fcisr^ • . ■■•■■ wn i j(T\, Class TS 35 Z5 Book ,I v5 3?b Copyright^ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. €lt3abetf) Iftumier filler Elizabeth Kumler Miller mitii a tribute by 9Pt0. C5. a. jfunfe&ouget United Brethren Publishing House Dayton, Ohio -Is « r 11 "1 Copyricht, igog. by United Brethren Publishing House Diyton. Ohio |«/a. 2. : AUG ~'.1$09 TO HER MANY FRIENDS IN THIS COUNTRY AND ACROSS THE SEAS THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY HER SISTER PREFACE I hese poems, children of the hearl and brain of oui beloved Mrs. I.. K. Miller, are here collected and senl oui to refresh, to entertain, to instruct, to inspire, and to enrich the friends who shall read, and the larger company oi those who may hear their meis'sage. Each has its message t • > the individ ual, or to the gr< tup, or to all. Not all arc here. Ii has been a delicate task to seleol How we longed for her own judgmenl ii» aid our choio I Some were written for special occasions, and required the place, her voice and personality i<> make them mosl effective. < >thers were so persona] thai ii seemed a breach of courtesy to make them public. Many included in this volume are personal, l>ui they also contain sentimenl of genera] interest. There was much in her prose writings we should like to have given, '"'i ii seemed besl to limil the book almosl entirely to the poems. They are grouped according to similar features, thai they may be readily found. Thej are presented nol alone to h r her memory, l>ut thai her life through them may be pel petuated, and to advance her greal life purpose the giving of the gospel to the dark places of earth. Sweel memories are haloed around us I n love lii guides to her goal. Her themes, ever lifting us homeward I n can ils of hearl and of soul, Siill linger in echoes of gladness That wai'i From the realm of the skies. Where, joined with the angels, she's singing New soii^s of her loved paradise. L. R. I Iaio ord vll TRIBUTE A cut, a surgeon's wound, a bandage. Ten days, and the stitches may be removed ; two weeks, four weeks, six weeks, and restoration may be spoken of with confidence. Not so with an affair of the heart. One month, four months, five months, and the hurt has scarcely begun to heal, the wound seems as deep as ever. I lived it all over again last night, and the tear-drops fell like rain. I am speaking of my sister. On many accounts we were more than sisters. No child was left her to love, and I was bereft of my only daughter. The relationship was doubly clear. They carried her, you know, from her home to mine. I saw her again last night, coming in a chair. She was very happy those days, as she leisurely walked about the rooms, her own, on the north, giving the comforts of a much cooler climate. It was always her thought she would come to me for "such a time as this." If announcement to her that a palliative treatment was the best that could be given caused her any dis- comfort, we never knew it. She smiled, and called me by my baby name, as if I were a little girl, and was as sweet and cheerful those four months as though she were expecting to be herself again within a short time. We had been much together. On many occasions she had said, "Do you know the best has always come to us?" She was so appreciative — even this sickness she accepted as the best from her Heavenly Father's hand. While she loved everybody and every beautiful thing in the world, and naturally desired to witness the consummation of certain events, she surrendered all and was sunny to the very end. I lived it all over last night. I heard her sweet voice bidding me throw open the shutters and let the glo- rious morning in. I heard the little snatches of song she wrote for the little maid who put on her stockings and slippers each morning, and other bits of rhyme, thus converting the humblest service given her into poetic pleasure. I heard her daily thanks for being under our protection, and always in a little German manner she had learned from our mother, as if to divert from the occasion the slightest shade of sadness. I beheld anew the wealth of flowers and smelled their fragrance, as she dipped her face among them to get the sweetest odors. I beheld the women with tear- dimmed eyes, and the thoughtful faces of the men as the}- entered her room and came out with refreshing peace upon their countenances ; her delight at seeing the little children and the neighbor's baby, carried in at her request. I saw her with a group of nieces about her, as she sat recounting the value of some of her little belongings and saying, without a tear, "This is for you, and you, and you." I saw her as she prepared to read the will to three devoted children, the will and testament of our beloved sister, so lately gone from us. I saw her, as so queen-like she sat, awaiting the arrival of the document. I saw her as she sat on Monday, at noon, her last Monday with us, taking her pen, and in the presence of friends, inscribing her name in dispo- sition of her remaining worldly goods. Her heart was full of love for her kindred, and to those immediately about her she gave minutest direction for the dark days she knew were so soon to be upon them. I lived it all over in the lonely night watches, and opened my arms wide to receive her back — except for her own dear sake, who had finished so well the work of a beautiful life. Lest a sister's praise be deemed too flattering, let me use, without permission, two tributes — one from a far-away friend, one from her attending physician : "The world has never had anybody sweeter in it, or one to whom I have been more closely bound." "A very superior woman ; the most radiant patient I have ever seen." When the great fleet left our waters some months ago, on a friendly visit to distant ports, a few belated, erring seamen ran excitedly along the shore with cap and garment afloat in the air, as if, perchance, to catch the commander's eye. and in some way, somehow, cause the vast machinery of those vessels to be reversed, that they might clamber aboard. To-day, on errand no less pacific and far-reaching, we launch her modest endeavors. We kiss the pages ere we let them go, for they were a part of her very self, and say to every one who comes within the sweet influence of her writings, "May none be left behind." Susan M. Funkhouser. CONTENTS Biographical Sketch 1 I. Devotional. — PAGE Our Praise 11 My Day 11 Lift Up Thine Eyes 12 Fruition 13 Suffer the Children to Come 15 The Highest Good 16 Sweeping Into Glorv 16 Unite for Right....". 18 Not Yet Too Late 18 Our Tribute 19 Sleep, Death 20 If Ye Love Me. . 21 Kingly Giving .'. 23 Giving Will Bless Thee 23 . To-Day 23 II. Missionary. — Bid Us Go Forward 27 A Heathen Maiden's Plea 29 Ideal Compensation 30 God Speed Our Missionaries 31 Hold the Ropes 32 Help Roll the Stone Away 34 Only Be Strong 36 Our Martvred Friends 37 China 39 Decennial Lines 40 III. Nature. — March 47 The Blue Skv 48 Our Father's Skill 49 To a Wild Bird 51 My Song 52 Cruelty in Fashion 54 IV. To Children. — The Little King 59 The Baptism 60 The Gospel for Others 61 To the Girls and Boys 61 Impromptu Cradle-Song 62 xiii PAGE V. Anniversary Days. — Christmas Day 67 The Song the Shepherds Heard 67 The Holy Night 68 Christmas 69 The Message of Our Savior Friend 70 Christmas Message 70 The Old Year 70 The Old, the New 71 The New Year 72 Between Two Centuries 72 The Old, the New 73 Easter Morning 74 The Lord Is Risen 77 Resurrection Day 77 Why Weepest Thou 78 Thanksgiving 79 Thanksgiving Bells 79 The Boys in Blue 80 A Hundred Years 80 A Score of Years 85 Golden Wedding Anniversary 91 Sixtieth Wedding Anniversary Greetings 92 VI. Tributes. — Mrs. Sylvia Haywood 99 Our Heritage . .". 100 A Tribute 103 On the Death of a Little Child 104 I Love Thee 105 Beth-Eden 106 A Leaf from Goethe's Grave 106 Three-Score Years 107 Semi-Centennial Ode to Otterbein 108 A Little Tribute 112 Greetings 115 The Seminary's Silver Year 116 To the Seminary Women 117 VII. Miscellaneous. — When I Am Old 123 The Isle of the Long Ago 125 Warmed 125 Philalethea 127 The Woman's Crusade 127 Tablets 128 ILLUSTRATIONS Elizabeth Kumlcr Miller (Frontispiece). "The Majesty of Sky and Sea." "A Little Chinese Maid." 'Neath Tropic Suns. March. On the Lowest Limb. The Arrival of the Shepherds. First Easter Dawn. ( Five of the above illustrations are from original sketches made by Mrs. Bertha Kemp Gibbons.) BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH * Elizabeth Kumler Miller, second daughter, fourth child of Rev. Daniel C. Kumler and Katharine Walter Kumler, was born in a little new brick house on a farm near Millville, Butler County, Ohio, Sunday, February 1, 1835. Here she grew up with the large family of children, trained to plenty of earnest work and plenty of play and fun. In those early times, girls were called to the fields during the busy season, so that she and her older sister, Mary, often dropped corn in the freshly-turned furrows out of their little blue aprons, while a white-nosed horse, drawing the covering-hoe, called "jumper," often nudged them in the back, thus telling them kindly to "hurry up a little" ; and in harvest-times, carrying jugs of fresh water to the workmen and carrying sheaves into piles for the shocks, was their frequent task. Thus, with horse-back riding and the like, they grew up strong and sturdy. Both girls learned to spin tow and flax on their little wheels and wool on the big ones, when they vied with each other to spin each her "dozen cuts a day." A walk of a mile and a half to the village school, through all sorts of weather, helped lay the foundation of their early education, where the "com- mon branches" were studied over and over and re- viewed year after year. At the age of seventeen, Elizabeth was sent to Oxford Female Seminary for l BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH three months, when a taste for learning was deepened, and, at her earnest solicitation, at nineteen years of age, she was permitted to be one of the first group of students from the Miami Valley to enter Otterbein University. Her gratitude for this privilege never ceased, nor did her enthusiastic love for Otterbein ever wane. She graduated in a class of seven in 1858. and June 10, 1908, she sat at a reunion breakfast at the home of Mrs. Melissa Haynie Fisher, one of the seven, with two others, three of the seven, to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of their graduation. The other two were Rev. Daniel Eberly, D.D., of Hanover, Pa., and Mrs. Fisher, hostess of the occasion. The pleasure at the recollection of this reunion breakfast cannot be expressed. Three of the others have passed over to the heavenly country, one of whom was the immortal Benjamin R. Hanby, the sweet singer, author of "Darling Nellie Gray" and many other beautiful songs. One of the seven is "unheard of" for the time. The year after graduation, Elizabeth taught five months in the village schools of Seven Mile, in the primary room, where an average of about sixty was her allotment, five of whom were colored. May 31, 1859, she was united in marriage to John S. Miller, of Pataskala, Ohio. Shortly after, the newly-married couple began housekeeping in a little log house on the edge of a large wood, many of whose trees were large sugar maples, where the new expe- rience of "sugar-camp" work delighted them. Here BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH they proved to themselves, and to many friends who visited them, that fine things, costly things, are not essential at all to genuine happiness, at least to lovers of nature. The great deep forest on the north and west, the more open spaces on the east and south, through which neighboring houses and farms were clearly visible, have been a constant joy through all the after years. Then the woods were peopled with squirrels and wild turkeys, both of which were often chief dishes for feasts at their table, and in the open the birds were as wild with delight to sing to them as they were to listen to their songs. Here their little son, Amos Daniel, was born, in October, 1861. Here some dear friends were entertained. Benjamin R. Hanby, after a lovely night's visit, advised that no undue haste be made to quit the charming woods — just what a man with a poet's heart could say in all sincerity while living here in the woody retreat. A call came to Mrs. Miller to take the responsible position of principal of the Ladies' Department of Otterbein University, which combined the teaching of four or five classes a day with the entire care of the young ladies of the school. This, after due consulta- tion with her husband and other friends, she accepted, and, in the fall of 1862, entered upon the new and very arduous work. In August of 1863, while on a vacation at the home of Mr. Miller's parents, their darling little boy sickened and died, and they returned alone to the Westerville home. These were war times, and Mr. Miller, after a period of some weeks BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH spent in Camp Chase with many other townsmen as militiamen, and while preparing to move to a farm, contracted typhoid fever, early in October, when, after a hasty run of the fever, he died October 24, 1863. Her resignation and return to her father's home fol- lowed. Mrs. Fisher, her classmate, was called to take her place. After one year, upon the marriage of Mrs. Fisher, Mrs. Miller was reappointed and re- turned to the school, where she remained for five years, when she again resigned, and after one year's rest was again recalled and served another term of five years. These years, covering from 1862 to 1875, have always been regarded by her as most rich and rare, furnishing opportunity of very close acquaint- ance and friendship with so many hundreds of the very best young men and women of our Church. These have always been regarded as her girls and boys, though many of them have risen to great distinction in the Church and in the nation. In 1875, the feeble- ness of her mother and father was her loudest call to duty, and she resigned finally, though, after the death of her mother in 1876 and her father in 1881, she was again solicited to return. She wisely, no doubt, de- cided that her work in that department of Otterbein University had been finished. Early in 1880, she was elected a trustee of the Woman's Missionary Associa- tion, which she held until 1905 ; in 1886 and 1887, she helped Mrs. Keister in the office of the Woman's Mis- sionary Association. Upon the death of the very competent and beloved president of the Association, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Mrs. Sylvia Haywood, October 24, 1886, the Board, in annual session at Westfield, 111., May 20, 1887, elected Mrs. Miller to the presidency, which position she finally accepted, though deeply conscious of her inability to fill the place. In 1888, she, in company with Mrs. Keister, went as delegate from the Woman's Missionary Association to the World's Missionary Conference, held in London, England. This was one of the largest opportunities of her life to hear and meet so many of the most-noted missionary workers of this age or of any age. [At this point, Mrs. Miller stopped in her narra- tive, telling her sister, "I was too tired to finish; any one can complete it."] From 1888 to 1893, Mrs. Miller was associate editor and publisher of the Woman's Evangel, and in 1893 she succeeded Mrs. Keister as its editor, in which capacity she continued until 1904. Her rare qualities of mind and heart could have no more suitable field. Mrs. Keister, in her valedictory, wrote, "And now I present Mrs. L. K. Miller, the teacher of my youth, the tender, loving companion of maturer years, the peer of the noblest of women, a princess in Israel." She came by her interest in missions in no uncertain way, as her father was one of the first three to volun- teer for missionary service at the opening of the African mission. In the summer of 1904, she left the office for her usual vacation, never to return to her accustomed place. She continued ill during the summer and fall, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH and in October she resigned her position as editor, and as president to take effect in the spring of 1905. Recovered somewhat in health, but never afterward strong, she remained quietly at home with her sister, Mrs. Ozias, until, in her last illness, she was removed to the home of her youngest sister, Mrs. G. A. Funk- houser, where she was ministered to by loving hands, and where her sick-room became a gate to heaven. Very earlv in the morning, before daybreak, on Friday, October 23, she quietly slipped away to be with Him whom she loved and served so loyally for more than three score years. It may be truely said of her that she died as she lived, thoughtful of others rather than of herself, in love with nature, with no mock or morbid senti- ments as to death itself, but with genuine simplicity and unfailing trust in her Redeemer and Lord. It was a beautiful morning when we laid her away on the anniversary of the burial of her husband, just forty-five years ago, and of her predecessor as presi- dent of the Association, Mrs. Haywood. A few special friends gathered at the home and, after a prayer of thanksgiving for her life and of renewed consecration of our own, we took her to the church across the way. For one hour friends streamed by her casket, old and young and little children ; men high in church and state, as well as those from the most obscure homes. Surely to live in the lives of these and multitudes of others who loved her is not to die. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH The service which followed, which she herself had planned, was simple and beautiful. Dr. W. J. Shuey and Dr. Henry Garst, lifelong friends, spoke of her life, as did also Dr. T. J. Sanders, of Otterbein Uni- versity. Dr. A. W. Drury read the sketch of her life which she had prepared. The songs, "Face to face," "The home of the soul," and the "Glory Song," which were sung by Rev. Ray Upson and a male quartet, seemed especially appropriate. Out in beautiful Woodland Cemetery, surrounded by other illustrious dead of our own Church, we laid her to rest. The bright morning sun was shining through the beautiful autumn-tinted maples; here and there we heard the sweet singing of birds. All nature seemed joyful that such a true lover of birds and flowers, of trees and leaves, of clouds and sun should be laid there to await the resurrection morning. *The greater part of this sketch was prepared by Mrs. Miller herself during her last illness. DEVOTIONAL It matters little what the world-estimate be, if but the heart-life be right. I. DEVOTIONAL OUR PRAISE. With eyes intent upon the stars, My spirit joins the twinkling host In breathing praise through silent lips To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Anon I seek the shady wood, And catch the wild-bird's joyous note; Instant I catch the wild-bird's mood, And pour my praise through joyous throat. What matter, since the Father hears Our breathings through the boundless blue, As well our wild, delighted song? What matter — so our praise be true ? MY DAY. What have I done to-day? I cannot say ; The hours have come and gone, — The snow came down 11 DEVOTIONAL In beauteous, fitful showers For hours and hours ; The wind shook hard the pane, The jealous rain Chased all the snow away, In seeming play. Thus all that I have done. As sets the sun. Seems lost, as lost the snow ! And yet I know That He who counts our hairs, And feels our cares, And makes the snow, transformed, Refresh the ground, Can cause some (Kw], or word That he hath heard, Transformed by his own grace Some life to bless. As He reviews my day, He, kind, may say. In accents sweet and mild, "Well done, mv child." LIFT UP THINE EYES. How oft we walk the bridge of life With eyes intent upon the rough- Ilewn hoards we tread — the huge wrought nails 12 TOEMS That clinch them fast, unheeding quite The limpid stream that laughs below ; Unheeding quite the deep blue sky With sun, or moon, or stars bedecked, Or friendly floating cloud. Lift up thine eyes, O soul of mine, To see the things invisible Which he, the mighty God hath wrought! Thus we become his friends, and share The secrets of his mighty heart. FRUITION. Yearning for one brief hour of pure delight, I turned the key on Care, and beckoned Joy To take a stroll with me across the field To where the apple orchard stood and spread Its boughs for blossoms and for luscious fruits, Whose grand old trees 1 knew, by place and name. — 'Twas at the time of blossoms. One there was Rent by some ruthless hand when but a twig, Or, by mishap, and now a rustic seat It made, where Nature's child might sit and dream ; Where tired swain, from golden harvest field Might pause to catch his breath as homeward led By note of dinner-horn. There took we seat. — 'Twas at the time of blossoms ; pink and white And reddest buds, bouquets exquisite made Above our head. 1:5 DEVOTIONAL The bee went burdened down With sweets toward her hive, and odors rare Recalled the mit'red priests, who incense burned Before the mercy-seat in times remote. And as we gazed, the orchard seemed ( )ne great pure altar breathing sweets to God; And busy birds the trees among, were seen — A robin on her nest looked out askant ; Redbirds were building nests ; and there a wren Went winding down, head foremost round the trunk ; And side by side a pair of doves sat low And cooed their loves. While far above, on topmost bough there swayed The catbird giving wildest serenade : And meadow-larks piped sweetly from the stakes, While drummers in gay coats sat on old trees Tipping their rod caps to me as they drummed. — From everywhere sweet music seemed to float Till the old orchard seemed a gallery Whence upward rose perpetual songs of praise. Mv hour was waning and I said, "Just wait Till unborn birdies fly from out these nests And sing, and time and breezes brush away The pink and white from these old trees ; Then come again this way and you shall see Fruition ; this is promise, this is hope." — My hour was waning and I said again: "This is a cup of the sweet joy that living Gives, 'twixt draughts of ills, to those who nature Love, who love the blessed God. 14 TOEMS How must the cup o'erflow at length in heaven, When sorrow's bundles have been tied and burned, And God's own hand shall wipe away our tears, And hope and promise to fruition yield." "SUFFER THE CHILDREN TO COME." One Lord's day spoke our pastor sweetly kind, "Let those who love the Christ this altar seek, And join our ranks, the holy pledges take, To walk in all good conscience, true and meek." A group of children — rosy girls and boys With bared head, and earnest, open face Came forth before the throng, and meekly knelt To pledge their lives to Him who proffers grace. And, as the pastor through the altar walked To lay his hand in baptism on each brow, Walked One beside him, clad in seamless dress, And sealed with holy favor each child-vow. And then, as if he feared some murmur from The throng, with pierced hand uplift he said, "Suffer these little ones to come to me." Then gently laid it on each shining head. "Forbid them not ; of such my kingdom is ; These are my lambs ; they early hear my voice ; 15 DEVOTIONAL My fold is warm and safe ; no wolves can harm ; Feed ye my lambs ; help guard their blessed choice." THE HIGHEST GOOD. She sat and counted o'er the good Of half a hundred years, and said: "Shall I misname, and call aught ill Which Christ lets fall upon my head ? "Perchance in loving search he found This furnace chiefest good of all, And that beside me, through these flames, He walks to catch each spirit-call ; That, the refining almost done, I soon may walk with Christ at home." SWEEPING INTO GLORY. Speak not of the grave or dying — ■ Let me triumph over these ; Let me rise on wings of glory, And behold Him as he is. Let me see his thorn-pierced temples, See his pierced hands and side ; Let me hear his words so tender ; Let me at his feet abide. 16 POEMS Oh, the depth of love of Jesus ! All its sweetness who can tell ? Let me linger in his presence — Drink at Love's unfathomed well. Let me go to be forever In the Paradise above; Speak not of the grave or dying; Sing of God's unfathomed love. Ope the windows. Let the fragrance Of sweet spring pour gently in; Let my soul lift up her pinions — Soar from out this house of sin. Is this dying, blessed Jesus? Death cannot before thee stand. I am waking in thy likeness, Satisfied — hold tight my hand. Am I dying? Nay, I'm living. Jesus triumphed over death. Jesus in my heart abiding — I can feel his living breath. I am sweeping into glory! Drop this clay — they call it death ; I am sweeping into glory, Borne aloft on Jesus' breath. 17 DEVOTIONAL UNITE FOR RIGHT. Shut down the gates ; let holy stillness reign Throughout the clay the Lord hath made and blessed ! Remove the awful guilt; blot out the stain From our fair land, — give all the people rest. Let every heathen band that needs must wait "Beside the stuff" his ruling sovereign sent, See tightly shut Chicago's Sabbath-gate, And every Christian resting in his tent. Let "victory for right" be loudly sung. The church of God hath pleaded not in vain, — Let all the bells of earth be wildly rung; Jehovah's mandate hath triumph'd again ! Rise, church of God! put on new strength to-day; Too long, alas! we've tremb'ling cowards stood, And let foul drunkenness and crime have sway And drink with greed our nation's richest blood ! Rise and unite, unsheathe Truth's mighty sword, Strike bold "for God and home and native land"! Firmer than mountains stands God's Holy Word To crown with triumph his commissioned band. NOT YET TOO LATE. Not yet too late, though thou canst not recall Thy wasted years. To-day — oh, joy ! is thine ; 18 I lie M.ik->Iv ol Skj) .itul Sen" POEMS Seize it with firmest grasp, and then, behold! To-morrow shall be thine, and each new day Will yield tlicc its rich SWeetl , and thus, and thus 'I liv crown may yd be won, and thou sit high Among earth's noble one- to dare and do; And, joy of joys! the greal eternity Will then unfold its cycles vast, and thou Mav'st mingle with the holy throng and scan The wondrous works and plans of dim who rules Above all men and finite things, who breathes This day these words of hope, "Not yet too late." OUR TRIBUTE. 'Like as a father pitieth his children, So the Lord pitieth them that fear him; For he knoweth our frame — lie remembereth that we arc dust." Then doth the Father know our grief This day, that spread beneath, above, Is all this majesty of sky And sea, of cloud and wave; (lis love So full, and our poor lips so dumb? I low vain arc tears! No words hut thine Are fit to offer hack to thee; But through our tears hear us repeat, "Thy works praise thee, O Lord, our Lord ; "To thee, to thec belongeth praise." 19 DEV0TI0NA1 Beneath us the unfathomed flood, Around the sea and sky join hands. Vbove are deeps oi blue untrod Bui l>v the starry host oi ( rod. ( ) Jesus, Master, well I know Thou walkedsl once o'er Galilee, And In my toiling now I Eeel Thee walking o'er the waves to me. Like Peter, o'er the waves of old, I fain would haste to meet my Lord. ( ) Jesus, let the ocean roar. And let it lift its waxes on high And break in rainbows at thy feet, The best it hath is tribute mete; Alas, what tribute ean we bring For thy dear love, more deep more Than ocean deeps, or deeps oi yoiii to me, [DEA1 COMPENSATION 1 n A 1 rica, 'neath 1 1 opic suns, Where stately palms reach tow'rd the sky, \ native, wand'ring, lost and lone, 1 [ad laid him 'neath .\ palm to r some word of hope ro shout aloud this tearful Woman's Day, \u.i thou I s.u and waited patiently; For oh, my thoughts, like yours, were fai awa) Roaming 'mong homes where first rose prayei and 'Mid gardens rich in Fruit and flowers fair; But u"\\ in darkness where the lights once gleamed, Ami blood and sadness o'er the region bare. 1 list'ning waited; then l heard Him say — So sweet he seemed to wipe awa} all tears — "Only be strong and of good courage now, \iul 1 will make you glad In coming years; Think not for one brief moment that 1 slept When Satan seemed the master of the field; All power is minei I reign f Forget it not ; My wa\ so high, hath not yet been revealed. "Go forth; be strong; ne'er let your courage droop; Tins is your day of bitterness and strife; Count not your lives too dear; yield all to me, 1 gave up heav'n to buy you endless life. Ye are my witnesses; the old world sloops! llolp wake it from its death-like sloop of sin! This is your day— the reaper's day of toil, When souls for heaven ye ;»ll may gather in." M POEMS Oh, shame! to sullen hall and think God hard! 'T is only thai we do nol understand; — His way s are higher than the twinkling .tars; III', love more tender than a mother's hand. We how tO him ; we worship; we adore ; And with our tears we wash his pierced feel ; Those will we seek, o wrapl in sin's black night, "As unto him" we'll help his plans complete. OUR MARTYRED FRIENDS. Foi this sweet task, ( ) blest ed ( hrii t, in pire My thought! As thee in dark Gethsemane The angel soothed, and, with his holy touch, New strength bestowed to fit for crucial hour, So ii ength divine imparl today. As, years agone, the toy: , the i hoe., the hal Of my own darling boy I held and said, "'I he e, these are ;ill that's left," while burning teai Like rain fell o'er them, so to day I hold 'I he things thai once were theirs these lettet weet l h.it came oft from afar, and made tin . old Evangel ever new gave it new wings To fly the nations o'er, bearing sweet, wool , Of hope and joy, of wide, deep plans achieved, Of plans thai reach oul into coming years; I clasp these letter: tighl and cry in grief Too deep for sounding line to mete, "/Mas! .",7 M ISSIONAKY rhese, these are all that's left !" Be still, sad hear! ! Full well thou know'sl th) darling boy hath blesl Each year, each da} thai sti etcheth through the year, And made thee strong to bear, to for love's Own sake. These, whom with love's eternal cord So tighl you hold, are only gone away — I .ike Moses, hid l>v God anion:' the clouds ( >n Mebo's heights, in fiery chariol snatched \wa\ from earth -so like the hoi) Christ, Sore bruised, and pierced, and mocked, and basely slain. Oh, thinkl thou cansl not weigh then holy (03 l'o day, as by the Crucified they stand And show their wounds for love of him received — For love of his lost sheep he eame to save — Poor AfHe's sons. (> heart of pity, break Anew o'er ihe-e who blindly slew their Lord | "Ye did h unto me." They /v - >/d. The land I'oi w lneh thev died. 88 POEM We see them, aye, we heai each voice to-day, As, bending jusl .1 1>< >vc, scarce oul oi sight, They cast their martyr crowns before the Lamb Who ei Si was slain ; Willi broken hearts we clasp their spirit hands, And join with them before the throne to plead For A f r i ( ' . poor black sheep the Shepherd's own Redeemed, yel age on age in heathen nighl Enchained by Satan's hellish power his slavesl We pHghl anew our lives tO earnest toil J This martyred 1 1< » . 1 forever live! and live 1 11 us ; and in 1 lie.e pages where 1 heir lives Were won) to shine here they imr i live and breathe And bless our toil, and make us brave to win The losl world hack lo<'luisl. Il mil I ik>| he Thai these, <'iir well belov'd, have died in vain. July, T898. china. ( 'hiiia Wise, ah ! ( hina hoai y, Whai is this thai thou dosl do? Make thy gods then (all Iheni true! I low il shames thy hoa.led gloryl See Jehovah, King of heaven, Maker of the stars and sun ; Father, Spirit, Savior, ( )ne Come to him and he form veil. MISSIONARY DECENNIAL LINES.* Were our clear Savior here to-day, In this great room, in human form, With pierced side and feet and hands. Could we e'en see him sitting there, Or there, or here, close by our side, Who else could bear to read or speak, Or pray ? How would our lips be hushed ; And how, with streaming eyes, we'd kneel And seek to touch his blessed feet, Or hands, or but his garment's hem. Or, if to speak our lips were moved, What pleas would rise! "Heal thou my son," "My father," "mother," "friend!" "Heal thou Poor me; I am so sorely grieved. " "Save thou a brother lost! Thou canst. Lord, if thou wilt." And here and there with radiant face Would one arise with David's song Upon her lips: "Oh, bless the Lord, My soul, and all that is within Me, bless his holy name! My soul Doth magnify and bless the Lord For all his wondrous love to me!" And here and there would one behind 1 lim weeping stand and seek to break The precious alabaster-box, 40 POEMS And pour its costly contents on His head or feet for very love. How would it be with thee, with me, What treasure bring, what offering lay At his dear feet? What tribute pay At this decennial feast to-day? Hath he done aught for thee, for me, That claims thy meed the ten years gone? Ay, think, recall the lonely wilds He helped thee cross ! The days of grief, the nights of pain, The crucial fires he led thee through, Yet walked near by, thy anguish soothed, And gave thee sleep and peace again. Ah, think, recall ! He took thy lamb From out the thicket wild and dark To his own fold, so safe from harm. He took thy son, thy well-beloved, From out the battle fierce of life, Where darts are hurled, and deadly strife Doth rage, because he loved thee so. And the beloved aged ones, With meek white face and soft white hair, With little left but pain and love And care, ready and waiting long, And ripe, like waiting shock in sun — 41 MISSIONARY Scorched harvest-field, he took to walk The bright green fields above. Oh, think, Reflect, what joy and peace are theirs. At home to-day, with God at home ! And other dear ones yet he keeps In his high way by heavenly grace ; No one can pluck them from his hand. For others still he helps thee pray Through scores of years, that they at length May bow, believe, and be forgiven. What would we bring to thee, O Christ, What offering lay at thy dear feet, If thou wert sitting here to-day? O Jesus, thou art sitting here Over against the treasury. Beholding how the people cast Money therein, as once of old. O Savior mine, thy form divine By faith we see; thy touch we feel, To thee we kneel, to thee we kneel, And now in consecration say, Lord, here I bring my treasure, all ; They all are thine, I give them back To thee, thou blessed one, thou Christ, And my poor self I give to thee, For I am thine, thou boughtest me 42 POEMS With blood divine, Accept the gift, Though mean it be; I have naught else. Waft, waft thy word, O Christ divine, On every wind of heaven that blows, O'er every sea, to Greek, to Jew, Till one glad jubilee arise From every soul, or Greek or Jew, Or bond or free, "Jesus is very Christ and Lord!" *Written on the Tenth Anniversary of the W. M. A. 13 NATURE Oh, praise God for spring ! We can almost hear the talk going on in the ground among the rootlets as they drink in new juices from the soil, sending it up to gladden the bushes and tree-tops. The buds are swelling, almost bursting with delight that they will soon unfold into leaves or blossoms. The dear old crows go flapping their glad wings through the nether sky; the robins, the blue-birds, the every kind of familiar birds fairly vie with each other in shouting their heralds of spring. III. NATURE MARCH. March, you try me so ! You blow and blow, You grab my hat and gown, You push me down ! And shake the naked trees With wildest breeze, Till every limb doth fight To left and right, And strike his brother limb With wicked vim. Nay, I'll not shame you so ; Just blow and blow ; For you do wake the streams From icy dreams, And bid them laugh and play The livelong day. 1 love you after all, For you do call The buds from their deep sleep 47 NATURE To wake and leap To life, and ope to bloom From winter's tomb. I hear afar the song That floats along From deep green shades to be; From blooming tree The wild bird's happy note From brimful throat. March, you make me glad ! 1 erst was sad ; But you prophetic tell In picture well Of endless spring at last, Death overpast, The resurrection morn Of death's night born. Just blow and blow and blow,— I love you so. THE BLUE SKY. The sky is so blue, so wondrously Blue — one can almost see through — to the gates Of pearl — where our loved ones went through — to heaven ! One can almost see into the room so Fair, in the mansions He went to prepare. 48 March POEMS It bothers one so just to look and look, At the beautiful sky of matchless blue; It makes one dream she is nearing her home. On a Saturday night, the sun going Down, while the loved ones are shading their eyes over there To look out ! — and with wide open arms And with beckoning hands — don't you see One can scarce turn away ? Oh! the matchless deep blue; it bothers one so! OUR FATHER'S SKILL. When we with tutored skill would deck Some petted being, e'er so small, Or bead or broider but a scrap, — A trifle that two hands might hide. — Into the night we stitch and stitch, Till brain and eye are dull with pain, And then at morn again the task Renew. And after many days In glee we shout, " Tis done ! 'tis done !" This trifle that two hands might hide. But when our Father beautifies, Lo ! how his wondrous skill is plied ! He bringeth darkness and a cloud, Then sets thereon his gorgeous bow. Or, launching night while yet 'tis day, 49 \ \ i rui 1 1.- shaketh hard each casemenl frail, Ami knocketh bold 'gainst every door, While rain .mil sleel dash 'gainst the pane. 1 1 biii .1 blast »'i one i>i iei hour l Vi . ham >■ one fitful >ii earn is ours ; One whispei wafted through the night We catch, one glimpse too late to grasp Of hands outstretched from mystic realms! What sorrow K 1 1 * > w *. - 1 1 1 e'en the wind rhe win. I. methinks, hath heart and sou!. Willi sorrows piercing through and through IK- waileth so; he wakes . 1 1 1 < 1 trills M \ i lads <'t hat ps with magic sti Ing . llu-n sleeps .ii length, with sobbing plaints, I ike sobbing child on mother's breast. Then i<>\ I the night is overpast. Sri'. in>\\ | l.» lei I I is gloi ies 111 Mr bendeth *>Vr the cradled earth, I ike mothei o'ei hei child Asleep . wiih kisses w ak< ih it, Aiui lu usheth back tin- clouds, I ike loving mothei sunn} curls from infant bi ow, Behold ' tin- sunlight breaketh in I Behold! behold! .i world transformed! Each hoai \ i< ee .i crown display ■ ' BQ POJ i . Ea< It imy twig a pre* ioua stone I ' ,| '' gates and bars with fi inge hung I And trembling, ihim'ring through and through, I •" h inii oi pine a " olitaire"! An'l '"", from "ui ea< h tufl oi gra As if some peerlei stai oi nighi ' tad lost its way, and nestling there ( ""v. i s and blink i a peei le lighi ' ' fold my hands, my lips are dumb I < 'ui of tuch nighi He brings tut h day I Whal - an he bring to you and me ,,, "" l '"" our nighi ? Whal cansl thou say? TO a WILD BIRD I ' away to yom ne I in the tree, iweel bird, Voui song is begun too soon ; ' ' only a sunshiny winter's day, V '"| think 'tis a day in June, •'"' ' ■""■•"' i roui strain, so wondrously sweet, I linger to heai you ing, All wintry thoughts are melting away, in my hearl is awaking • pring Bui no long< i stay, little bird be gon< I '' here's a dark cold torm in the we 1 1 'I he winds and the snow bul mock yom song Fly away in the tree, to yom nei i. M NATURE ( M"t the song of life's morn is broken in twain Ere the sun hath ascended to noon, And the bird of onr love is blown from his bough By winter-blasts ushered in June. MY SONG. You ask For a song? Were 1 but a bird With a silver-tipped wing. Or scarlet, or blue. Or rarest old-gold. And a throat like the wren. Or the peerless brown thrush Which seemeth so bold. Half concealed in the brush; Why then — why then — I would sing for you The sweetest, the best That ever I knew. You ask for a song? 'Tis a marvel you seek. With the windows half hid 'Neath curtains of gray ; With the chalice of life So drained of its sweet ; Roses nipped by the frost m* i t ON THE LOWEST LIMB. I heard a song, oh! the sweetesl ^ou^. As I wrought 'mong my flowers rare; It 'minded me of a zephyr's plaint ( )r an angel's whispered prayer. \ii'l I looked to the top of my maple tree. To search for the singer heard, Bui no ! mi a tu fled low down limb Sal my meek-clad, charming bird. And I said, "If I could hut sweetly sinj^ A changing, loving hymn, I'd gladly sit in my meekest dress, Way down on the lowest limb." <¥* POEMS Left — but embers of fires,— But the ashes of flowers — Jewels broken or lost. Nay, nay, I but feign ; Too oft it must sing, With its foot in the snow, And the frost on its wing! I would ne'er be a bird Though chief of the throng, Whose life goeth out With the death of its song. And 'twere feigning to grieve O'er the sear yellow leaf, O'er the shadows of gray, Or the gold-girdled sheaf, Over ungathered fruits, Or the frost-ripened ear — The crown that is olden Is crown of the year. The song I would sing Were it worthy the theme Would be of our home Tn the boundless blue sky, On that beautiful star Or hither or yonder We may not know where. Perchance not so far ; But, wherever is He 53 NATURE And the blood-ransomed host. There, there it will be, And in\ riad fold treasure For all we have lost. CRUELTY IN FASHION. \t church last night? Yes, 1 was there, — went early and stayed late; but ask me no other questions. Text? Yes, there weir both text and sermon; but what heard /. when a darling bird sat fettered right before my eyes a rat bird, pleading, every moment pleading. We vya\ each other, birdie and I, while the divine service rolled along in all its parts, and I lived the seasons o'er and o'er. The spring seemed breaking, and with the mellow south wind had eome baek my first, wild singingd)irds. < Mi, welcome, welcome, to vine and tree! Mere is lint for thy nesl ; build and bring forth thy brood, as oi" old, in the old apple-tree. The sermon rolled on, a low accompaniment to m\ thoughts, and imperceptibly we glided into the full rich summer-time, and now birdie is reveling in the deep green foliage or perched upon the topmost limb. He pours out floods of the wildest, gladdest song of all the year. \noii he hops through the vines peeping, "peek, peek." Do you not hear him? Surely / do. Now plunge in and bathe. That is it; dip again — again. 54 POEMS Ah; turn your saucy head and scold, because I want to share the ripe, red berries? O birdie, bird, thou breakest my heart, for I know that thou art fettered. How can one bow the head in prayer with thee sitting on her "Sunday hat," all dead! O my poor birdie, bird; how gladly would I loose thee from the snare and breathe into thy body hal f my life, if I might hear thy little feet once more upon the pavement, or thy peerless voice again amid the vines, waking the day ! O birdie, bird ; the sermon nears its close, but thou breakest my heart more than the preacher! I'll wear the feather lost, or plucked from out thy tail or wing, but ne'er shall murdered bird sit on my Sunday hat, pleading, mutely pleading, louder than sermon, from out its mock grave there. TO CHILDREN Identify yourself with the best of everything, and the best will always be yours. IV. TO CHILDREN THE LITTLE KING. Little schoolmates, gather near me, While I tell a story old, Of the little baby Jesus, Ne'er till now in rhythm told. How he jumped, and laughed, and prattled,- Do you ask me how I know? He was like our baby brothers, And, you know, they do just so. Gather closer, while I tell you Of the little Jesus boy, In the little town of Nazareth, — Joseph's pride and Mary's joy. How he helped him in his workshop, Helped her in her household toil, Brought her wood, and water brought her, Brought her, filled, the cruse of oil. 59 CHILDREN Not a murmur, not a grumble, Not a sharp or saucy word, In his little home in Nazareth, From the Jesus boy was heard. Little schoolmates, let me tell you, Little Jesus did no sin ; As we work, and play, and study, Let us try to be like him. THE BAPTISM. A precious task to name this child. It must be sweet — the name that's given ; For do you know in very truth That names on earth are names in heaven? The May-sun smiled from out the East; The mayflowers yielded sweetest breath ; While robins, hopping o'er the grass, Chirped, "Katharine Elizabeth." They caught it through the doors ajar; For thus the dear old bishop saith: "I now baptize thee, darling child, As 'Katharine Elizabeth.' " Up, up they haste, on fleetest wing, The angels to this mission given, To write it in the dear God's book ; For names on earth are names in heaven. 60 POEMS THE GOSPEL FOR OTHERS. Little Luther rocked and sang, So sweet his gospel notes, and high His anthems rise and outward roll, As back and forth the rockers flew, And little self hemmed in his view, As other selves so often do; — "For such a worm as I." When soon, his little brother seen, Instant his little world grew large; As Georgie licked the batter bowl, The grand into the grander grew, That now he sees the world holds two, He sweeter, clearer sings anew, — "For such a worm as George!" TO THE GIRLS AND BOYS. Are you marching with the ages, Keeping of the times abreast? Are you helping on Right's mission? Let me urge you — do your best. Life is far too short and precious, As the years thus haste away, To be growling and complaining That things will not go your way! 61 CHILDREN Life is far too short and precious, To be croaking like a frog In the stagnant pool of summer, Perched upon his slimy log! Do not hang upon old coaches, Rather push the coach along; Crack your whip and shout, "Ho! onward!" Drive the wheels of Ri