Class ^^_£^^^ Y Book .# 7?, ^i) ^ CopghtN?- COPVRIGHT DEPOSm ON THE Sunset Shore TABLE OF CONTENTS. Page. Across the Lake 113 Alaska 164 Autumn 153 Book 45 Boys and Girls 18 Changes of Weather Ill Content 27 Content 154 Cross in the Street 33 Deserted Homestead 41 Dollar Bug 22 Don't Whine 54 Down the Hill 94 Eagle's Lament 192 Evergreen Shore 130 Eloise of Snohomish 197 Faith 175 Faithful Watcher 86 Feeding Pigs 122 Forgotten Paradise 5 For Mercy's Sake 87 Funny Little Chamber Man 95 Gentle Reminder 171 Give Alms 85 Glad 60 Golden Gate 146 Good Enough 1 89 Greatest City 109 Harp of the Sands 114 Hawthorn Spring 1 73 II. Page. Her Soul 84 Homesick 1 66 Homesick Prospector 143 Human Character 69 If a Fellow Don't Get Sour 75 Impossible Woman 39 Inconsistency 66 Inspiration 47 It 53 Immanuel's Lamp 199 Just on Before 127 Laughter 157 Love 72 Mantle 37 Michal 58 Mt. Rainier 124 Mt. St. Elias 134 Mr. Lazy and 1 156 My Very Own 161 Nature's Adornm.ents 49 New House 117 New Year's 170 No Time 154 Not Proud 101 Ocean Maid 90 Oregon Trail 176 Our Steps 31 Paper Dollie 81 Paradise 68 Paradise Forgot 5 Peace Convention 28 Picture 107 III. Page. Polly Sunbeam 52 Price of Love 21 Professor of Labor 61 Rescued 74 Scandal 65 Second Childhood 35 Sentiment 193 Six Years Old 89 Shortest Hour 23 She 44 Smiler 140 Snoqualmie 141 Somewhere Else 25 Spring 96 Story of Love 168 Stream of Oregon 135 Success 17 Summer 152 Sweet Sadness 104 Tip 163 Tootles 78 The Mill Starts Up 32 The River Runs 70 The Voice. 158 The New Nation 195 The Way Up 106 Trillium 126 Trying to Forget 1 49 Victoria Arm 138 Waiting 77 Water 63 IV. Page. Weather Grumblers 169 Whatsoever 57 Wheat Fields 55 When Baby Runned Away 98 When I Get Big 159 Where's My Nannie 93 Where Is the West 102 Winter 129 Worst Troubles 50 World, The 108 INDEX OF PORTRAITS. A Daughter of Washington State 8 " An Orange Blossom 14 -- Tootles 78 ^ Good Morning, Oregon 135 Little Miss British Columbia 138 Sweet Memory, Snoqualmie 141 Tip 163- Obleka 165 . GROUPS OF VIEWS. California 36 Oregon 68 Washington, 1 100 Washington, 2 148 British Columbia 175 Alaska 192 "ALL THINGS TO ALL MEN" C7^ ' ON THE SUNSET SHORE A BOOK OF POEMS AND RHYMES BY JOSEPH W. DORR Published by the SOUVENIR PUBLISHING COMPANY, P. O. Box 295, Seattle, Washington. 1908. 5" 1.SSRARY of CONGRESS! Two Copies Heceived DEC 16 1908 k- --xCopyrifctnt Entry COPY ts. Copyrighted by JOSEPH W. DORR, 1908. METROPOLITAN PRESS PRINTING CO., BOOK MANUFACTURERS Seattle, U. S. A. 1908 PREFACE. This book will not have fulfilled the mission designed for it by its author unless its influence upon its readers shall have been to increase, to a degree at least, their rev- erence for the Giver of all good and the Creator of every- thing beautiful in mind and matter, J. W. D. THE SUNSET SHORE PARADISE FORGOT. The little stream laughed and leaped down the rocky steep>s into the green canyon and ran away among the peach orchards and meadows to hide itself in the bosom of the big stream down by the almond trees and grape vines, and I stood there, among the orchards, and looked at the silver river which wandered out from among the hills of green and gray, and forgot the rest of the universe while I gazed on the beauties of Peach. The bees sung in the alfalfa, the white houses nestled among the apple trees and the pine-clad hills around smiled down on this, one of the earth's most beautiful spots, where the fierce cold of winter never comes and where the winds and dusts of the highland fields above never penetrate. Like a jewelled crescent in the ear of some ravishing beauty hangs this peaceful emerald nook close to the silvery face of the Columbia. The grapes drank purple blood from the teeming soil of the verdant slope, while the sunbeams painted blushes on the cheeks of the downy peaches and shining apples, and the almond smiled through its soft gray mask, while the pear and prune grew luscious in the autumn air, and I forgot my dream of Paradise when I looked upon this 6 THE SUNSET SHORE. most beautiful scene I ever beheld in earth, and I thought I could stay there content a thousand years if a bit of this bewitching landscape were my very own. The view is mine, I hold it yet, though the land belongs to others. I can close my eyes and see a vision of the silver river sweeping around the inner bow of that ex- quisite emerald crescent, studded here and there with a painted cottage nestling among the orchards and vineyards, where the pine-clad hills which wall it in mellow the win- ter's cold, and where the river with its mountain current cools the summer heat. I think Content must dwell very close to Peach. * * * Away off there to the west like a centipede the long pas- senger train is crawling, crawling around the shoulders and across the gulches of the mountain sides, leaving green fields of the wide valley to explore the gray of the lava- streaked sage-brush fringed hills. It is just as well, for I am content to stay. Yonder among the blue green hills nestles the Cove, above it gleam in the sunlight the snowy peaks of the Powder River mountains. Away to the left the chimneys of La Grande send up a veil of blue among the nooks between the toes of the Blue mountains, while Hot Lake steams before it and Island City and Alicel support its right, and far to the north, where the haze rests on the ridges, nestles Elgin, where the river plunges down into the depths of the yawning earth beyond. At our feet Union THE SUNSET SHORE. 7 City smiles up at us, while yonder at the right and left stand Mts. Frances and Emily, with their green robes drawn around them, pure but austere, the chaperons of the entrancing scene. It is the Grand Ronde, and when I see it with its green fields, its walls of green and blue and white and gray, I forget, earth, paradise, heaven, everything in the uni- verse save God and rapture, and the waters sing and the mills rumble and the happy cattle nuzzle in the emerald fields, and I am content to stay, spring, summer, autumn, among the winning scenes. I see it in my dreams, the valley of the Grand Ronde, which lies a bounteous plain just where the river comes out of the bosom of the Blue mountains, Oregon's water- bottles, where the blue birds and larks and robins sing among the apple orchards and the wheat fields and pas- tures carpet the earth with green, and the sheep look down from the mountain sides and smile at the cattle in the fields below, while Nature sighs with content at the picture she has painted. * * * Content has one of her most beautiful homes on earth in Pine Valley, where the stream wanders out from among the ice caves of the Powder River mountains and goes to play between the peach and apple orchards and pastures among the homes of men. They have heard about the outside world, the people there in Pine Valley, but they don't care to go away and 8 THE SUNSET SHORE. see it. They had rather look up at the blue robe of heaven overhead, at the glittering peaks of gold and silver and gray and white vi^here their river is born, at the warm pine-clad arms which fold them in on either side and at their own rich fields and orchards and quiet homes than at a striving world of kings outside. And when I saw their complacency and the beauty of their surroundings I forgot the blue waters of the sea, the odor of the orange groves, the glimmer of the lakes and the song of the waterfalls in the mountain where I had wandered. My gaze and mind were so engaged that I had no time to think of other beauties. This valley of delight was enough for me, if autumn and spring could always last, and if any flaws had come to mar its beauty, man had made them, for I cannot think that Nature can have done a more perfect piece of work anywhere on earth than she had done right here. The valley begins among the beetling crags of the Powder River mountains, where the snow peaks pierce the sky ten thousand feet, and stretches twenty miles or more between the pine-clad hills, until it sinks away among the gray shoulders to the south. Its floor is covered for miles of verdant width with rich and level fields, among which winds the creek with its banks of willows and cot- tonwoods; and when I stood on the mountain side and viewed its loveliness I forgqt that man was wicked and that there was any other place than Paradise and that this was not it. A DAUGHTER OF WASHINGTON. On the shores of the Sapphire Sea she first saw the sun on November 11th, 1889, the day that President Harrison signed the bill which made Washington a state. THE SUNSET SHORE. 9 A million balls of gold gleamed among the emerald leaves, the bees hummed a narcotic refrain while they bur- rowed in the hearts of the orange blossoms, and I stretched myself in the hammock beneath the pepper tree and forgot that Covina was not Paradise. The attar of the waxen orange blossoms beguiled my senses, the mocking bird warbled on the feather of a palm, and I was lost amid the ecstacy of sound and sight and smell. The rose hedge blushed and the big magnolia blossoms reflected back the southern sun, while the grape-fruit trees drank from the San Gabriel until their amber spheres could hold no more. True the mountains looked gray and discouraged, but they only accentuated the bounteous green of the valley below, made so by the life which flowed from their gen- erous breasts. They are the treasure houses of life to which the dwellers of the teeming Paradise below go for stores of riches and of beauty; a burned oak frame for a bewitching picture, a bulwark from the northern gales. Under the pavilions on Smiley Heights I forgot Para- dise and heaven for the time being, while I inhaled the odors from the orange groves below and gazed into the wilderness of roses, geraneums, clematis and passion flow- ers and listened to the fountains and canaries and mocking birds sing. Time is a dream and toil a vision while the palm leaves rustle overhead and the century plant mists honey for the 10 THE SUNSET SHORE. drunken bees, and the flowers catch blushes from the sun- beams, while the oranges draw rich gold from the soil which is forced to give it up by the workmen furnished by the San Gabriel as they gently caress the rootlets which they feed. The town below is but a toy village arranged to suit a perfect fancy, and if there is anything in it which would do violence to my dream, distance and the orange groves obscure the disturbing features, and I realize noth- ing but the nearer beauties, and lapse back into the etherial influences of the day and place and let my contented blood run slow while I forget. * * * One's sense of taste, coupled with sight and smell, can make one forget time, the end of time and even Paradise. The sweetness and beauty of a San Jose prune orchard, a Fresno vineyard when the grapes give a good smell and the new wine clamors to escape from its purple cells, a Santa Rosa peach orchard, with its gold-and-red carpet beneath the trees and luscious globes of downy sweetness still hanging to the pendant boughs, any of these appeal- ing influences would serve to absorb. I forgot, while the rich juice gurgled through my teeth and bewitched my lips and palate, as I gathered from the burdened branches and gazed upon the golden carpet far, far away beneath the rows of trees, forgot Paradise, but remembered the millions of my kind who could not have what man's greed was here allowing to go to waste^ When I saw the purple clusters gleaming among a THE SUNSET SHORE. 11 thousand acres of leafy vines along the Sacramento and San Joaquin I forgot that there was anything but rich- ness and the royal life tints of the grape; and the Sierra Nevadas smiled down benignly upon the opulence which their bounteous flow had created in the places where once a burning desert reigned, and the poppies blazed on the hills and the honey flowed from the rocks, and the giant sequoia and redwoods keep their silent watch since the days when the penitent thief hung on the cross and the Man of Galilee told him of that Paradise which I have forgot. *- * * The ocean hums a deep toned dirge while it weeps against the shores of Mendocino, Humboldt and Del Norte, and the green headlands hold it back while it dashes in its vain attempt to destroy the earth. The pretty homes nestle behind the sheltering headlands beside the waters of their placid lakes and smile in comfort from among the evergreens and maples and alders, while the singing streams warble down from the curtain of the green and blue mountain sides against the eastern sky. I can have the moaning of the restless ocean here as well as the peaceful shelter of my mother earth, and I forget that there is anj^where else in all the world but these dreamy nooks along the ocean, where the meadow lark and robin are at home so close to where the sea birds scream and wheel, and the sun sinks into the deep below the western sky, and the ships go by whether to return or no I cannot tell. 12 THE SUNSET SHORE. When I go through the three worlds in Western Ore- gon I forget that they are a part of that larger world. Jacksonville is the capital of one beautiful little world which is guarded on all sides by walls of eternal moun- tains; Roseburg is the capital of another; then comes that greater world around which all the others circle, the hub of which is rich old Portland. Jackson and Douglas may be the sparkling satellites, but the Willamette is the cen- ter of the orbit around which they revolve. There is only one better place in the universe than this, its dwellers think, and the jewelled white fingers of Mts. Hood, Jef- ferson and St. Helens point toward it. A thousand bounteous fields smile when they think of it, thousands of elegant country homes draw their exclusive robes around them and retire into their bursting opulence when they contemplate the favors nature has bestowed upon them, the bachelor buttons fleck the green sky of the fields, the iris and the syringa gleam on the hillsides and the moun- tains of blue and green and white guard the scene, while Eugene, Corvallis, Albany, Salem and a hundred other cities and towns cling like jewels to the silver ribbon of the Willamette. If one must remember all the time, to get to Paradise^ I fear that many of the dwellers along this beautiful stream will never reach the ever vernal shores, for nature has conspired with human fancy to make them forget while gazing at the nearer beauties around them, the eternal ever vernal shores of the far beyond. THE SUNSET SHORE. 13 If the grandeur, the sylvan beauty and the pastoral de- light of all the world was boiled down into one beguiling scene it could not be more potent to engage the enrap- tured view than is the Columbia River from The Dalles to Portland. I have been told that this is the greatest river in volume which springs from the bosom of mother earth. I do not know, but this I know : its mighty stream and wonderful shores are a dream. Its depths sweep in and out among the towering crags; the snowy peaks are not too old to play peak-a-boo behind the doorways of the mighty canyons and green-clad pinnacles of a thousand beautiful mountains. The silver streamer of Multnomah and the glimmer of the Bridal Veil, a hundred pastures and a thousand clinging homes, all, all conspire to make the traveler forget that there is a veil of tears, to forget that there may be a place more pretty, more beautiful, more grand, or more enduring in its delights. * * * Could earth and water be more beautifully arranged than they are on Puget Sound ? Green mountains bathing their feet in emerald and sapphire depths, a thousand coves and nooks among the evergreens and fields, mysterious passages and placid bays, and long reaches where are re- flected the great snow peaks beyond. I thought, as I stood on the top of old Mt. Constitu- tion and gazed around, that man was little and the world so big that he could never fill it. The view is a dream. The world is silent up there, only the tinkle of the sheep 14 THE SUNSET SHORE. bell down on the mountain side, or the saucy bark of the squirrel nearer by breaks the stillness. We are above the moil of man, and distance hides the scars that he has made, still we can see a thousand signs of his play, from the belching steamship away yonder, plowing in from the broad Pacific, to the feathery sailboat gliding up the Sound like a bit of down lost from some sea bird's breast. The lake glimmers among the evergreens half way down the mountain side as the hungry trout leaps from its limpid depths and sends the wavelets circling toward the shore, the farms of Orcas, like brown and green plats upon a checker-board, sleep in the summer sun. Farther over the fields of San Juan smile among the evergreens, and Lopez and Fidalgo and Whidby with their orchards and fields stud the Sound with richness, while its waters wind in and out among a myriad of lesser islands. Yonder along the feet of the mighty Cascades stretches a land of plenty from Vancouver to Tacoma, and to the south and west silent and grim, with rocks and evergreens and snow bejewelled crowns, cluster the Olympics, at the feet of which nestle Olympia, Shelton, Port Townsend and Port Angeles. Away to the west stretches that gem of the ocean, Van- couver island, with its snowy peaks and hiding lakes, its pretty homes and tumbling streams. While we stand on this mountain we can see here and there a steamer creeping in and out among the hiding villages along the shores of the inquisitive waters, yonder WHERE THE MOCKING BIRD MAKES MUSIC IN THE ORANGE GROVES. THE SUNSET SHORE. 15 along the blue range of the Cascade foothills a crawling train with its trail of ebon smoke; down on some little bay a silent puffing mill among the evergreens, and all about the toy villages — fifty of them — of men and women who have been at play along the shores and beside the mountains. Yonder is Seattle, the Queen City of the Sound, with its thickly sprinkled hills and restless energy; over at our right the Queen City of British Columbia, Victoria, the city of eleven lakes; at our left the beautiful tumbling waters of Whatcom, and at our back the Royal City of Westminster and the Gate City, Vancouver, of Western Canada. These scenes of the sapphire sea make one forget in summer time that he can live in any other part of the world, make one almost forget that there is a Paradise, a heaven, which may outdo these absorbing beauties. Southwestern British Columbia, like a golden horn of plenty with a rim of jewelled mountains sparkling around its beautiful bell, its sweeping river plied, between com- fortable homes, by a fleet of busy steamers and white- winged ships, its deep blue harbors a mirror for the snow- clad peaks which hem them in, its delightful park and gems of cities. New Westminster and Vancouver, its mysteri- ous island, upon which sits the queen of the province, Vic- toria, with its entrancing scenery; and Nanaimo with its swarm of sea craft, its bewitching nooks and bays and 18 THE SUNSET SHORE. waterfalls, and those other rich, beautiful isles. Queen Charlottes. A land of peace and plenty which wooes to forgetfulness of less favored realms, and whose joys of living nurture neglect of preparation for Paradise. Alaska, the unknown, the land where fields of golden grain are throbbing to burst from the less worthy sands of gold, a thousand islands, bays, lakes, mighty rivers, an army of glistening snow peaks, millions of acres of flow- er-flecked plains, awaiting the grateful scratching of the farmer's plow to yield a world of bread. Juneau, Sitka, Skagway nestling among their emerald isles, where the cedars and the firs sing seconds to the harp of the sea; Dawson, where bubbles up the golden flood of the Klon- dike; Nome, with its glittering sands and latent plains; Tanana, and gold, gold, gold, awaiting in the yet un- grown but possible fields of waving grain, and hiding in the sands and rocks, and one forgets, while exploring this interesting and unknown land, that he belongs in Paradise and that there is but one bridge which leads with its sev- enty arches of short years from this terrestrial evergreen shore to the etherial realms beyond, from which no trav- eler has e'er returned to tell of beauties which we can but imagine from comparing with these, which we have felt and seen. THE SUNSET SHORE. 17 SUCCESS. In the sweet by and by, Not on some other shore, But on this hope has pictured success, When our dream shall be true And our faith shall be sight, And we'll joy in sweet Fancy's caress. Oh, that sweet by and by. How it brightens the eye. While we strive for the comforts of life ; And we win if we fail. When we honestly toil And make a good fight in the strife. Sometime, by and by. We are sure we shall win, And cheerfully forward we press; While hope spurs us on With the faith that some day We shall bask in the arms of Success. If we make a good fight In the battle of life, Our conscience with comfort will bless, And eternity's page Will be written across With the magical name of Success. 3-8 THE SUNSET SHORE. What we gather in life Does not prove in the strife That we've won in the struggle below; We fail if we win, If our ways will not bear The light of eternity's glow. MY BOYS AND GIRLS. The girls I meet are flowers to me — I always view them so — From glorious magnolia To pumpkin bloom below. All flowers are perfect in their way, If viewed with kindly eye ; Their fairest charms are often missed By heedless passer-by. My Kate's a royal jacquiminot. And Mary a wild rose; Gertrude a purple clematis Which by my window grows. My Eloise a passion flower, And Jane a primrose fair. While Ruth's a forest orchid. So gentle and so rare. Grace was a sensitive plant so frail, Ethel a golden rod, THE SUNSET SHORE. =19 And Winnifred a violet Beside the path I trod. Vesta a snow-white pansy And Marguerite sweet pea; Naomi a pink daisy My Father gave to me. Rachel a carnation, Louise a trillium ; A lily Leonora, From Paradise has come. Forget-me-not is Josephine, Who grows beside the rock; A climbing rose is sweet Clarice, Sarah a hollyhock. In boys, I see so many trees Which grow within the wood. And some are grand, and some are strong. And some are not so good ; And some are fair to look upon, Others are rough and plain. While some have grown so crooked It gives my heart a pain. John is a fir tree tall and strong, Dick is a riven oak, Charlie a crooked willow Whose branches have been broke. Rob is a hollow sycamore. 20 THE SUNSET SHORE. Joseph an apple tree ; Maurice a cedar, Paul a birch — An alder Ed I see. Harry a basswood, George an elm, A maple Valentine; A prickly spruce is Willie, A poplar David, tall; While Thomas is a quaking asp. Whose heart dark doubts appall. Samuel, the balm of Gilead, And Peter hickory. I see in Albert singing pine, Who stands beside my way. Luther's an eucaliptus, And James a redwood tree. Justin's the fairest tree of all. The palm, or ought to be. THE SUNSET SHORE. 21 THE PRICE OF LOVE. You say you bought her with a big bouquet Of Marechal Neils and Jacquiminots, And now that you have got her She's not the joy your fancy painted her — A disappointment and regret, And not the treasure that j'ou thought her. Strange. Why, with such a price, You should have won a paragon Of loveliness and worth and all that's true? But was it one bouquet? I fear you have forgotten since the day You paid the purchase price And placed her under bonds To with fresh vintage Oft renew the price her fancy treasured. Such fancies are not necessary now, Since you've secured the prize Sought by the lust of your delighted eyes. Oh, I see, 'tis self you love. Well, love yourself; Then if others do not love you You will have at least some love. But remember this, no treasure is secured for nought; There must be rendered up a fair exchange. Hearts are not bought with lust. 22 THE SUNSET SHORE. The price to pay for loveliness and truth Is honest heart for honest heart. Try that, and then I promise you Your purchase will another creature seem, Fulfilling every fancy of your dream — A treasure precious And a joy to soul and sense. THE DOLLAR BUG. The dollar bug lives in a desert drear Where nothing lovely grows, Where the sun shines hot every day in the year And it never rains or snows. But the dollar bug works with all his might, And never rests or sleeps; He's afraid that something will roll away In spite of the watch he keeps. The dollar bug's soul is measured off By a string of figures and noughts; They worry him all the burning day Like a swarm of buzzing bots. He works all day and he dreams all night Of the heaps he is piling up; THE SUNSET SHORE. 23 Sometimes he steals his neighbor's dirt While his neighbor stops to sup. But why does the dollar bug work so hard And cause himself such pain? Why, he dreamed, while his eyes were open wide, That some day it would rain. THE SHORTEST HOUR. The shortest hour in all the day- How fast the moments fly — Is just the time you should arise But still in bed you lie. You knew at five when you awoke At six you should be dressed, But now you know you can't succeed Although you do your best. You only yawned and stretched yourself And snuggled down in bed. "Oh my! I must have been asleep!" When seven struck, you said. It only seemed a moment since You heard the clock strike five. And stretching out for one more wink Were glad you were alive. 24 THE SUNSET SHORE. But, oh, the clock, how fast it went. Regardless of your fate, And of your woe when you should wake And find yourself so late. The minutes are but seconds short, The hours but minutes seem. While stretching out for that last rest So comfortably you dream. So now a tardy mark you'll get, Maybe a reprimand, Because about the swiftest time You didn't understand. And while you hurry on your clothes. With lips all puckered sour, You know the minutes last in bed Make up the shortest hour. THE SUNSET SHORE. 25 SOMEWHERE ELSE. The glow of dawn creeps through my room, While I am listening to the bells, A strange unrest is in my heart — I'm wishing I was somewhere else. Why need I? Everything is mine; All 'round me are earth's beauteous things — Its wonders in the silent rocks, The flower that blooms, the bird that sings. A rain-drop falls upon my hand ; I stop and look and meditate; In it I see a tumbling stream, Where silent mountains grimly wait. I see the lakelet in the wood, And rushing rivers, deep and wide. I travel far and I behold The restless ocean's mighty tide. A mossy rock lies in my path; I pause and look, and far away I see the mighty peaks arise Whose gorges dim the light of day. I look upon a little shrub Which brushes me as I pass by — A forest stretches far away. Whose branches hide the vaulted sky. ZS THE SUNSET SHORE. I feel the silence of the wood, And listen to the breezes play Among the singing leaves above While I go through its shadowy way. On yonder corner, standing there, I see a man — one man alone — And mighty cities far away Before me rise from zone to zone. And seeing one I see them all, With tower and spire and streets athrong, With din and roar and rush and strife. Men, men astir the whole day long. I pluck a meek forget-me-not. Which blooms beside my pathway fair, And gazing in its tender eye See Paradise with verdure rare. I smell the orange groves afar — The palms upon a thousand hills; Earth's every song and scene are mine. Each rising view my being thrills. I've wandered over all the earth, And listening to the ringing bells, I'm sitting in my room tonight Still wishing I was somewhere else. THE SUNSET SHORE. 27 CONTENT. What a sweet, sweet world is this old world, When it blossoms out in spring; When the busy bees are humming And the birds begin to sing. What a bright, bright world is this old world, When summer has come to stay, And the cornfields whisper, the trees laugh, And the sun shines every day. What a rich, rich world is this old world When the autumn daj^s are here. When the barns and bins and cribs are full And the orchards yield their cheer. What a kind, kind world is this old world In the fireside's cheerful glow. When the earth in peaceful quiet rests. Wrapped in its cloak of snow. 28 THE SUNSET SHORE. A PEACE CONVENTION. Bill Skids lived on a western range, A cattle lord was he; He rode the swiftest cayuse You would have a chance to see. His lariat and gun were true; He didn't fear a thing Of men or beasts or birds or snakes The country round could bring. He rounded up, as free as air, A township, more or less; None interferred or crossed his path, Or dared a tax assess. Upon his swift cayuse Bill rode Across the plain one day, When suddenly a barb-wire fence He spied across his way. Bill stood aghast that any dare Encroach on his domain; Then swore the builder of the fence With gore the grass should stain. THE SUNSET SHORE. . 29 But Farmer Binks, who built the fence, Had come to stay, he said; And said if Bill could swear things blue That he could make things red. One day the cowboys came along To cut the farmer's fence — They carried home a man or two — • Thus did the war commence. Next at the farmer's hired man Our William took a shot; Then back and forth the farmers And cattle herders fought. Until, at last, no one was left But Bill and Binks to fight. When gentle Parson Jones stepped in And tried to set things right. Bill told the parson that as sure As William was his name He'd have the scalp of Farmer Binks, Or Binks would have his same. Then Binks the parson interviewed, With little more success, To try and fetch about a truce And straighten out the mess. 30- THE SUNSET SHORE. At last the parson's wish prevailed, And him the men to please, Agreed to have a meeting And try and patch up peace. So long-haired Bill and sturdy Binks They wandered in one day And at the table stationed each In a suspicious way. The parson beamed with pure delight To think that peace had won, Although there'd been no shaking hands Or even smiling done. And back and forth he smiling passed Between the frowning men, Until, when coming through the door. He looked at both, and then He saw, beneath Bill's coat tails. Two shining pistol butts; And bulged from Binks' hip pockets, As slow the door he shuts. He sees two Smith & Wessons glint Before his startled eyes. And sorrow flits across his face. No matter how he tries. THE SUNSET SHORE. 31 With ardor cooled, the preacher talks Of quietude and peace, Until he talks himself quite out. And still has failed to please. At last the meeting is adjourned, The parson mentions, grave: "Hip pockets loaded down with guns Are not the things to have When 'peace conventions' meet to try And straighten out affairs." And then the men backed frowning out And left him to his cares. OUR STEPS. Prov. 16:9. Where flowers and birds and waving trees Shall all our joyous senses please — All buoyant-hearted, we devise Our earthly way, through Paradise. O'er deserts drear and mountains high, Which all our weary senses try, God shapes our steps, to our surprise. Which end at last in Paradise. 32 THE SUNSET SHORE. THE MILL STARTS UP. The somber clouds have cleared away, and brighter days have come, And mother, singing, goes about our humble little home. On father's ofttimes troubled face a smile begins to play, The M^hole house is more cheerful now — the mill starts up today. Now mother dear can have the dress she's needed, oh, so long. And brother Dick a pair of shoes and stockings good and strong ; And father he can go to church, and need not stay away Because a shabby coat he wears — the mill starts up today. The coal bin now will be filled up as full as it can pack. We'll never need go picking up along the railroad track. The children with their books will have a little time to play Life will look brighter now for them — the mill starts up today. The winter does not look so fierce, nor make us shiver so Since pa and Will can be at work while frosty breezes blow ; So we will thank the Lord, so good, for blessings when we pray — For hope for everybody, when the mill starts up today. w. THE GIANT'S SHADOWS, IN THE YOSEMITE. VERNAL FALLS. THE RIVERS CHILDHOOD BANNER PEAK, CALIFORNIA. 1* * -4 31 >f ■7," i«' THE SUNSET SHORE. 33 THE CROSS IN THE STREET. 'Twas a daughter of the King Standing on the street to sing; With His Spirit in her face, And with holy virgin grace She the sweet old story told Of the Shepherd and the fold. Dressed in blue with bonnet plain, She the Way did there explain To the noisy lookers on, Who with jeerings now begun; Then with missiles all defiled They assailed her while she smiled; Smeared her saintly form and face, While she prayed for Jesus' grace. And a blessing begged for them — That they, too, might come to Him, Who would cleanse their hearts from sin, And their lives and service win — Give them love instead of hate. And avert an awful fate. While she looked up into heaven. Praying they might be forgiven. From the crowd a stranger stepped — In his heart he silent wept That a daughter of the King S4 THE SUNSET SHORB. Must needs suffer such a thing, While she harbored only love From the Father up above, For the ones with sin so wild. Who assailed her while she smiled. To her side the stranger stepped, Tears of pity there he wept. And with his silk handkerchief Wiped away for her relief All the stains upon her face. Feeling there the Master's grace; Stepping thus into the Way, Leading to eternal day, Soon received eternal life, And all freedom from the strife Which assails the human heart, While from God it is apart. Thus from persecution grew In one soul salvation true; Thus the Master's work is done, Till the coming of the Son, When the saints who march the street Shall rejoice at Jesus' feet. And with him his reign enjoy Free from bitter sin's alloy. San Francisco, 1885. THE SUNSET SHORE. 35 SECOND CHILDHOOD. You say she's wrinkled, old and gray, And childish, cross and plain, — Forgetful of the things that passed an hour ago, To hear it gives my heart a solemn pain. That she forgets the names of friends, And asks with childish smile of things Which happened her but moments since, Of which, still on the air her merry laughter rings. And so I need expect to see no more The one I knew in years gone by. The weaving grace has left her willowy form, The clouds of age now dim her sparkling eye, And questions now upon a thousand things She asks, and then forgetting, asks again, And goes about from room to room. And tells demurely things which she has never seen, I would not see the battered house Of what was once so fair — In form, in feature and in blooming mind — To rob me of the memorj' of one so rare, 'Twere better far, the distant view of beauty's charms, Than see the wreck relentless Time — With pity seared and heart grown cold — Has worked upon her form in solemn rhyme. 36 THE SUNSET SHORE. But memory views the woman blithe Of thirty, as handsome as e'er seen — With curving neck, as graceful as a swan's. And head held proud as any queen; With swaying form, like slender willow ; A face above speaking of treasures rare; Eye like a sparkling mountain brook; Tresses of shining ebon hair. Sought then by friends unnumbered, Her intellect and beauty ruled supreme; And men — the best in all the land — Linked with her future their vain dream ; And women gathered round her. That by chance they might inoculate Some essence, from her blest presence, That might less favored caskets permeate. Still there it is, a soul gone wool gathering. To never more return, until that day, When clothed again in habiliments of youth. Clouds swept from off the sky away, It stands before the Judge, And taking on its prime. Appears again restored, in beauteous strength, Beyond the walls of time. THE SUNSET SHORE. t7 A MANTLE. To Hide Feelings. Miss Feelings a beautiful mantle craved To hide her from the gaze Of people who often saw in her form Things which they could not praise. She first sought out the weaver Deceit, Who boasted wonderful skill, And agreed without a moment's delay The miss's order to fill. The mantle was bought, it was fair to see, The price was blushes and fears. But it seemed to screen from the prying gaze. And protect from showers of tears. But the days flew by — they were very few Till the robe in tatters hung. And Miss Feelings' unlovely form was ttte theme Of many a busy tongue. It was then she knew, with sad regret. That Deceit was a weaver vain, And among the cunning woofs and warps For a mantle she sought again. 38 THE SUNSET SHORE. At last she found the weaver Love, Who vv^ove her a modest robe, And never through it could the prying eye Down into her secrets probe. The mantle which Love for Miss Feelings wove By wearing grew more strong, And when she felt its comforting folds There sprung to her heart a song. She said, while she smiled at all about, "No mantles are quite so fine As those which the weaver Love can weave Who knitted this robe of mine." None ever thought, as they looked at her, That under her mantle of love Miss Feelings might carry the marks of pain, For her robe was prepared above. THE SUNSET SHORE. 39 AN IMPOSSIBLE WOMAN. A uniform was naught to her, Heroes of war but murderers. She heard unmoved the trumpet's blare, Frowned with contempt when marching by The troops received the loud acclaims Of women with a weaker poise. When flowers were heaped with lavish hand By maids upon returning troops, She rather would adhere to one Who never shed a foeman's blood. Declaring she had no esteem For men who chose the bloody trade Of war, and sought to gain renown By doing that for which men hang. This woman boldly stemmed the flood Of maudlin sentiment for "the brave," And censorious openly affirmed That woman caudled war Because of her vain love of ^ow. And that a knave in uniform Was more set by in many eyes Than true and honest worth. 40 THE SUNSET SHORE. So long as woman caudled up And petted epaulets and spurs, And worshiped brass and plumes And lauded open murder, The cannon's roar would sound. The searching bullets sing. And poets rant and rave, And war, the last resort Of craven mercenaries, rage. When woman gives a proper estimate To brazen flaunting crime, And scorns the perpetrators of it, The bugle blast will change To worthy hymns of peace. And war drums beat to blows of honest toil. Such sentiments this woman taught, And lived them, too, as well ; And turned her back upon The tawdry furniture of heroes. While her fellows puled about The minions of the sword She stood, a fair protest Against the bloody trade of war. THE SUNSET SHORE. 41 THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. I've been to the old place today, Where we lived so many years — Where we laughed our merriest laughter, And shed our bitterest tears. I wandered out among the weeds, Where we planted in the spring, And gathered in the autumn. Increase from everything. I sat in your old chair, wife, The one you loved the best. In which, when tired at evening. You used to sit and rest. The old spring's covered up with weeds, I could not get a drink; But sat me down upon the bank Beside it there to think. The path down which the children trooped To meet me when I came Is hid 'neath drooping grasses wet, And does not look the same. The birds and mice have taken charge Of the old house and shed. And nothing but the legs and slats Are left of the high bed. 42 THE SUNSET SHORE. The old long cedar table, 'Round which we used to meet, Is covered over with blue mold, And nothing there to eat. The chairs, all lonely sit arow Along the old log walls, Upon their home-made backs and seats Askance a sunbeam falls. The cradle sits beside the door, A Avaist hangs on its rail; I cannot hear, though listening hard, A little one's sweet wail. The orchard grows among the weeds, With briar and bramble filled ; And birds and rabbits roam about The grounds we often tilled. The old home place calls up the j^ears Of toil and hope gone by. When prospects of the coming day Encouraged you and I. The lake in quiet beauty lies Among the forest green, Just as it did in those old years When we came on the scene. THE SUNSET SHORE. 4S A few more dwellings round it sit And mirror in its face; The waters sparkle just as bright, And you would know the place. But turn away I must and move Among the rushing throng; Such quiet scenes and memories sweet — They cannot keep me long. Good-bye, old place, I'll come again, And drink your quiet in, And breathe your restful solitude. Where comes no taint of sin. ^^mff^ 44 THE SUNSET SHORE. SHE. I dreamed for her a life more fair Than sunshine dancing in her hair. And I shall see it in her eyes — It shall come true in Paradise. THE SUNSET SHORE. 46 A BOOK. Words and paper and cloth and thread, And perhaps a touch of glue — A little gold to adorn a name, And that is a book to you. But a book to me, my patient friend, Is a thousand things unsaid — Of sentiment and toil and care, And never can be read. A book is a troubled sleepless couch, Whose pillows are filled with thoughts, Which tramp, like a restless army in. To the waking mind unsought. A book is a form in blankets wrapped, Who at the dead of night Impales a dream on a pencil point To a sheet of paper white. A book is a walk through the silent streets, While her fellows puled about And the moon wades muffled through the sky, And the stars their watches keep. The book's words are the footprint marks Of a restless spirit's feet — From out the soul of a weeping pen To the page of the snowy sheet. 4S THE SUNSET SHORE. Paper, and cloth, and words and thread Are the things that you can see Of the book, which in a silent voice Calls a thousand forms to me. A book is all, all, all to me, And more than I can tell — A shattered chain, a crumbling wall. Which held a soul in spell, Until a rescuing trio came, And Thought and Hand and Pen Set free from the prison house the soul To sing its song to men. THE SUNSET SHORE. 47 INSPIRATION. Of all things in this strange world a mortal to surprise A poet's inspiration is the queerest in my eyes. As frequently as any way it is not he who writes When sonatas and symphonies adorn his stilly nights. A strong cigar or glass of wine's as like to draw him out, Or a mince pie or oyster stew may put fair sleep to rout, And then the poet can't be held accountable at all For rhymes or poems strange or sweet which from his pen- cil fall. This one about the lily a cup of coffee penned ; I'm sure that when he drank the stuff he never did intend To scramble from his bed and write a poem great or small, But after he had swallowed it he could not sleep at all; His nerves were dancing while he tossed and tried to wheedle sleep, And from the realms of fancy's flight his mind he could not keep; So creeping from his restless couch, without a thought of clothes, He wrote on this, while, lo, the air wrote pink upon his nose. This song so sweet of gentle spring, and flowers and vine and rock, 48 THE SUNSET SHORE. Was written by some pork and beans he ate at twelve o'clock. It was a slice of sausage moved his body, mind and hand, When he — its humble instrument — this witching fabric planned Upon the butterfly, and bee, and birds of paradise. Which floated in his mind because he couldn't close his eyes. A plate of doughnuts, fruit or cake borne to the poet's bed May through his stomach cultivate communion with his head, And thus the pastry cook or chef with wooing wares, it seems, May furnish inspiration for the poet's wakeful dreams, Which penning, while in misery his appetite he rues. Are, by the world, accredited to visits of the muse. THE SUNSET SHORE. 49 NATURE'S ADORNMENTS. Clouds but add glory to the landscape of the sky. Rain is but tear drops from fair Nature's eye, (She sheds because her fretful children cry) The lightning but blushes, and the wind a sigh. Flowers are but jewels to adorn the seasons fair. Bright Spring wears pearls among her shining hair. Crimson and sapphire deck the Summer rare, While Autumn and Winter gold and diamonds wear. 60 THE SUNSET SHORE. THE WORST TROUBLES. They say that all lives of trouble are full, And I partly believe it is true, For we fret for the things we haven't done, As well as the things we do. Some worry for health and some for wealth And some for honor and fame, But most of the troubles I ever had Were troubles that never came. Listen, my son, I once was young, But now I am old and gray; Most of my life is past and gone, And I have seen my day. I once was strong, and frisky, and spry, But now I am stiff and lame; But most of the troubles I ever had Were troubles that never came. To hold our own in the struggling world Our life is a constant fight; Some strive all the day reputation to keep, And walk the floor half the night. We worry about our expenses and debts. And fear for our treasured good name. But most of the troubles I ever had Were troubles that never came. THE SUNSET SHORE. 51 If we till the soil we fear it will rain, Or drougth will the crops destroy; Or an early frost, or a late, may be, Will blight our expected joy. Of ratings and profits and losses. In business we worry the same. But most of the troubles I ever had Were troubles that never came. So my advice, my son, to you — For I haven't got long to stay — Is to never cross a shaky bridge Before you pass that way. Don't fret about the losses and gains. Before you get in the game ; For most of the troubles I ever had Were troubles that never came. 62 THE SUNSET SHORE. "POLLY SUNBEAM." "My name is Polly Sunbeam; My papa calls me that; I'm out to take an airing, And this is my new hat. "My name is Polly Sunbeam, My doUie's name is Grace; She used to be quite pretty Before I washed her face, But now she's old and fady — Same as a wilty rose, For that is what my papa says, And I just guess he knows. "My papa he gets funny, And mamma washed his face When she was washing dishes ; I tell you he's a case. "What I got in this paper? I bet you couldn't guess. I bought it for a penny Where I got dollie's dress. THE SUNSET SHORE. 53 "Yes, my name is Polly Sunbeam, But I must go along, Or mamma'U think I'm losted. And then there'll be a song. Good-bye! Just come and see us, Tomorrow if you can, And bring your wife and babies." Then down the street she ran. Nooksack, Washington. IT. You're never it. No matter how your own importance seems, Or how self admiration fills your waking dreams-, You're never it. You're never it. Though your whole being with conceit's instilled, If you step out your place will soon be filled ; You're never it. 54 THE SUNSET SHORE. DON'T WHINE. Don't whine, my boy, But smile, no matter how things go, A whine will never dry the rain or drive away the snow. Don't whine. Don't whine, my boy. Success may come next time to you, If you but keep on striving and be true. Don't whine. Don't whine, my boy. The world will never stop to sympathize, But it will cheer the man who smiles and tries. Don't whine. Don't whine, my boy, The world may pity in disgust The whiner, but will never trust. Don't whine. Don't whine, my boy. Keep self-respect until the battle's done; No matter how it goes, one victory will be won. Don't whine. I forget the dark clouds when I look in her face. So bright is her smile and so charming her grace. THE SUNSET SHORE. 55 WHEAT FIELDS. Did you ever see the wheat fields In the beauty of the spring, When the field-fair and the meadow lark Sit on the fence and sing? When the tar weed shows the color Of the gold beneath the soil, Waiting to yield up its treasure To the sturdy farmer's toil ? Did you ever hear the shining steel Go whispering through the ground As it turned the summer fallow With a rich and mellow sound ? Did you ever see the wheat fields Shining in the summer sun, Like quivering burnished lakes of gold, Ere the harvest had begun? Then when moiling clattering reapers Sailing 'round these lakes of gold Gathered from their crested wavelets Into store a wealth untold? If you never saw the wheat fields Painted with the brush of spring, Nor the gilding of the summer. Nor the harvest reaper's ring, 53 THE SUNSET SHORE. You have failed to see God's bounty In an aspect fair and grand, As e'er beheld by mortal eye In any clime or land ; And a journey to the wheat fields Will in pleasure full repay, If you wander where they glimmer On some fair and favored day. lone, Oregon. THE SUNSET SHORE. r>7 WHATSOEVER. Phil. 4:8. Whatsoever things are true, Whatsoever things are just, Whatsoever honorable — Are the things we have in trust. WTiatsoever things are pure. Whatsoever lovely are, Things that are of good report, Be they near or be they far : Virtue, praise and such as they, Our attention should employ. Peaceful we may think on these, Without rancor's sad alloy. 58 THE SUNSET SHORE. MICHAL. A meadow without a flower, A grove without a bird, A lake without a sail, A river without water, A desert, A salty sea, A Hebrew wife whose breasts Have not been pressed By infant lips. For but one little laugh This bitter cup must quaff, So Michal mourns with thee, Oh, Jephtha's daughter! Oh, had I wept instead of laughed That day the ark came in I had not paid this penalty For flippant sin. But now. Oh, Jephtha's daughter, Your fate was heaven, but mine — A childless virgin you — Israel's daughters mourned with thee, But I, a childless wife — Woe, woe is me. None pity, none bewail THE SUNSET SHORE. D9 That Michal's hope is gone, And no Deliverer may come From her in future days (Jehovah said it) To call her memory blessed. Her breast may never throb By infant hands caressed, And Michal mourns alone. 60 THE SUNSET SHORE. GLAD. "Corook, coroo!" said Mr. Frog, "I'm glad I'm not a pollywog ; I couldn't be content, I know. To stay down in the water so. "Caw!" said the crow, "but this is iifle- On this fat frog I'll surely dine." He carried Mr. Frog away. For dinner in his nest that day. "Kereep, keree!" said Pollywog, "I'm very glad I'm not a frog; I'm sure I'd dizzy-headed be. If I should fly as high as he." THE SUNSET SHORE. 61 THE PROFESSOR OF LABOR. The professor of labor he labors, But not with hoe, hammer or saw ; In winter and summer and autumn and spring He toils with his flexible jaw. Sometimes in a temple of labor, Sometimes on a box in the street, This professor gives out dissertations On logs, locomotives or wheat. From Boston to Frisco and Baltimore back To Seattle and Puget Sound, He shouts for his caste on the quivering blast And bellows and paws up the ground. He's afraid the producer will suffer — His product is mostly hot air. But his dupes with their vanity tickled Their substance with him gladly share. The professor of labor he labors. And waxes e'er fat at his toil. While the cords of his throat grow athletic, But his hands never damaged with soil. 62 THE SUNSET SHORE. He cultivates class with soundings of brass, And chatters of grievances sore. He heralds beliefs and weeps over griefs Which men never thought of before. So we'll give him a place with the suffering race, His penchant for talk patronize, Till the gas he contains expands in his brains And bears him away to the skies. THE SUNSET SHORE. 55 WATER. What art thou, Thou limpid something That cools men's lips — That makes the earth a bower Where grew no flower? * * * THE DEW. A quiet moment and a sympathetic thought, The swelling bosom and deep emotions start — At dawn the trees, the grass, the sparkling flowers, Show silent tears from out earth's mother heart. * *- * THE SPRING. Glancing at me and the trembling deer, Nature's blue eye, the little spring. Among the rocks, and moss and ferns. Where the pheasants drum and the robins sing. * * * THE WELL. From Nature's breast, by her children pressed Deep from the depths below, A liquid stream of life wells up. With its cool, refreshing flow. * * *- THE RAIN. From a bending sky, from a hand on high The rain drops grateful fall. 64 THE SUNSET SHORE. And the green earth thanks from fields and banks For the rich supply for all. * * * THE LAKE. The highland lake in a dreamy vale — Born of the mountain snow; Waiting to slake with a cooling stream The thirsty earth below. THE RIVER. The streamlet feeds the river, The river feeds the earth, And forest, field and meadow Clap their hands in joyful mirth. » * « THE OCEAN. A sea of tears from eternal years — The throbbing ocean wide ; And the yearning love of our Father above Is as constant as its tide. * -* * The gentle dew, The cooling rain. The crystal spring, The flowing well, The mountain lake, The winding stream, The ocean — All, all are tears Upon an Omnipotent face. Shed for a wayward, fallen race — In pity: Springing from the soul of God. HHI ir^J^^^^^^H Hi 1 '1^ HHe, { mi I i T m f1 1 'SBHh ^fff^ n MILL CREEK FALLS, ROGUE RIVER, OREGON. ROGUJE RIVER IN THE COAST MOUNTAINS. THE HEART OF PORTEAND MULTNOMAH, 1000 FEE'l'. ^;r\,:': ti-^'M^ Jt.>^:'^' -^■""W. ' ifMi CRATER LAKE. THE SUNSET SHORE. 65 A SCANDAL. It is a shame, and I declare! that Sam'l doesn't know That Mary Jane, he thinks so nice, should talk about him so. He all the while as innocent as any suckin' pig; It is a pity Sam'l ain't as smart as he is big. Still Samuel is mighty good and someone ought to tell How Mary Jane's a treatin' him, but no one ever will. Why, don't you know? Why, I thought j^ou and ever}'^' body did; It comes right from her mother, and must be what !?he said. She said, last Sunday night, they say — he saw her home from meet'n — That he's the only man in town that she would wipe her feet on. It is a scandal now I say is what I think of that. To think that Mary Jane would use Sam Briggs for a door mat. 86 THE SUNSET SHORK INCONSISTENCY. The man who wants to preach worst way He cannot preach at all, And the man who doesn't want to preach Could talk from spring till fall. The man who fain would practice law, And so uplift his race; He inks the edges of his coat And never gets a case. The man who wants to doctor folks Can't cure a single thing; The one who doesn't care for drugs Can make you laugh and sing. The man who wants to do in oil Great pictures rich and rare, He has to label all his work So we'll know what they are. The man who wants to write a book A story cannot tell; The one who doesn't care to write Can interest you well. THE SUNSET SHORE. 67 The man who would a statesman be, And may be president, Can't make a speech to save his life, Nor reason worth a cent. The preacher wants to till the soil, The farmer wants to preach ; The teacher wants to shove the plane, The carpenter to teach; The tailor wants to practice law, The lawyer slide the goose ; The engineer to make the laws, The cobbler print the news. And so the world goes struggling on, Ambition ruling all ; Success coming alone to those Who listen to their call. 88 THE SUNSET SHORE. PARADISE. Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise, When shall I rest my weary eyes ? On thy green fields and glowing skies Where pain nor no temptation tries — Oh, Paradise, sweet Paradise. Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise, Oh, that my weary feet might rise From dusty pathways here below, To where thy gentle breezes blow — Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise. Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise, In His good time we'll see thy skies — We'll wander in thy fields above, Where all is peace and joy and love — Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise. Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise, I'll wait until my Savior cries Enough, enough, come unto me! Then all thy beauties I shall see — Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise. THE SUNSET SHORE. 69 HUMAN CHARACTER. More wondrous than the snowflake, More beauteous than the rose, More hateful than the serpent Whose track no mortal knows. More varied than the rainbow, Or e'en the flowers in spring, The chords that vibrate there more strange Than all the songs we sing. Writ in a language mj^stical, No human can define, The book is only legible Unto a mind divine. 70 THE SUNSET SHORE. "THE RIVER RUNS."* "The river runs!" Its hungry bed From mountain reservoirs is fed ; Its banks now smile at morning suns — The river runs, the river runs! Sunshine is fair when fields are green And waving in the summer sheen. The sun a tyrant sits on high When heaven and earth are parched and dry, And weary earth in languor lies Beneath the glare of brazen skies, And fetid breath of burning years Has dried away her pent-up tears. *In April, 1903, the writer was in San Jacinto, Cali- fornia, 120 miles southeast of Los Angeles. Passing along the street one day he heard a boy, perhaps eight years of age, shout to his fellow across the street: "The river runs!" It seemed a strange proclamation to me then, but when I understood that for six long years no moist- ening flow had darkened the glaring white sands of the river bed, and that that boy had probably never before seen the stream flow, I appreciated his youthful enthusi- asm. I think Jehovah has put water in the San Jacinto river bed every spring since then, to the grateful joy of the people along its banks. THE SUNSET SHORE. 71 But now the grateful mountains pour Life from their swelling bosoms' store, Which, taken by the jo3'ful sands, Is sprinkled on the thirsty lands. The river runs ! The river runs ! Sing father, mother, little ones! Wave banners, fire the joyful guns! The river runs ! The river runs ! 72 THE SUNSET SHORE. LOVE. I. Cor. 13:1-8, 13 and 14:1. Though I may speak with tongues of men And angels' heavenly voice, Without Love I'm as sounding brass, And no one vi^ill rejoice. Though I may have the gift of speech — My faith could mountains move ; KnoM^ledge and mysteries understand, I'm nothing w^ithout Love. Though I should give to feed the poor All things which I possess. My body give to burn with fire, Without Love M^ould not bless. Love suiters long, is very kind. And envies not at all ; Boasts not, is not exalted, And so can never fall. Love never acts unseemingly. Her own rights seeketh not; Is never angered easily. Nor harbors evil thought. THE SUNSET SHORE 73 Love can't rejoice in tempers Or other evil things ; Of Truth enthroned within herself Love ever, always sings. Bears all things with a smiling face, Believeth all things pure ; Hopes all things, endures all things, And knows the future sure. Love never fails, but prophesies May sometimes come to naught ; And tongues shall cease, knowledge be lost, Though ever earnest sought. Faith is a grace which shall abide, Hope ever calls to see. But Love, the greatest of them all, Savs, "follov/ after me." 74 THE SUNSET SHORE. RESCUED. How safe we are in Father's care, but, oh, how terrified While we are wandering away upon the mountain side. Gaily we seek earth's pleasure fair until the day is past, Groping among the caves and pits by night we go at last. The wolves of sin await our steps, all ready to devonr, And nothing now can save his child but Father's mighty power. Vainly we seek to extricate ourselves from Satan's snare, Only to weep with bitter cry while thorns and briars tear. At last all fainting sick and sore forgiveness we im- plore ; He stands beside us in the gloom, and we will stray no more. Oh, wanderer, when you abhor the paths of sin you try Your Father waits with longing heart to hear your weary cry ; And to his breast to gather you from out the bitter cold. And bear you safely in his arms back to the shelter- ing fold. THE SUNSET SHORE. IF A FELLOW DON'T GET SOUR. It's a joy to dream On a summer stream, And build in Spain a tower — To tumble down about our ears, If a fellow don't get sour. It's a joy to work And never shirk, Though storms around us lower If we do our best and leave the rest, And a fellow don't get sour. It's a joy to live And love and give. Through sunshine and through shower, No matter what our earthly lot, If a fellow don't get sour. It's a joy to wear A coat threadbare, And toil for meat ond flour, And spend our life for others' sake, If a fellow don't get sour. 7fi THE SUNSET SHORE. It's a joj7 to lay Our cares away, And meet death's final hour ; And we'll never fail in the shadowed vale, If a fellow don't get sour. THE SUNSET SHORE. 77 WAITING. Waiting at the window of the postoffice For the clerk to shake his head, not only once or twice; Waiting, waiting, weighting down my heart. Waiting, waiting while my joys depart. Waiting, waiting, weighting down my feet, While I weary drag aound up and down the street. Waiting, waiting, will it never end ? Will the letter never come on which my hopes depend? Waiting, waiting, weary with the weight Placed upon my worried soul by the letter late. Waiting, waiting, word we all can rue. Hardest thing in all the world that mortal has to do. 7S THE SUNSET SHORE. TOOTLES. Our Tootles he is three years old, And trying now to talk, And he is every inch a boy Since he began to walk. When his big brothers go to school. And we have missed their noise, Then Tootles goes about the yard And calls: "boys! boys! boys! boys!" For Tootles he is lonesome When his brothers are away; He finds it hard to stay alone Throughout the long, long day. But Tootles, he is happy When the boys come home again. For he can tumble on the grass With Dick and brother Ben, And he can cut his finger With his brother's pocket knife, And have a rag tied on it. And feel as large as life. He can ride in Bennie's wagon. And get tipped over, too, And knock enough skin off his head TOOTLES. THE SUNSET SHORE. 79 To make a baby's shoe; And he can carry in his mouth For bits a wooden stick, And trot around the yard an hour, A horse for brother Dick. Can pack a tub of water To irrigate some land The boys have been improving Out in a bed of sand. And then when everything's all wet Can make the finest pie Of mud you'd ever care to see And set it by to dry. Our Tootles, he will be a horse, A dog, or cow, or sheep; He'll whinny, bawl and bleat and crow, He'll walk and run and creep. He'll be police or jail bird, He doesn't care much which. For when the boys come home from school He never makes a hitch. Sometimes our Tootles growls most fierce. Just like a mighty bear; The way he grits his teeth and snarls Would anybody scare, But when the hunters come along so THE SUNSET SHORE. And shoot him with a stick He tumbles on the ground and lies Till skinned by Ben or Dick. Our Tootles hates to waste the time It takes to eat or sleep. When mamma says, "it's bedtime now!" It's sure to make him weep ; But when his muddy dress is off, His shoes are set away, The tears are washed from off his face And he's in bed to stay, You'd never think to look at him He was a horse or cow. But say, while looking at his curls, "He is an angel now." lone, Oregon, 1905. THE SUNSET SHORE. A PAPER DOLLIE. To My Daughter Rachel. I found it in my pocket, As I walked along the road ; Sore depressed by many burdens, Crushed beneath my heavy load. It was but piece of paper, Crumpled up, and soiled a bit; And an angel whispered to me: Smooth the wrinkles out of it. Then I careful bent the corners Down upon my open palm, Till the whole was spread before me, An illustrated Psalm. And it taught me, as I traveled. Deeply burdened on my way — "Forget self and think of others," Thus you'll brighten every day. Listen, you shall hear the story How my heart the lesson read, While I wandered 'raid the forest Kending solemn o'er my head. 82 THE SUNSET SHORE. As I kissed my little daughter, Just before I came away, She clung to me for a moment. As though asking me to stay. Then she pressed into my fingers A tiny paper doll, Saying "Take it with you, papa. Just to any place at all." 'Til need explanations," said I. "I don't understand at all; I've too many little children To need a paper doll." To the rescue came her mother: "Take the dollie, now," she said, "And lose it where you find it; It will make some children glad." So I tucked the paper dollie In my pocket safe away. Then forgot the admonition. Given early in the day. But I've found her now, while wandering In the forest deep and still. And I'll drop her in the pathway, Where the children come from school. THE SUNSET SHORE. 83 Thus my little daughter taught me — "Shed your light on others' way; And while lightening others' burdens, You will find a brighter day." Blaine, Washington, 1895. 84 THE SUNSET SHORE. HER SOUL. What's this comes floating along the hill, Like a snowy thistle down soft and still? A woman's soul, so pure and clean. In a maiden fair at sweet sixteen. A breath may blow this tender thing To a pit as black as a raven's wing. To a place of snakes and owls and bats- Of growling dogs and snarling cats. Of hideous things I dare not tell, A grave, a prison, a den, a hell. A breath may blow this treasure rare To a beautiful place in the valley there- A land of birds and bees and flowers. Of golden fields and blooming bowers, Where everything is pure and nice — A heaven, a home, a Paradise. THE SUNSET SHORE. 85 GIVE ALMS. Luke 11:4L "Give alms of such things as you have," From out the bag w^hich grows not old ; It may not be of jev^^els rare, Or plethora of hoarded gold. A cup of water, word of love, Provided from your grateful store, May precious be as gifts of wealth And fleshly jo3^s, yea! even more. The Spirit's presence comforting Has filled your soul with joy and peace; Pour out to others of your store, Eternal joys will then increase. Give alms of such things as you have, Fresh from the treasure house above ; Each morning new manna will fall, Of peace and joy and heavenly love. Give alms of such things as you have. Nor wait for earthly treasure rare ; To hungry souls pour out your gifts — With them your heavenly comforts share. 86 THE SUNSET SHORE. THE FAITHFUL WATCHER. An infant in my cradle bed. Sweet blessings falling round my head- A heavenly vigil o'er me kept, For "mamma watched while I slept." The glamour of my boyhood days Made paths in many wayward ways, And though for me she often wept, Still mamma watched while I slept. A youth, I treasured shams and snares, And heeded not ascending prayers, And home at midnight softly crept, But mother watched while I slept. Bless'd God, the Holy Spirit, spoke. And I, at last a man, awoke. Her prayers for me their harvest rept. For she had watched while I slept. San Jacinto, Cal. THE SUNSET SHORE. 87 FOR MERCY'S SAKE. We fought for preservation once, For bold aggression, too. And once we fought for liberty. But now we fight for you; For starving thousands pleading loud, Of men and little ones. And for the gallant boys in blue Who sank beside their guns. A nation who despises you, And swims in seas of blood, We'll punish for a thousand crimes Against the true and good. We'll strike for the Virginius A blow with vim and might. Nor blush though blood should freely flow, To fight for you and right. Then let the starry banner wave O'er Cuba's palm-fringed hills, Where patriot blood has freely stained A hundred mountain rills ; And hoist it high with loud hurrah Above the somber walls, WTiich shadows o'er the bloody stain Which to our manhood calls. THE SUNSET SHORE. Then let the page of history In future ages tell How we for Mercy fought this fight, And how our comrades fell, With faces toward the flag they loved And hearts with pity filled For bleeding Cuba, whose sad cry With fire our nation thrilled. THE SUNSET SHORE. 89 SIX YEARS OLD. Would you think I was six years old? I was five last February; Now mamma says that I am six — Almost as old as Mary. I used to be a little thing a long, long time ago; I couldn't read a single mite; But now, since I've got big, I spell a lot of words and sometimes try to write. And by and by, when I grow up, If I teach school or not, If I should study hard and pass, I'll know an awful lot. lone, Oregon, Feb. 19, 1905. 90 THE SUNSET SHORE. THE OCEAN MAID. Close down by the shore, where the breakers roar All through the livelong day, Where the sun sets in the ocean, I met sweet Rosie Bray. Beside a wandering mountain stream, As the gleams of twilight fade. Where the dreaming river falls in the sea, I saw this ocean maid. Sweet Rosie Bray is a child of clay, And not a mermaid strange; And she loves the sea and the air so free, Where the skimming sea birds range, And the blue sky gleams in her blue, blue eye- May her beauty never fade — As the sea shall never cease its song — This comely ocean maid. They took her away one summer day, To the turmoil of the street, Where she wandered about the noisy town, With worried weary feet. With a lonely heart she sought the couch. Where her weary head she laid, Her pillow to wet with her falling tears — This homesick ocean maid. THE SUNSET SHORE. 91 Another day in the city gay, With its sights and sounds and strife, With food untouched and sleepless couch — To her a weary life. Sweet Rosie longed with a longing deep For the sands where she had played, And so she plead to be taken home — This lonely ocean maid. "God made the rocks, and made the sea. And made the bird that sings; He made the winds, and waves and sky. But he never made these things. So take me back where the salt sea sighs, And the snowy sprays dash high, Where the white sails gleam across the waves On the far-off western sky — Where the scampering sand bird flits away From the fingers of the deep, Which reach up high on the wet, wtt sands, With a constant seething sweep. Oh, take me back to the sea again, I cannot eat or sleep ; And when I think of the restless tide, My heart can only weep. Oh, give me back my ocean home, Let down my streaming braid. And let the salt sea sparkle there," Plead the sorrowing ocean maid. 92 THE SUNSET SHORE. Svv'cet Rosie Bray is back at play, Where the sea with ceaseless song, In a bass, bass key booms wide and free Each grand new day along; And breathing in the salt sea breath, When the gleams of twilight fade She sleeps to the ocean's lullaby, This peaceful ocean maid. THE SUNSET SHORE. WHERE'S MY NANNIE? Two clinging arms around m)^ neck, Long, long ago. A velvet cheek pressed warm against my face, A bab}'^ breath, sweet as an Eden sigh, A cooing, crooning note of baby joy, so confident Oh, where's my Nannie? The gloom falls round me while I dream. And look back up life's winding stream. Once more I hear the tottering little feet, And hear the cooing baby voice so sweet : "I love 'oo, papa!" Oh, where's my Nannie? The day is dead, and time has flown. And I sit here by the fire alone. In the quiet gloom of my little room. Oh, where's my Nannie? I'm waiting here by the mystic shore. And the little hands they come no more To linger now. Soft on my brow. Oh, where's my Nannie? Bellingham, Washington. 94 THE SUNSET SHORE. DOWN THE HILL. The sky was bright that morning When we started up the hill, Now the longest path's behind us, Yet I find some brightness still. Sometimes I pulled you backward As we traveled up the way; Still I'm resting in the shadows On the other side today. There's a peaceful little valley At the bottom of the hill. Where the winds are always quiet, Birds and brook are never still ; Where the lake smiles in the sunlight, Mirror for the hill and tree; Shall we travel down together. Will you rest there, love, with me ? THE SUNSET SHORE. . 95 THE FUNNY LITTLE CHAMBER MAN. Oh, that funny little chamber man, He goes about with his broom and pan ; With dusting pan and pail and broom He patters in to sweep my room, And when he's scratched all over the floor There's more dirt there than there was before. Oh, that little man with the pigtail rare, Part of string and part of hair. He's as innocent as a young spring lamb. And his funny face is always calm ; He studies hard the whole day through To decide on the things that he won't do. And when at his neglect j'ou're wild He smiles upon j^ou like a child — That little man with the pigtail rare. Part of string and part of hair. If at his ways you dare complain Flits over his face a look of pain, And he says "no savy!" at your plaint In a way exasperating quaint. "No savy!" covers a host of sins For the little Ning Poos and little Lee Wings — The little men with the pigtails rare, Part of string and part of hair. Victoria, B. C. 96 THE SUNSET SHORE. SPRING. He'd be a stock or stone, or coarser ground Who wouldn't sing of spring on Puget Sound. If grasping, sordid man should silent be A song would burst from every hill and tree. Spring offers days too bright for mortal man, Ethereal days, which smile but once, and then The heavens weep because they pass away — Too perfect with the common earth to stay. The downy mists cling round the mountain tops, The glowing sun, while stealing upward stops And paints a blush of spring upon the snows Before his power upon the earth he shows. The very blood leaps through the veins in glee As leaps the life into the shrub and tree Upon the amorous touch of witching spring, Who makes the hills to blossom and to sing. The passing steamer leaves a veil of black Above the blue Sound o'er its bubbly track. The lark calls shrilly from the towering fii , And tells his mate he'll cross the mead to her. THE RIVER AT HOME. < 9mbI Hi ■H B-^-'^ii^^. ^r'jmHj 1 1 1 1 ^J *-i wfl wt HB^^^ M w M y-r»-?'^BBP ■Kw!3hIhBI ATTACKING A PUGET SOI'ND GIANT. r ■ ■ M t' . ■1 M