvets now To girls that buy each day, Just something that fashion leaves But to be thrown away? And, Lucy, while talking here to-day, My fancy sits me down In mother's dear old garden, With flowers all around ; There were pinks, posies and daffodils, And hundreds of their kind, But, Lucy, they are not in vogue — Out of fashion and far behind. Our little parlor, all so neat, Kept by our own hand ; It seemed to us sweeter by far, Than any in all the land ; The flowers in mother's garden came To freshen and make it bright, The plain muslin curtains Were always tied with white. 92 Short Stories and Poems Our doors were ever open To all who'd chance to come, And many hours did they spend In our old simple home ; And don't you know when mother's quilt Had been all quite complete, She did invite the country round, In quilting to compete. Ah ! what a grand old time we had, We worked till all was done, Then the fiddle started up, you know, Just at the set of sun. And, Lucy, can you ever forget How we danced with the laddies gay, And how the golden hours did fly, On wings so fast away? I tell you, Lucy, that old fashioned quilting Beats by far the afternoon teas, That are now-a-days given, To what we may call humming bees ; For thev are all fashion and follv, They come and go — nothing more, And if they were tested, Lucy, They'd not equal quilting friends of yore. We are growing old now, Lucy, Our summer is almost spent, Our May of life is past, Lucy, Which God has only lent ; Short Stories and Poems 93 But, oh ! for the friends of quilting: days, So simple and so pure, 'Tis only in the far beyond, That we will find them truer. A SABBATH DAY WITH MOTHER'S BIBLE. Gods' holy day, a day of rest, One that the Christian heart loves best; To-day communion shall be sweet, As when friends long parted meet. I'll bid earth's follies all begone, I'll gird the heavenly armor on, I'll take the Bible for my shield, And to the tempter never yield. I'll open that dear old book, And as I through its pages look, I'll feel that God is very nigh ; That heaven is not quite so high, But that I can reach its pearly gate, And that around it angels wait ; My wings now strong enough to bear, My patient, trusting spirit there. The old Bible o'er which I pore, Was mother's guide in days of yore ; And many a sabbath did she spend In learning truths this book doth lend. 94 Short Stories and Poems That dear old saint has long since gone, But I must here worship on ; A few more days, a few more years, Then I shall have shed all my tears. A few more sabbaths here on earth, Then with mother, who gave me birth ; In that land beyond the sun, Then my work shall all be done. Holy day of heavenly rest, The one of all the seven loved best; My peace with thee has been so sweet, I feel I've been at the Saviour's feet. BEN AND NED. Well this is a pleasure, I never thought would be ; I little hoped, Ben, Your face again to see ; The letter stating you would come, Came by yesterday's mail, And try to tell the joy it brought, Why, words would only fail. It seems to me but yesterday, Since we went to the village school — When we played as boys will And defied the Master's rule. And can you ever forget The play-ground on the green? In my imagination, Ben, 5 Tis yet plain to be seen. Short Stories and Poems 95 What happy boys were we, At the close of the day, And what a precious hour we had, And how soon it passed away; Darkness oft stole upon us Before our games were through, And don't you know how loath we were, To bid each other adieu. It seems to me, the old school house Will always be the same, Should I go there years from now, I could trace each familiar name We carved upon those old time walls, Names, Ben, so dear to us, Of those long gone before, Now mouldering in the dust. There was a hero in our school, Brave, true-hearted Jimmie Gray, Don't you know when troubles came, He always cleared the way ; His name is first upon those walls, And, Ben, the first in heaven, For well I know when life did cease, Peace to his soul was given. There were others not so good and brave Who would come and go each day, And when the humble school-door closed, Each went a different way. I should like to have kept trace of all, And know what care and joy Did fall into the heart of each Rough, uncouth school-boy. g6 Short Stories and Poems You tell me you have been Away out in the West, With fame and honor you've been crowned, Of all our class done best ; I am glad you have won These laurels for your brow, But mark you well the furrows, I see upon it now. I know to excel has been your aim, 'Twas so in school-boy days ; Let others strive hard as they might, You'd always win the praise; Our teacher'd smile whenever you came, Your lessons to recite, He knew there'd be no failure there, But each one would be right. Yes, Ned, to succeed has been my aim, I've toiled and striven each day, To crown my brow with immortelles, Something that would never fade away ; Wealth I have at my command, And, perhaps, a little fame. I have carved on honors roll, My own familiar name. But let me tell you, old friend, I've never known the joy I knew when I played day by day, A happy careless boy. My lessons then were an easy task, The world was far away; I little knew how false it was, And how men went astray. Short Stories and Poems 97 But Ned I've found the world Is not a summer's sea, But that the waves lash very high, Yes high as high can be; And many of our dear old class Have sailed far out from shore, They've forgotten all their teachings, In the early days of yore. The Master's good old precepts Have faded from their minds, The school and all its influences Have been left far behind. The world was too alluring, Too glittering and bright, And the song of the siren, Led them to darkest night. Well, Ned, my stay is short, It can no longer be, I only stopped, old boy Your face again to see; It does my heart good To grasp you by the hand, And I trust, though we part here, We will meet in the better land. LITTLE BROWN HANDS. In lovely days of long ago, Mother's hands were white as snow, As she stood before the altar 98 Short Stories and Poems Pledging vows without a falter, Trusting one who stood beside her, Thinking ill could ne'er betide her. Fancy's bridge was wreathed with flowers, Freshened by cool morning showers; Little hands so pure and white, Could but pluck the flowers bright; Not a sharp thorn would she see Could they grow for such as she? Ah ! fond mother, good and true, They did grow for such as you ; Little white hands turned to brown, Mocked the sheen of wedding gown ; Wild waves rolled and washed away A bridge of fancies in a day. Little brown hands turned to white Pillowed on your breast to-night, Rivaling the lily fair Nestling in your silvery hair ; Gathered safe within His fold, These white hands doth He behold. WE LITTLE KNOW, We little know the pain and anguish Buried in each heart we meet, As we take our daily walk Out upon the busy street. Short Stories and Poems 99 There we see a sunny maiden, With her wealth of golden hair, We would think naught but sunshine Shone around her everywhere; Could we probe her heart's great centre We would find a sorrow there, For the man that would have wed her Sleeps beneath the roses fair. And here the millionaire doth come, A proud and stately man, WHo walks as though he owned Half of this great land. Now, could you know my brother — Peace is a stranger here, His days are passed in turmoil. His nights in dreamful fear. Here comes the noted physician, The healer of mankind; How many people laud him And bow before his shrine; But mark you there, my brother, The furrows on his brow, For the care of hundreds Is weighing on him now. Ah ! there goes a lone woman, Clad in widow's weed ; We well know what cares beset her. And for her our hearts doth bleed. She has been to strew fresh flowers On that new-made grave to-day, And we fancy as we meet her She has brushed a tear away. ioo Short Stories and Poems On the corner stands an honest man, In perplexity and thought, How can he pay to-morrow For what he this day has bought? He has begged and begged for labor, Through all the long, long day, But all to whom he pleaded Did coldly turn away. Do you see that woman there, Struggling on her weary way? She left her home at sunrise And has labored all the day; Ah how hard she has to toil For those little children four, Then goes back at nightfall With bread and scarcely more. And here comes the Judge's wife, With a sweet smile for all ; Surely here there is no sorrow, Surely here no care doth fall ; Little we 'reck the Judge's high living Has squandered all his land, And that he must walk before us As poor as any man. Well, we wandered this land over, In many scenes we've been, But we've never found one being That all was peace within. We believe the Father's wisdom Has willed it should be so, To keep our hearts less wedded To this vain world below. Short Stories and Poems ict. YOU ARE A SUBJECT OF HIS MERCY. This is a question I would ask You men of high position, Do you ever stop and ponder o'er Just what is your condition? You are a subject of His mercy ! Though you wear the crown of a king, And sit upon a throne, And men to you homage pay, And you have pompous grown; You are a subject of His mercy! You may be the President, With power near and far; But any day you may be called Before His judgment bar. You are a subject of His mercy! You may be the Judge — Granting justice to a few — But who can tell when you'll be called To have justice granted you. You are a subject of His mercy! You've robbed your bank and creditors An exile you must be ; But go where'er you will, His eye will always see. You are a subject of His mercy! 102 Short Stories and Poems The belle of the ball, so beautiful, In satin and dainty lace; You flirt with the beaux so recklessly, And win them by your grace. You are a subject of His mercy! You monopolist, who oppress the poor, Take heed how frail you stand; You seem to hold them now With your mean and selfish hand. You are a subject of His mercy! The Lord has showered blessings down, Your purse is lined with gold; A few more years and you will be As rich as men of old. You are a subject of His mercy! Your calculations here run high ; You see the way to fame ; The path is clear before you, You will win an honored name. You are a subject of His mercy! The rich, the poor, the great, the small, Of every tribe and nation, This is just how you stand To God in this relation. You are a subject of His mercy! Short Stories and Poems 103 TO MRS. C. H. WEST. (The Mother Who Lost Four Children in Five Days From Diptheria.) In five brief days, dear mother, Four darlings you have laid to rest, With the lilies and the roses Lying on each quiet breast. Ah ! cruel, cruel fate, Could you not one of them spare? Oh, who of you can picture This mother's deep despair? Four vacant seats around the hearthstone, And each little unused toy; There are all their little games Which gave them so much joy. The mother recalls each hour Something that tears her heart. Great God! Only give her grace From these loved ones all to part. Though the urn is shattered here And the flowers dead to sight, Yet, beyond this world, eternal They are blooming, fair and bright. He will keep them lovingly for you Until you, He, too, shall call, Then how sweet will be the meeting — Mother and children — all. 104 Short Stories and Poems GRANDMOTHER. Grandmother sits in her easy chair, And rocks and rocks all day, But I know by a glance at her care-worn face That her thoughts are far away. Through many a scene has this dear one passed- Of bliss, of joy and of woe — And I know she is recalling them all As she sits and rocks to and fro. No doubt her thoughts are wandering back To the day she was a bride, And was taken to that grand old house Where she did for years abide. Grandfather was of "ye olden time," A proud and noble man, Whose door was ever open To the humble poor's command. A duel was fought for grandmother's hand, And a proud man gave his life — Though grandmother could never become The dead man's slayer's wife, Although he was a man of fortune and fame, And one of handsome mein, Yet grandmother said there ever seemed A grave did lie between. But to grandfather she gave her heart, And for fifty years, all told, They dwelt together a happy pair In a mansion grand and old. Short Stories and Poems 105 Children did come to bless their lot, To brighten their earthly bower; But death, the great invader, came, And took their fairest flower. Their hearts had never then known, The love that God had given, But it seemed an angel stood by And linked this sorrow-chain to heaven, So beautiful their lives became, So full of Christ-like grace, So bountiful their charity, To earth's impovished race. But it seemed the messenger — Death — Did love this household band; Only a few short years did pass, And grandfather was called to the better land. Grandmother was never more The same bright happy one — To her dark, lowering clouds had come, And obscured her noon-day's sun. She has had her flowery May, And now the snow has come ; The roses all about her lay, Crushed, withered one by one. Her beautiful hair, now silvery white Her eyes no longer bright, The frost of winter has come on And robbed them of their light. 106 Short Stories and Poems A few more wintry days will pass, And then the summer's sun Will break forth all resplendently Upon this aged one; Her bark will soon be launched Upon the silvery wave, A white-robed spirit soon will go Home to the God who gave. THE LORD MY SHEPHERD. In green pastures He leadeth me, And in that way, no sin I see ; I've left the base and the denied, And all in which their dwelleth guile. I'll sit me down by waters still, I'll muse upon His gracious will ; I know He'll never leave me there, In darkness or in deep despair. The flowery pasture through which I go Contains no thorns or bitter woe ; I'll only pluck the buds so sweet, To lay before my Saviour's feet. If I should take the other way, It would but lead me far astray ; Instead of flowers in pastures green, Thorns alone would there be seen. Short Stories and Poems 107 I cannot want — a shepherd He Has promised ever more to be, Even through deep waters should I go, Yet He'll be with me in all my woe. "I'll to the Rock of Ages cling," And there my offering will I bring; Wealth and fame and all there be, My sinful self I'll give to Thee. SEPARATED. I'm a very old woman now, And my hair has turned to gray, I've seen the rough and ills of life In many a changing way, But I've never known a sorrow, That could be compared with this, I feel now all my other days, Have been only ones' of bliss. Husband and I have lived In this house so long together, We've lived here through sunshine, And through the stormiest weather. But now I find myself, Sitting by his lifeless form, A lone and aged woman, With the hopes of life all gone. All did seem so bright before us, There was nothing to annoy, Flowers did bloom along our way, Our gold had no alloy. 108 Short Stories and Poems This little vine-clad cot, Did seem an Eden-bower, And all the troubles in our life, Were but as a summer's shower. How happy were we both When God sent our baby boy! Did ever parents look on one With such fond pride and joy? But as years rolled by others came Into our hearts and home, Then cares did fall upon us, Which were hard often to be borne. Oh well do I remember, The day our eldest born, Did go out from our threshold, To brave the cold world's storm; Our golden chain was broken, There was left a vacant chair, And when we met around our fireside, One loved form was missing there. W^ell one by one they left us, These children of our tenderest care, Oh God will you watch kindly o'er them, May the}^ never know sin and its snare. How oft have husband and I, Knelt by this fireside together, And prayed for our childrens return, That our band would nevermore sever. Short Stories and Poems 109 But a far mightier has broken The strongest link of our chain, For death has called husband away, He can never return again. The children may come to the home, They left in their earlier days, But their father has gone to one, Where he will remain always. The sun of my life has gone down, Behind a dark wintry cloud, The star of hope has set, And I cry in my anguish aloud, I send a wild plea to heaven, And ask why I too should not come, That earth will be but a desert, And this cottage a miserable home. 'Tis the golden bowl that's broken, Here it all shattered lies, I stand and gaze on the dead, But closed are those sightless eyes ; Closed to me and earth's frailties, But opened in a brighter sphere, Yet, husband, this grief knows no bounds, And fast falls my bitterest tear. MY TREASURE CHEST. Yes, the shadows have gather d 'round me And the room has darker grown, I have sat here for the hour Sadly dreaming all alone ; no Short Stories and Poems Time for me has brought its changes — ■ Once I was a merry girl, Now I find myself a woman Battling with a cold, stern world. I have been so sad to-dav — Sadder far than words can tell ; For I have unearthed old treasures, Which my heart doth love so well. 'Tis not often that I dare Open this chest, kept hidden from view, Which contains the treasures rare — Of mother, sisters, and brothers too. I have just read mother's letter, Full of tenderness and truth, Which she wrote me long ago, In my bright and happy youth, When I first bade adieu To my home and those so dear, And came away to dwell With the man I did revere. Mother, dear, you stood and watched me As we were borne away; Then you turned aside in anguish With a burdened heart that day. They did say I was your darling, I, the first born and your pride, And that it did rend your heart-strings To see me become a bride. There's a curl of Jamie's hair — Jamie that would a wandering go; Short Stories and Poems hi Oh ! the cruel sea did rob us Of our boy long ago. Oh ! you maddening, maddening waters, How could you take such a lad, And make a home that was so lovely All so dark and drear and sad? There's a letter from Paul, our brother, Paul the mightiest of our race, Who bore the mark of honor In each feature of his face ; But to seek the golden treasure He did leave his native home, And from a foreign land he writes Where he still doth roam. Ah, me ! that tress of Jessie's, Brought tears into my eyes, As the thoughts of other days Did fast to memory rise. She was too pure for earth, So fond angels came and bore Her girlish form to heaven, But left our hearts so sore. And there's a picture of Anna ; Anna, so loving and gay, That was early wed to the banker, Who did take her far away. It seemed to me that she Did speak from that dumb frame. That I surely did hear her Calling me by my name. ii2 Short Stories and Poems This chest of treasures brings back So vividly to my mind All the scenes that once were In the days of "Auld Lang Syne:" But oh ! so many, many changes ! How severed is our band ! Some have gone to heaven, Some dwell in a foreign land. Well, I hear my husband's footsteps Coming towards the door, I must hasten to meet him As I have always done before. He has had his worries and cares Out in the world all day, So when he returns at eventide I should drive sadness away. OLD AND ALONE. Our home was once so joyous, So full of love and mirth, For five little bright ones Gathered around our hearth. Husband and I would watch them Through the hours of the day, As they played all about us, In their simple, childish way. I sit and recall them now, And in fancy see each face; Short Stories and Poems ii, There was loving blue-eyed Bessie, And darked-eyed \Vinsome Grace ; There was Frank, and Joe, and Jamie, Each a bright and handsome lad ; Their little hearts were always So merry, gay and glad. And when the wintry night grew dark, And lowering was the sky, How comforting to look about And know that they were nigh ; That nought could harm the children, They were safe within the fold; Yes, husband and I would watch them — They were more to us than gold. Can I ever forget their faces, As they knelt beside our chairs, And looking up to heaven, Would say their evening prayers? For they were so very radiant, As they arose from beside my knee, That they must have seen the angels That were all unseen by me. Oh ! who can tell how near These little ones had come Unto Him who loved them Before He called them home? For the fatal fever raging Did take them all away, And the grave holds all our jewels. Of our anguish who can say! H4 Short Stories and Poems I have sat all through the twilight, And now its growing late ; Why should I sit here And watch, and wonder, and wait? Husband has long since been Asleep in his easy chair ; He knows they will not come, For they are all up — there. But it seems that my darlings' spirits Have played all about the room, And that they have been here Around me in the gloom. I've put out my hand in the darkness, To see if they were nigh ; Oh ! no, its only a fancy — But I'll see them bye and bye — For the Father, in His mercy, Knows my aching heart, And He will not keep me long From my little ones apart : But the gates He will open wide, And bid me enter there; Then I shall see the faces Of our angels all so fair. WHEN JOHN AND I WERE YOUNG. Come here, John, and sit beside me, And we'll talk a little while, Of the changes which have come over us, Since we were each a child. Short Stories and Poems 115 Father then was ever with us, Working by our side you see, Always glad to be a helper, That our tasks might lighter be. And, John, while musing here to-night, The summer comes to me That father had the debt to pay Before he could be free. And don't you know how hard we toiled Through all the long hot time? "Boys, if we pay the mortgage, off, The farm will yet be mine.'' And, laying each hand upon our heads, And looking in our eyes, He said, "I know you'll do your best To help us all to rise.'' How willingly we worked away, Until our tasks were done, Then we started home, you know, Just at the set of sun. And when coming in at eventide, Mother, fresh and young and gay, Always at the gate to meet us, Singing some old-time, sweet lay; For her heart was ever joyous, Ever full of love and mirth. And she sang those old-time ditties, John, the sweetest to us of earth. n6 Short Stories and Poems The tea things were always ready, Made so by her dear hand ; I wondered if there was such a board In all of this great land. Well, John, the debt, you know we paid, And can we ever forget ! Oh, no! that glad rejoicing- Is in our memory yet. And after all our summer's toil, We went to the village school ; The master was a dear, good man, And not severe his rule ; And don't you know how proudly Mother watched us o'er the hill, Telling us to bring fresh honors back, That she might be prouder still. Oh ! they were happy days, John, Unfettered by earth's cares, Before we had seen the world Or were entrammelled by its snares. We little reckoned then, John, Oceans would between us roll ; That we would be severed far Almost as from pole to pole. That father would be the first to go From out our happy home, The blow to us so crushing And so hard to be borne ; Short Stories and Poems 117 But peacefully he closed his eyes, His work on earth was o'er, And I fancy now I see his form Upon yon radiant shore. We watched mother fade day by day, We knew it would not be long Before she'd sing in a fairer clime Her oft-repeated song. And the time did come, John, When we laid her away to rest, In the quiet church-yard yonder, Hands folded upon her breast. We two are left of that loved band And soon our time shall come, Then we shall all reunited be, In that eternal home. There'll be no partings over there, We shall all join hand in hand ; No ocean can between us roll, In that bright heavenly land. We'll have a home not made with hands, And, John, I long to go, For what are all life's pleasures here, Compared to all it's woe. And the meeting will be so sweet. In that mansion of the blest; Yes, father and mother we'll come soon, And with you sweetly rest. n8 Short Stories and Poems THE OLD WOOD FIRE. (Lines suggested by a sermon of Rev. Dr. Wm. H. Whitsett, in which he said that the old wood fire had been with him around the world.) Memory takes me back to-day. To the little brown cot so far away, To the little cot and trees all green, Where mother's face was always seen ; To the little garden filled with flowers, Where we boys whiled away the hours ; We oft did chase the butterfly And watched it as it passed us by. And tired of play, we'd seek the room That was always robbed of every gloom ; Yes, mother's room was a hallowed place, Though no adornments could you trace. No painting of old from the walls suspended To tell of lives long since ended ; Simply father and mother hung side by side — He a groom, and she a bride ! And as winter came over the little brown cot Mother always sat in the same dear spot ; In the corner near the old wood fire, And near her sat our aged sire. They talked of days when hearts were young, And of old songs they oft had sung. And of old friends, long laid to rest Among the sainted and the blest. Near the old wood fire, by mother's side. Stood the spinning-wheel, her joy and pride ; She always arose with the dawn And would often spin till the day was gone. Short Stories and Poems 119 And when was o'er spinning time, She sat by the fire till the clock struck nine ; And often have I seen her asleep With her knitting lying at her feet. Ah ! is there an artist in all the land That can picture that beautiful work-worn hand. And the needles as they swiftly flew, Knitting the sock of the yarn, so blue. And the old wood fire, and little brown cot, And the dear old familiar spot Where bloomed the sweet pinks and the posies, And mother's old-fashioned cabbage roses? Through many lands I roam, Far from the little brown home ; I've been in palaces grand and old, Where dwell the mighty, brave and bold — But the old wood-fire and mothers face From memory can ne'er erase ; And how the embers died one winter's night When mother's soul took its upward flight. SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE? What is it you say, pastor, We shall know each other there, In that grand and glorious country, Land so bright and pure and fair; When death's valley we have crossed, Crossed its dark and surging tide, And have entered into heaven Where the good and pure abide? 120 Short Stories and Poems Rich and poor meet here, together, Pass within the same church door, Listening to God's Holy Word, As you read it o'er and o'er; Patrician and plebeian come, All together bend the knee, But a look of recognition Scarcely ever do you see. You speak of the Heavenly City, Of its street of pearl and gold ; But without love to our brother, We can never it behold ; Love as did our fore-fathers, In those grand and good old days, And when they met together, It was to give their Maker praise. It was only a little log meeting-house, But love was the foundation, And their song was Hallelujah To the God of all creation ! They took each other by the hand, In a kind and loving greeting, That went far to pave rough ways Till the next Lord's day meeting. Know each other, pastor, there, When our robes are spotless white ; Know each other over there, In that land of endless light? Then why not live here together, As one great united band, That we may have a glimpse of heaven Before we enter the goodly land? Short Stories and Poems 121 IN MEMORIAM. (To Miss Worthy Scott Embrey.) I walked out in a garden, Where bloomed flowers rare ; Their beauty was all around me, Their fragrance filled the air. The dew of morn was on them, They were fresh and pure and bright, And who would stop to think They could fade and wilt by night. I walked down this garden, I found the rarest flower, I thought it was the lovliest In all of this fair bower. It was a rose unfolding, Just telling what it could be, I thought the garden would be complete If no other flower I'd see. I stood in adoration, Little dreaming the summer's sun Would so early wilt the rose leaves, They would scatter one by one. And the urn that might contain them For use would never be, That the rose I'd watched so tenderly Would never reach maturity. 122 Short Stories and Poems Too frail and delicate for earth, But are not promises given? And though the flower has withered here May it not bloom in heaven? THE OLD-FASHIONED HOME. (Lines Suggested by a Sermon of Dr. J. Wilbur Chapman.) The old-fashioned home is a thing of the past. It was bright and beautiful — too lovely to last. Father and mother sat, side by side, Around the hearthstone, so cheery and wide. They talked of the days when they were young; They talked of the songs which they had sung; They told of the meetinghouse on the hill; Of the pastor, whose voice had long been still. Of the little school, so plain and old, But as dear as if the logs were gold; Of the scholars who came and went each day To hear what the m?ster had to say. They talked of the day when they were wed, And how to the altar she was led; Father the king, and she the queen, As happy a couple as e'er was seen. Short Stories and Poems 123 And when they had tired grown, We all knelt down by the old hearthstone To offer praise to the One above, And give Him thanks for our home of love. We have wandered all around the earth, Far from the land that gave us birth ; But the old-fashioned home we can ne'er forget, In memories' halls it is cherished yet. THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. What do you hold for me, New Year? My heart doth ask, trembling with fear. The old, just gone, its stories all have told, But you have come new tidings to unfold. A youth, you are ; yes, one of tender age ; But you knocked and came as boldly as a sage. You took your place behind the feeble one — The father stepped aside and gave way to the son. There were furrows on your brow, old man ; You could not tread so boldly o'er the land. The winter's snow was on your tottering feet, The New Year you were forced to greet. The reed is broken on which you had leaned, And things were not just what they had seemed. The bell has tolled your time gently away ; Then, farewell, old man, you could no longer stay. 124 Short Stories and Poems Your son is ladened with promises so bright ; He tells the world of beauty, love and light. He holds the star of hope high in his hand, And with a smile he waves it o'er the land. TO A FRIEND OF FORMER DAYS ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD. Tidings have come to my distant home, That an angel has been and borne A little babe so tenderly loved To heaven's shining courts above. Nothing that skill or care could do, Spared the baby girl to you. 'Tis only a few short months, dear friend, Since Christ came for one He did but lend. The shattered urn lies at my feet, The withered roses that were so sweet, I often feel such sore despair, Turn where I may, no comfort there. And then I'll think of the mansions grand Prepared for those in the better land, The rose lined field and the golden street That are tread forever by angel feet, Of the harps played by the heavenly choir, 'Tis then my heart is anchored higher. Short Stories and Poems 125 These links are broken — for you, for me, But the hand of the Master do we not see And know He holds the severed chain, And will firmly link it back again. We can be still, knowing 'tis God Who calls us 'neath the chastening rod. And when the harbor bar we near, May we have no thought of fear, May Christ the pilot clasp our hand And lead us to the better land ; May loved ones who there await, Be first to meet us at the gate. TRIBUTE TO REV. N. G. TERRY, THE PASTOR AND TEACHER OF MY GIRLHOOD. I've been looking at your picture, Tracing features one by one, And it seems you are speaking to me As you so oft have done. The college comes to memory, And the girls you used to teach, I recall the old brick building — The church where you did preach. Its walls now have tumbled, Modern ones will meet my view, But I associate the old ones, Dear pastor, more with you : 126 Short Stories and Poems 'Twas there loved ones of other clays Have listened to your voice, 'Twas there old-time religion Did make their hearts rejoice. I've been thinking of the brother, Whose work here was early done. You sat so oft beside him, Pointing to the comforting One. He is waiting over yonder, He will know you, pastor, there, When you too join the angels In that Golden City fair. I recall the old home, pastor, You've been there in scenes of mirth, Then you've come in hours of sorrow, WHien there seemed no joy on earth; You've spoken words of comfort When our hearts were sorely torn ; You have helped us bear the burden That was hard then to be borne. Bread cast upon the waters Will return, we are sure, some day, So may you find its sweetness As you pass earth's stormy way; And if you do find briars, May a kind and loving hand, Remove them from the wayside That you may see the smoothest land. Short Stories and Poems 127 And now in the shades of evening, As you are nearing life's decline, May your brow be fanned by zephyrs, And you the flowers' perfume find. You have toiled long for the Master, Your work has been well done, Your crown will be resplendent As you stand beside the Son. ON MEMORY'S SHORE. (Lines in Which the Author Reverts to Her Girlhood Home. ) I stand on memory's shore to-night, Ah ! memory would you never come To haunt me by the dim fire-light, Bringing visions of a distant home. I see it as in days gone by, A home so happy, glad and bright, But where are those loved ones now? Memory you make me sad to-night. I see the orchard as it stood, The old well with nectar pure, And many charms about the place, That did the stranger oft allure. The rose-tree climbing on the wall, The garden with exotics rare, Though I may go from place to place, No flowers can with these compare. 128 Short Stories and Poems There was father with his kindly face, And mother with her dexterous hand, And brothers and sisters as they came, Composed this loving household band. But Reaper you have busy been, Of that large fold you've left but two Memory, leave my sad fire-side, I can't commune longer with you. A balm in Gilead though I find, For there's a mansion bright and fair, The reaper death can ne'er invade, And, oh ! I trust, they are all up there ! LET THERE BE PEACE. {Written After the Assassination of Gov. Wm. Gocbel, at Frankfort, Ky., in January, 1900.) In Kentucky's fair State, Where should ever dwell peace, There reigns bitter strife, That is so hard to cease : The grand old Capitol Has seen the death blow Of a man all unwarned Shot down by a foe. The snow in its purity, As a mockery did lie, Pointing scorn to the man That the law did defy. Short Stories and Poems 129 How can such a coward Breathe the air God has given? Can he hope to escape The vengeance of heaven? He took a man's life, That was not his to take, He did trample Christ's laws And His teachings forsake. Had he stood face to face, As a man bold and brave, There'd have been some excuse For this treacherous knave. But to shoot a man down, When no warning is given, Even the demons below Would shout "unforgiven !" No place can he have In the fair realms above, He would be a broken link In God's chain of love. And the dear old State — The home of my birth- May you soon be restored To your glory and worth : May there be nothing to darken Your fair fertile soil, And peace reign supreme, Where now is turmoil. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 018 348 573 8