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 ATRIOTIC 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY CLAUD BAIRD 
 
 ^llllllllllllllilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllillllllllilllllllllil 
 
PATRIOTIC 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS 
 
 By Claud Baird 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1917 BY CLAUD BAIRD 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 ALVA, OKLAHOMA 
 

 DEDICATION 
 
 In presenting this, my first volume to 
 
 the public, I cannot do better than 
 
 dedicate it to one who has given me 
 
 my greatest inspiration — 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 AUG 24 1917 
 
 ©CIA -17 7 75 
 
ODE TO MY MOTHER 
 
 Had I the voice of the robin, 
 Or the sweet toned nightingale, 
 I'd sing the praise of a woman — 
 A woman small and frail. 
 
 In melodious song I'd utter 
 Her deeds so noble and true, 
 Till the very stars would listen 
 Throughout the heavenly blue. 
 
 I know the angels would answer 
 And sing the chorus clear, 
 And the birds would join in singing 
 Of Mother's love and cheer. 
 
 TO THE PILGRIM BARD 
 
 Sweet Singer of the western plains ! 
 
 I come not to disturb thy blissful melodies 
 
 With harsh and untried meter. 
 
 Thy fame is great, thy songs have long since 
 
 Been sung by thy fellow pioneers. 
 
 Other far-away fields have heard thy voice 
 
 And joined in the glad refrain. 
 
 Children once, but now to manhood grown, 
 
 Have learned to love thee and cherish 
 
 The utterances of thy rhythmic pen. 
 
 (3) 
 
I LOVE MY COUNTRY MORE AND MORE 
 
 On the brink, I've stood and watched the tide 
 
 Of the rolling Pacific, far and wide, 
 
 'Twas beauty itself — this ocean view — 
 
 It filled me, yes thrilled me through and through. 
 
 I closed my eyes from the beauteous sight 
 
 And felt an inmost soul delight; 
 
 This was my Country's shore. 
 
 Upon the Rockies' highest peaks 
 I've heard the mighty eagle-shrieks, 
 The frigid cliffs were white with snow. 
 T'was beauty grand, and far below 
 I heard the torrent cataract roar. 
 These all thrilled me o'er and o'er. 
 I love the lofty peaks. 
 
 Through endless plains I've found my way, 
 
 And looked abroad at break of day 
 
 To see the countless herds that grazed — 
 
 I could but look, I stood and gazed, 
 
 T'was riches indeed, all this did spell ; 
 
 It made my heart in rapture swell, 
 
 In praise of the Western Plains. 
 
 By myriad fields of growing grain 
 I've made my way on rumbling train. 
 How grand the sight seemed unto me 
 As waving fields swept on so free ! 
 And as I watched the glorious sight 
 I could but feel with keen delight 
 Our land is blessed indeed. 
 
 (4) 
 
Far in the Southland's fields of white 
 My eyes have seen its splendor bright. 
 The dusky toilers filled the breeze 
 With lulling music like the seas. 
 The humming mills and factories there 
 But made the Southern land more fair. 
 United are our states. 
 
 Far down into the deeper mines 
 
 I've trod the ever spreading lines 
 
 Of tunneled caves and cove-like rooms, 
 
 Where ores are scooped from out their tombs, 
 
 And sent abroad to upper air 
 
 To feed the glowing furnace there — 
 
 Wealth of my Native land. 
 
 Through forests broad, of oak and pine, 
 I've viewed the shrub and clustering vine 
 That sought in vain the higher air — 
 Their fragrant blossoms were so rare — 
 While from their branches onward rolled 
 The sweetest music uncontrolled 
 I love the Forest Cheer. 
 
 As thus I trod my Country o'er, 
 
 I've learned to love it more and more, 
 
 The North, the South, I love them both. 
 
 Of East and West, I am not loath 
 
 To sing in song their endless praise ; 
 
 And thus I give my humble lays 
 
 To thee, My Noble Land. 
 
 (5) 
 
LIBERTY'S COLORS 
 
 Liberty, the dream of the ages, 
 
 Liberty of life and love, 
 
 Fraternity and kindred blessings 
 
 Sent from the God above, 
 
 Are found in three great nations 
 
 And spelled in colors three, 
 
 And they are colors you love — 
 
 The colors most dear to me. 
 
 First is our own "Old Glory," 
 
 Then the "Tri-color" of France, 
 
 Then "Jack of the British Union ;" 
 
 All we know at a glance. 
 
 These are the noble standards ; 
 
 These are the nations true 
 
 That blazon upon their banners 
 
 The red, the white, and the blue. 
 
 June 1st, 1917. 
 (6) 
 
'ANSWERING THE CALL." 
 
 (Written in Memory of Our Soldier Boys) 
 
 Again the voice of Freedom resounds her trumpet call, 
 And warns our mighty nation to sacrifice her all 
 In one more bloody struggle, in one more warry hell, 
 That we may save the country, for which our fathers fell. 
 
 They say that we are sluggards, we care for naught but 
 
 gold. 
 Our liberties and valor for industry are sold. 
 They say our golden eagle has lost his beak and claws ; 
 They fear no more his talons, his shrieks, and mighty 
 
 jaws. 
 
 Alas, the boasts are idle, the world will soon have known, 
 The bird was only nesting, the young have fully grown, 
 And they have fled the boundaries of seas and raging tide. 
 'Tis thus the voice of Freedom thrills every ocean side. 
 
 Rejoice once more,dear people,the Spirit of Seventy-five, 
 Which burned in the hearts of Washington and Greene is 
 
 yet alive. 
 Rejoice again dear comrades, the boys of Sixty-one 
 Have lived to tell their story to every mother's son. 
 
 The boys are now responding throughout the Western 
 
 World, 
 Nor will their steps turn homeward, till monarch's 
 
 thrones are hurled 
 Into the depths of ocean, never to rise again, — 
 God give us strength to do it, that a man may be a man. 
 
 Alva, Okla., May 4, 1917. 
 
 (7) 
 
THE GREATER HELL 
 
 (Sherman's version of war is no longer fitting.) 
 The bellowing quakes of fiery lakes 
 No longer startle men, 
 The modern world has now been hurled 
 Into a demon's den. 
 Red lakes of blood and grimy mud 
 Are seen on every hand. 
 The cannon's roar by vale and moor 
 By sea and ocean strand 
 Roll on by night, where lurid light 
 Streams o'er the field of death, 
 And gassy clouds, like new-made shrouds, 
 Await the dying breath. 
 While from the deep, the monsters leap 
 To belch their livid fire, 
 And from the sky, the birdman high 
 Swoops down with deadly ire. 
 The widow's sigh, the orphan's cry — 
 O, such a hopeless wail ! 
 While wounded moan and dying groan 
 Till death has made them pale, 
 Thus he who said that battles red 
 Were likened unto hell, 
 Has been as mild as a timid child — 
 A stronger word must tell. 
 (8) 
 
THE RETURN OF THE MAYFLOWER 
 
 (Written June 30, 1917) 
 
 Three centuries have passed since the Mayflower 
 
 Sailed west from the British Isles, 
 
 Three centuries, alas ! are nearing 
 
 Since she moored by the Western wilds. 
 
 She met the storm and the current, 
 
 She plowed white the ocean foam 
 
 Till it seemed the roaring billows 
 
 Would bear her wanderers home. 
 
 It seemed that earth and heaven 
 
 Were bearing her on to fate, 
 
 That never again would she anchor 
 
 Nor sight the Channel state. 
 
 But He, the heavenly ruler 
 
 Of men and nations wide 
 
 Had made her his chosen vessel 
 
 And bid her laugh at the tide. 
 
 And though the storms swept round her 
 
 And waves ran mountain high, 
 
 One God, the God above her, 
 
 Decreed she should not die. 
 
 Though weeks, and weeks, she wandered 
 
 On seas of trackless green, 
 
 Still onward, westward, onward, 
 
 Her mast was wont to lean 
 
 Until one joyous morning 
 
 She sighted a rock-bound shore, 
 
 And here she stowed her burden 
 
 On the wild and wind-swept moor. 
 
 It was here the seed was planted — 
 
 The seed of Liberty's tree — 
 
 And the plant was blessed with vigor, 
 
 (9) 
 
With a faith to live and be. 
 
 The wild New England blizzards 
 
 In the young tree's branches groaned 
 
 And the chilling wail of the Atlantic 
 
 In her anguish sighed and moaned. 
 
 While the icy spray swept skyward 
 
 In a fog of mist-swept light 
 
 Till all the rock-bound region 
 
 Was robed in frigid white. 
 
 Thus like the wind-tossed Mayflower, 
 
 Our first born ship of state, 
 
 Liberty kept her vigor — 
 
 Her form grew tall and straight. 
 
 The seasons came and scampered 
 
 Until one autumn found 
 
 The Tree had borne its fruitage — 
 
 The seed was scattered round. 
 
 Some by the wind swept westward, 
 
 Some fell in the ocean spray, 
 
 And all the coast and inland 
 
 Was seeded for miles away. 
 
 Then Liberty spread her seedlings 
 
 From Maine to the Spanish South, 
 
 From Atlantic to the Highlands 
 
 And every river's mouth. 
 
 Then came the clash of Lexington, 
 
 Followed by Bunker Hill, 
 
 A few more years of struggle 
 
 And the British guns were still. 
 
 Then Liberty leaped the mountains 
 
 Broad valleys and endless plains, 
 
 Nor halted till the rolling Pacific 
 
 Gave forth her sweet refrains. 
 
 And since, in the frozen Arctic 
 
 And far-off ocean isles, 
 
 The Liberty Tree has flourished 
 
 (10) 
 
On these, the Goddess smiles. 
 Years have now rolled onward 
 Till forests great have grown. 
 From these the rebuilt Mayflower 
 Shall bear her fruitage home, 
 And many more great Mayflowers 
 Built on modern lines, 
 Will soon be sailing eastward 
 In spite of subs and mines ; 
 And these will feed the legions 
 Of democratic men, 
 Who hail from farthest regions 
 To storm the Kaiser's den. 
 And these will bring the freedom, 
 And these will give new life 
 To all the Allied Nations 
 And thus will end the strife. 
 And thus the voice of freedom 
 Will ring thru all the earth 
 Till every land and language 
 Will praise the Second Birth. 
 And thus the good old Mayflower, 
 The grand old ship of state, 
 Will ring through all the ages 
 As greatest of the great. 
 
 (ID 
 
AMERICA'S GIFT 
 
 Land of Lincoln and Washington ! 
 
 Land of heroes and heroic women 
 
 As your noble and illustrious past 
 
 Flashes upon the screen of vision 
 
 I see in never ending line, men, women, 
 
 And mere children whose pulses beat 
 
 With the throb of the purest American heart. 
 
 All these we love and praise from the depths 
 
 Of a love thrilled with patriotic fervor. 
 
 You, our noble ancestors, have made America, 
 The Land of The West ; you have given the world 
 The Gem of the ages. But yet methinks 
 In all your giving, you have not touched 
 The greater riches of the American storehouse. 
 America is young. So young in fact that she appears 
 But a mere infant compared with the nations 
 Of the older world. Thus as a growing child, 
 Our Country has been receiving and storing 
 In that great knowledge chamber the culture and science 
 Of the past ages. Yet, in spite of our tender years, 
 In spite of the fact that we are little more than a race 
 Of pioneers, we have given mankind many of his 
 Noblest possessions. Chief among these are the steam- 
 ship, 
 The telegraph, the telephone, the electric light, 
 The aeroplane, the submarine and, last and greatest, 
 The American ideal of government. True it is, in art 
 And literature, we have produced little that 
 Can be given a high rank, judged by the standard 
 Of the Old World. But art cannot be developed 
 In the workshop or behind the plow, it requires leisure, 
 And it must have a leisure element to encourage 
 Its production. This Europe has had and, may I add, 
 As result of this merrymaking and aristocratic class, 
 
 (12) 
 
The world is to-day plunged into the most horrible 
 Slaughter known to mankind. America will have artists 
 And poets of the highest class, but these will appear 
 Only when the social fabric of mankind has been 
 Remolded, and the grimy path of the Underworld 
 Has been paved with the blocks of human brotherhood. 
 Again, I say, we have given much to the world 
 In spite of our infant years. Thousands of American 
 Missionaries have spread the doctrine of true faith 
 And modern learning throughout the darkest recesses 
 Of the savage world. Fleets of food and raiment 
 Have been sent to famine stricken and devastated por- 
 tions 
 Of the earth. What country, I ask, has given such gifts 
 As the American nation? America has given to the world 
 The most modern, and the most practicable, of govern- 
 ments, 
 This truth is evidenced by the fact that more than 
 A score of nations have adopted our constitutional 
 Form of government during the last century. 
 China, the mother of nations, is our latest follower 
 And who can conjecture the future of an 
 Americanized China? Russia is undergoing 
 The last travail of the monarchial yoke. 
 With an efficient American embassy at Petrograd 
 We firmly believe that New Russia will 
 Be thoroughly imbued with the spirit of 
 American Democracy. 
 
 They tell us we have need for great reforms, 
 And so we have ; they tell us we must eliminate 
 Many of our social evils and so we must. 
 My faith in the American people is such that 
 I firmly believe we will meet the issues 
 And meet them squarely. I truly believe 
 That America will be the first of modern nations 
 To write Prohibition into their National 
 
 (13) 
 
Constitution, and this will occur in the very near future. 
 America must and will meet her issues. 
 
 These are some of the achievments of our 
 United States. These are some of the glories 
 Of her past endeavors, and yet we have but touched 
 The spark to the conductor of our energies. 
 The world will soon throb from the current 
 Produced from the American dynamo. Then will 
 The world sing the praise of these United States 
 And her gifts to mankind. 
 
 O beautiful Land! O western Land! 
 The land of the Pioneer! 
 The world will praise in songs and lays 
 And ever hold thee dear. 
 
 Thy gifts are the gifts of a better Land, 
 And earth will be more fair 
 When empire's crown is tumbled down 
 And Liberty's form is there. 
 
 Alva, Oklahoma, July 21, 1917. 
 
 THE KAISER'S NIGHTMARE 
 
 Wilhelm :— 
 
 Von Hindenburg, vot ish it 
 I see upon der strand? 
 
 Von H. :— 
 
 It looks the western legions 
 Hab come to lend a hand. 
 
 Wilhelm :— 
 
 Mine Gott, vot meanest thou, 
 To let der Yankees cross? 
 Don't you know my submarines 
 
 (14) 
 
Should all the ocean boss? 
 
 Mine submarines ! Mine submarines ! 
 
 Mine heart is full mit grief! 
 
 Vy stay you by der ocean bed 
 
 Und send us nicht relief? 
 
 Mine Zeppelins ! O, mine Zeppelins ! 
 
 You come back home mit fear! 
 
 Und sleep mitin mine Berlin town 
 
 Und drink mine lager beer. 
 
 Vot vill I do? Vot must I do? 
 
 I don't know who to blame. 
 
 Der Rhine is full mit submarines 
 
 Dot nicht vill hunt der game. 
 
 Der Russians feel dey want more fight, 
 
 I vip dem vunce you see, 
 
 Dot Root, he feed dem pepper sauce, 
 
 Und sick der bears on me. 
 
 Mine eyes are dim, I cannot see, 
 
 Mine ears mit cannons roar. 
 
 Mine veary beoples look to me — 
 
 I cannot give dem more. 
 
 O, how I damn dot Uncle Sam ! 
 
 I hate dot Yankee cheer! 
 
 He slim mine ranks mit tefel tanks, 
 
 Und fill mine men mit fear. 
 
 Und night by last I dreamed von dram, 
 
 I thought mine empire fell. 
 
 Mine Gott vas mit der Yankee host — 
 
 Der Kaiser vas in hell. 
 
 (15) 
 
AFTER THE WAR, WHAT THEN? 
 
 After the war, what then? What then? 
 Will the world return to peace again? 
 
 Will monarch's crown and war-lord's sway 
 Return the earth to bloody fray? 
 
 Nay ! Nay ! I pray thee, Lord above, 
 Send down to men thy spirit love. 
 
 We do believe when peace has come 
 We'll hear no more the fife and drum ; 
 
 The battle cry of peace will sound 
 Till martial music will be drowned. 
 
 Foe and friend, when peace is made 
 Will spring from trenches, not arrayed 
 
 To cut to earth their fellow man, 
 But clasp a hand as brother can. 
 
 The nations now are sick of war, 
 But peace will reign on earth no more 
 
 Till he the maker of wars, the chief, 
 Has been suppressed; and sweet relief 
 
 From future war, may then be found 
 And all the nations cluster 'round 
 
 A world-wide court, with world-wide power- 
 Then will war-mad monarchs cower 
 
 And seek no more to plunge mankind 
 Into a fray so madly blind. 
 
 (16) 
 
NORTHWESTERN COLORS 
 
 (Northwestern Normal School, Alva, Okla.) 
 
 Thy colors are clipped from 'the streamers 
 Of time on its infinite flight, 
 Thy red from the splendor of morning, 
 Thy black from the rayless night. 
 
 Then time in her streams unceasing 
 Are found in thy colors true — 
 May time in all its mercy 
 Deal gently unto you. 
 
 May your growth be strong arid steady ; 
 May you stand for the clean and fair ; 
 May you set the highest standard 
 Of a college anywhere. 
 
 May you stand in the far-off future 
 As a bulwark of our state, 
 When men of highest calling 
 Can truly call thee great. 
 
 (17) 
 
FRIENDSHIP'S BLOSSOM 
 
 One day by friendship's cozy bower 
 There met my gaze, a lovely flower, 
 Such perfume gave the blossom fair 
 I knew it was a beauty rare. 
 
 Its silken petals, dipped in dew, 
 Reflected back the diamond's hue, 
 And seemed to smile and bid me stay 
 To while an hour or two away. 
 
 I seated myself on the mossy bank 
 And all the beauties of nature drank ; 
 The songsters warbled their notes o'erhead 
 And the brook made music as it sped. 
 
 The sunbeams spotted the mossy green — 
 'Twas the grandest picture in nature seen ; 
 And there we chatted — the flower and I — 
 Till the sun had sunk in the western sky. 
 
 'Twas then I bid my friend adieu 
 And found my life had vigor new ; 
 A new song cheers my life each day, 
 And bids me oft to the woodland stray. 
 
 (18) 
 
THE REAL CHRISTMAS SPIRIT 
 
 Nineteen centuries and more ago 
 A babe was born, as you well know, 
 That brought the Wise Men from afar — 
 Their guide was but a glowing star. 
 
 The Shepherds, too, the glad news found 
 While sleeping herds were clustered 'round. 
 Then there were called that night to see, 
 The great, the wise, and shepherds free. 
 
 Thus man was blessed by a Savior's birth 
 And given a promise of all the earth ; 
 If they but love their God's own Son 
 He'd bless them each and every one. 
 The star that led the Wise Men there 
 Is shining still in the heavens fair, 
 Nor shall it wane, this morning star, 
 Tho earth be drenched in hellish war. 
 Some day the dreams of conflict will 
 Be crushed in God's slow grinding mill ; 
 The light of heaven will lead mankind 
 And wars will then no makers find. 
 May screaming shells on Christmas night 
 Be hushed secure, and God's own light 
 Shine down upon the Holy Land 
 Where slept the noble shepherd band. 
 May "peace on earth" and good will, too, 
 Be spread and lived the whole world through ; 
 That strifes may cease and wars may end 
 And helping hands to others lend. 
 When this has come, we then shall see 
 Once more the man of Galilee — 
 Earth and heaven will be so near 
 That death and grave will bring no fear. 
 
 December 22, 1916. 
 
 (19) 
 
WINTER JINGLES 
 
 O'er hill and dale and all around 
 The tiny flakes come dancing down ; 
 They blanket all quite snug and tight 
 With fleecy coat, so warm and light, 
 That tiny plants, and warbling quail 
 Are tucked at last from frosty gale. 
 
 The rugged hill, no longer found, 
 Is smoothed into a rolling mound 
 Around the brow of which does stand 
 The living landmarks of the land. 
 Their sighing boughs so long from bloom 
 Seem spectred ghosts, from whitened tomb ; 
 With heavy moans they seem to long 
 For summer days and sparrow's song. 
 
 The songsters fled the winter's night 
 To summer homes of sunshine bright ; 
 But snowbird and his friends, a few, 
 Now flit about in frosty dew. 
 Nor seem to have the slightest care 
 If fields are white and meadows bare, 
 And as the day sinks into night 
 They creep into their house of white. 
 
 The coyote on his nightly round 
 Calls from his bed the sleeping hound ; 
 And all night through from glen and dale 
 Their voices mingle with the gale, 
 Until at dawn the master's horn 
 Calls home the canine, sad and worn. 
 
 The morning lightens into day 
 While snow clouds drift and pass away ; 
 The sun shines once again on earth 
 And life and joy are given birth. 
 
 (20) 
 
The chores of morning soon are done 
 And then there's laughter, joy and fun. 
 
 For now the sleighbell's jingling sound 
 
 Is heard all through the country 'round, 
 
 And happy faces in the sleigh 
 
 Are blooming like the flowers of May. 
 
 These, all these, does winter bring 
 
 Yet somehow still we long for spring. 
 
 THE LOST HOME" 
 
 This poem pictures the loss of Prof. Frank Wyatt's 
 home at Alva, Okla., during the winter of 1911-12. 
 
 Last eve, while gently musing 
 In my cozy study room, 
 Came wailing on the night-wind 
 The fire-bell's dreadful doom. 
 
 Then peering from my window 
 
 To the icy streets below, 
 
 I saw the noble fireboys 
 
 As they struggled for the glow. 
 
 Twas an ugly night in winter, 
 And the noble horses found 
 Their path a hellish torture 
 As they struggled up the mound. 
 
 They reached the scene at hill-top 
 Amid the darkened snow — 
 The noble lads then met her, 
 Fanned by northwind's blow. 
 
 In an effort superhuman 
 They struggled there to meet 
 The fiery red destruction, 
 As it sent its furnace heat. 
 
 (21) 
 
At last the demons clutch her, 
 The gods of fire have won, 
 The cherished home has vanished 
 As mists are swept at dawn. 
 
 Like cozy homes, the mortal 
 May dwell for many a year 
 With pleasant faces 'round us 
 Without a care or fear; 
 
 Or again the dark death angel 
 May sound our parting doom, 
 Taking loved ones from us — 
 Their ashes to the tomb. 
 
 CHARACTER BUILDERS 
 
 We each today are builders 
 
 On a structure good or bad, 
 
 Which may bring joy and comfort 
 
 Or may other hearts make sad. 
 
 If the model has been founded 
 
 On a goodly sort of plan, 
 
 The foundation will be firmness 
 
 In a love for God and Man. 
 
 Our walls must be laid firmly 
 Of brick and mortar stout ; 
 They must embrace large windows, 
 Giving sunshine in and out. 
 The roof and ceiling likewise 
 Must be strong to stand the strain, 
 For the storms of life are many 
 That beat 'round about the brain. 
 The floors and inside finish 
 Of course must, too, be good 
 Better use a noble concrete 
 Than a shabby sort of wood. 
 
 (22) 
 
Then there must be smiling faces 
 In the pictures on the wall, 
 And a cheer to those about us 
 From the attic to the hall. 
 Yes, too ! make all doors truly 
 That they fit the casement well, 
 Thus may enter summer breezes 
 And we'll shun the winter's spell. 
 
 Now the builder who is building 
 On a structure not so stout, 
 Can hope for nothing better 
 Than misery in and out ; 
 And the builder who is building 
 On the rigid sort of plan, 
 Will be a builder for the future 
 And a friend to God and Man. 
 
 MY FOREST HOME 
 
 Written while a bit homesick for 
 my old home in Linn Co., Kansas. 
 
 I'm dreaming tonight 
 Of a far-off land. 
 I'm dreaming, yes dreaming 
 Of a forest grand; 
 Where many an hour 
 I've whiled in the shade 
 Of the towering kings 
 Of the forest glade. 
 
 Great kings of the forest 
 That tower so high, 
 I love you, I love you, 
 Nor will I deny 
 
 (23) 
 
That dearer to me 
 Is your towering green, 
 Than all of the riches 
 I've handled or seen. 
 
 Your silver-faced streams 
 And gurgling young brooks, 
 You filled me, yes thrilled me 
 When freed from my books. 
 Those mossy green beds 
 Gave pleasure to me, 
 As I lay and I watched 
 The fishes so wee. 
 
 The time is now nearing 
 Once more I must roam, 
 But never, no, never, 
 To my old forest home. 
 Tis the home of the stranger ; 
 My loved ones have fled 
 To the land of the prairie, 
 And some to the dead. 
 
 WHY HOLD THY SECRETS? 
 
 Addressed to the Oklahoma Prairies 
 
 Ye sodden prairies, why slumber on, 
 
 And hide thy secrets from the pale-faced man? 
 
 It is he who has given many a drop of his life- 
 
 Blood to rid thee of the savage warrior and the 
 
 Mighty herds of bison that ruthlessly trod upon thy 
 
 bosom. 
 Thou alone hold hold the secrets of long ago. 
 Speak ! I pray thee, and tell us whence came the wild 
 
 red-man 
 To wake thy stillness with his wild halloo! 
 Tell us of the daring Coronado who passed 
 
 (24) 
 
Over thy vast expanse to the endless plains beyond. 
 
 Tell us of the fabled Quiveria, which now lies revealed 
 
 In thy bountiful harvests. 
 
 We cannot but recall that thy sodden breast 
 
 Fed the red man's cattle, all of which 
 
 Have passed to the "Great Beyond" like the 
 
 Wild red man himself. 
 
 Canst thou not speak to us through the breezes 
 
 That fan thy face, and tell us why thou hast called 
 
 The race of white to replace the one of red? 
 
 Dost thou, O Prairies ! wish to teach man 
 
 The great lesson of secrecy which has not 
 
 Been learned by the better half of the race? 
 
 If thy silence is so great a teacher 
 
 What then, may we learn from a study 
 
 Of the inmost recesses of thy great self? 
 
 Great indeed are the gifts thou hast given us ! 
 
 But yet we would receive one privilege more : 
 
 We would that when our mortal race is run, 
 
 Thou wouldst permit our mortal bodies 
 
 Being laid within thy sheltered breast, 
 
 Where they may resolve back and become a part 
 
 Of thine own great self. 
 
 TRADING POST, KANSAS, AND HERFAMOUS MILL 
 
 The weeds grow rank on the river's bank, 
 
 On the bank of the Marais des Cygnes, 
 
 Where the famous mill, now hushed and still 
 
 Never again to be seen ; 
 
 Once rumbled away, by night and day 
 
 In her effort to feed the throng 
 
 Of brave pioneers, with their horses and steers, 
 
 As they came on their journeys long. 
 
 Through forest wide, on every side 
 The men of the border came ; 
 
 (25) 
 
They swapped their wheat, their corn and meat 
 
 For flour or money — the same. 
 
 The armies of Blue, and Gray-coats, too. 
 
 Stopped at the self same mill ; 
 
 They loaded their train with flour and grain 
 
 And ate and drank their fill. 
 
 The town itself, on a higher shelf 
 
 Than the river's brink once stood ; 
 
 The houses were small, with chimneys tall, 
 
 Yet built of finest wood. 
 
 But now the town has tumbled down 
 
 Like the mill by the riverside, 
 
 And today the bats, the owls, and rats 
 
 Romp in homes of pride. 
 
 Brave old mill, forever still, 
 
 And town of towns no more, 
 
 Thy fame is great through Kansas State 
 
 As in thy days of yore. 
 
 And remembered well are the men who fell 
 
 For Freedom's holy name, 
 
 But the Guerilla bands from Border Lands 
 
 Will always be her shame. 
 
 The story, then, of the Free State men, 
 
 Who fell in the awful ravine, 
 
 Has been well told in letters bold 
 
 Of the poem, "Les Marais des Cygnes."* 
 
 The wholesale slaughter, where blood like water 
 
 Once oozed in streamlets down 
 
 Was on the farm, with its woodland charm — 
 
 The home of Old John Brown. 
 
 The weeds grow rank, on the river's bank, 
 On the banks of the Marais des Cygnes, 
 Where the famous mill, now hushed and still 
 Never again to be seen ; 
 
 *"Les Marais des Cygnes" was written by J. G. Whittid 
 
 (26) 
 
Once rumbled away, by night and day 
 
 In her effort to feed the throng 
 
 Of brave pioneers, with their horses and steers, 
 
 As they came on their journeys long. 
 
 SUNSET AT THE GOLDEN GATE 
 
 (As seen by the writer while at the Cliff House) 
 As the sun was sinking in the west 
 'Mid billowy folds of ocean breast, 
 We stood, we gazed on misty sky, 
 Then down on waters rolling high. 
 Within our souls emotions rose 
 As wave, on wave, seemed dealing blows 
 On shore and rock — they rose so grand 
 Then died away as men of land ; 
 While newer, stronger, waves so great, 
 Rolled on toward the Golden Gate. 
 
 The sea-gulls screamed far out at sea 
 And skimmed the waves so gracefully, 
 Then 'rose again, and circled 'round 
 To newer sports, their mates had found. 
 On the rugged rocks the sleeping seals 
 Were startled not by ploughing keels. 
 Once more we gazed far out at sea 
 A mighty ship, with wireless tree, 
 Plows white the foam, in path as straight 
 As the falcon's flight to the Golden Gate. 
 
 ODE TO SALT LAKE CITY 
 
 Beautiful city by the dying sea, 
 
 Thou art so wholesome, so light and so free. 
 
 Thy walks art majestic, so broad and so long; 
 
 Thy temples and mansions art sturdy and strong. 
 
 Fairest of fairest, of cities thou art — 
 
 Won me, you've won me, my soul and my heart. 
 
 (27) 
 
DON'T YOU REMEMBER? 
 
 Don't you remember, and will you forget 
 
 When you were a kiddie, your mamma's sweet pet? 
 
 Such locks that you wore and curlies galore 
 
 And looked like a dolly that comes from the store! 
 
 You wore girl's frocks, and feminine socks 
 
 And sat on the floor and played with the blocks. 
 
 Don't you remember one day to your joy 
 That you were a laddie, your daddy's big boy? 
 You belted your trousers and started to school, 
 And the very first morning you kicked like a mule ; 
 The big girls kissed you and held you tight 
 And the boys then laughed with all their might. 
 
 Don't you remember the pretty Miss Kate 
 
 Who sat 'cross the aisle and wrote on her slate : 
 
 "I like you better than freckle-faced Joe, 
 
 The reason I like you, you're nicer, you know"? 
 
 And you gave her sweet cookies and candy and gum — 
 
 She smiled at Fred Barker and you acted glum. 
 
 Don't you remember your very first call? 
 You shook and you trembled because you were tall ; 
 And when the door opened you had a surprise, 
 Her mother looked on you with storm in her eyes 
 And then her heart softened and you and sweet Kate 
 Went to the circus and thought it was great. 
 
 Don't you remember the night you proposed? 
 
 Your team stopped walking, they stood and they dozed ; 
 
 How your heart fluttered, it rose and it fell 
 
 And beat on your ribs like the clang of a bell ; 
 
 How your voice stuttered and sputtered until 
 
 Katie gave answer : "Of course I'm yours, Bill." 
 
 (28) 
 
A DISJOINTED WEDDING 
 
 This wedding actually occurred at Eureka Springs, 
 Arkansas, several years ago. The dynamo at the 
 light plant failed during the ceremony. 
 
 A maiden of forty summers 
 
 And a man with a young bald pate, 
 
 Were wed on summer's evening — 
 
 The hour was really late. 
 
 The church was greatly crowded — 
 
 It was public — say, do you know, 
 
 For a bunch of rollicking youngsters 
 
 It swamped a ten cent show? 
 
 The maid, she was not embarrassed, 
 To her it seemed but a bore, 
 For this, her would-be hubby 
 Was only number four. 
 But surely they both were suited 
 Or single awhile they'd stayed, 
 But hasten I must the story 
 Before my thoughts have strayed. 
 
 The parson had well proceeded 
 
 And gotten to the critical point, 
 
 When all about was darkness, 
 
 Then things got out of joint. 
 
 The bridesmaid screamed with horror 
 
 And swore that never again would she 
 
 Be found at another wedding 
 
 In such a company. 
 
 The parson, amid confusion, 
 Demanded forth a light, 
 And then the crowd grew noisy, 
 It reached an awful height. 
 Twas then the dingy lantern 
 
 (29) 
 
Was found on the belfry stairs, 
 Which lighted the ceremony 
 And relieved the parson's cares. 
 The crowd was filled with pleasure, 
 And superstitions fled 
 Of spooks and darkened weddings 
 Where Satan's footsteps tread. 
 And today they all are happy — 
 And happy it seems for life — 
 The former got his money, 
 The husband, such a wife. 
 
 SHOP TALK 
 
 (With due apology to less talkative barbers) 
 Chatter away, chatter away 
 From the early morn till close of day. 
 The barber stands by his swivel chair 
 And talks, and combs and cuts the hair. 
 So strange it seems that one small head 
 Should hold such news of the living and dead'- 
 He can tell you how the town went dry; 
 He can tell you when and tell you why. 
 He knows quite all the back yard rows 
 Over the chickens, or about the the cows. 
 He knows just why the mayor was beat, 
 And the cost to a cent of paving the street. 
 He knows why Congress rejected the bill 
 And just to a day the parson was ill. 
 He can quote the law on the killing of game 
 And knows each fish by his family name. 
 He rejects the story of Jonah and the whale 
 And then proceeds with a fisher tale ; 
 But just as his boat by the fish upset, 
 The grocer came in to collect a debt. 
 The barber forgot his sermon and text 
 And ended his theme by calling, "Next." 
 
 (30) 
 
RENFREW'S RECORD PRINT 
 ALVA, OKLAHOMA. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 ■mm 
 
 018 604 561 
 
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