LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 PS 3/57 
 
V 
 
.. SOME .. 
 
 HOMELY LITTLE SONGS 
 
 JAMES WATERHOUSE 
 
 \ P R A ^7%. 
 or THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 THE WHITAKER & RAY CO. 
 
 (INCORPORATED) 
 
 1899 
 
Copyright, 1899 
 
 .. BY .. 
 
 ALFRED JAMES WATERHOXJSE 
 
To one whose love has never varied my mother this 
 book of Homely Little Songs is dedicated. 
 
 
INDEX. 
 
 When Baby Prays 9 
 
 Bunner of 'Frisco 11 
 
 He Drifted 13 
 
 Now, Why Was This ? 15 
 
 When the Baby Died 17 
 
 / Nighttime in California 19 
 
 O'er the Sea of Dreams 23 
 
 When I Went Out A-Harvesting 24 
 
 Arcady 27 
 
 Lo, I Am the Changeless 29 
 
 When Pa Firs' Et Tabasco Sauce 31 
 
 When Uncle Jabez Come 34 
 
 " I Plead Thy Love " 37 
 
 How the Flowers Grow 38 
 
 Hey There, Little Girls 40 
 
 The Teacher Knows 43 
 
 Swing Low, Stars. 45 
 
 WhenMother Called 47 
 
 Two Prayers 49 
 
 Save Your Letters 52 
 
 It's Christmas Time 54 
 
 "HisLife A Failure" 56 
 
 'Tis the Secret of Youth 58 
 
 Jim Was Peculiar 60 
 
 Deuce Take Philosophy ! 62 
 
 Out in the Mountains. 64 
 
 My Little Mother's Prayer 67 
 
INDEX. 
 
 As the Years Go By 70 
 
 My Daughter's Priscilla 72 
 
 At the Bottom of the Sea 74 
 
 Little White Sister..... 77 
 
 The Schoolgirl Tbat I Hated 81 
 
 If Dreams Were Gold 85 
 
 When the Stars Sleep 87 
 
 In the City, the City 89 
 
 City and Country Ways 91 
 
 The Olden Days, The Golden Days 94 
 
 To the Pioneers that Remain 97 
 
 A Little, Little Fellow 99 
 
 Who Knew This Man ? 102 
 
 The Boys of the Country Press 104 
 
 We Shall Rest Sweetly 106 
 
 I Judged He Was Right 108 
 
 A Song for the Little Chaps 110 
 
 We Weary of it All 112 
 
 A Lullaby 114 
 
 It is Well to Remember 116 
 
 Waiting for Santa Glaus 117 
 
 As I Would Believe 120 
 
 As I Lie Here and Dream 122 
 
 A Song for the Under Dog 124 
 
 What is the Dream in my Baby's Eyes ? 127 
 
 My Grandsire's ' ' Let Us Pray " 129 
 
 When Wheat is Worth a Dollar 133 
 
 The Land Where Our Dreams Come True 136 
 
 Here's to the Man Who Rises Again 138 
 
 Her Faith Never Falters 140 
 
 When I Go Out on My Wheel 142 
 
INDEX. 
 
 A Song for the Rank and File 144 
 
 Hushaby, Lullaby , 147 
 
 In Our Land of California 149 
 
 Reach Down from Your Heaven 152 
 
 The Poor Little Birdies 154 
 
 The Brook That Ran Down to the Mill 156 
 
 As We Jog On Together 158 
 
 "My Brother 11 Be All Right" 160 
 
 Knee-deep in Clover 164 
 
 Tenderly Take and Hold Them 166 
 
 When the Old Man Dreamed 168 
 
 " I'm Praying for You " 173 
 
 The Old, Old Song 175 
 
 
/ ^ OF THE" 
 ( UNIVERSITY 
 
 x,^ 
 
 Some "foomel? TLlttte Songe, 
 
 WHEN BABY PRAYS. 
 
 11 THEN baby by her crib at night 
 
 Enfolds her little hands to pray 
 Dear little hands so soft and white, 
 I listen while the sweet lips say: 
 " Now I 'ay me down to s'eep, 
 I p'ay the Lord my soul to teep;" 
 And, listening, years are backward rolled; 
 The past is as a tale untold. 
 
 And, standing by my mother mild 
 
 Dear mother, with your hair of white 
 Again I am a little child, y, 
 
 And say again, as y ester night: 
 " If I s'ould die before I wate, 
 I pa'y the Lord my soul to tate;" 
 And half it seems in baby's plea 
 The olden faith comes back to me. 
 
10 WHEN BABY PRAYS. 
 
 Ah me! I know my faith is but 
 
 A phantom of the long ago; 
 Yet, when my babe, with eyelids shut, 
 Repeats the words I used to know: 
 " Now I 'ay me down to s'eep, 
 I p'ay the Lord my soul to teep," 
 Someway, someway, the world-doubts flee; 
 The old, sweet faith comes back to me. 
 
 It comes again, the old, sweet faith; 
 
 It is my own, it is my own, 
 And doubt has fled, the gloomy wraith, 
 Before a baby's words alone: 
 
 " If I s'ould die before I wate, 
 I p'ay the Lord my soul to tate." 
 So, for a baby's lisping plea, 
 My thanks, dear Lord, my thanks to Thee. 
 
BUNKER OF 'FRISCO. II 
 
 BUNNER OF 'FRISCO. 
 
 T3UNNER of 'Frisco knew him well; 
 *-^ Queer little chap as ever you met; 
 Always insistin' that war was hell 
 
 " Regular Hades it is, you bet" 
 When there resounded the call " To Arms ! " 
 
 Bunner of 'Frisco was first to go; 
 Sailed to the field of death and alarms, 
 
 Always remarking " It's hell, you know." 
 
 Bunner of 'Frisco once a squad 
 
 Got where the " gugus " were fifty to one. 
 Wholly surrounded, their summons to God 
 
 Came with each crack of a savage's gun. 
 " Boys," said the sergeant, " one, you know, 
 
 Must go to the captain our case to tell. 
 Probably death for him who will go?" 
 
 " I will," says Bunner, " but war is hell." 
 
 Bunner of 'Frisco up the hill, 
 While demons yelled, and over its crest; 
 
 And the bullets sung, and their song was shrill- 
 Now, Bunner of 'Frisco, now do your best! 
 
12 BUNNER OF 'FRISCO. 
 
 He did it, by Heaven ! On and on, 
 Into the river where missiles hailed; 
 
 Wounded and staggering, growing wan, 
 Never a moment he halted or quailed. 
 
 Bunner of 'Frisco into the camp, 
 
 Gory and dying, he staggered, they say, 
 Wiped from his forehead the ultimate damp, 
 
 Delivered his message and fainted away. 
 He spoke once again : " The boys will be 
 saved " 
 
 Slowly the words from his ashen lips fell; 
 Turned his dim eyes to where the flag waved 
 
 " The boys will be saved, but war war is 
 hell." 
 
 Bunner of 'Frisco, I don't know 
 
 Whither you journey, or where you drift, 
 Past where the life-tides ebb and flow, 
 
 There where the waves of Eternity shift; 
 But one thing I know, or I think I do, 
 
 You followed your duty through pain and woe, 
 And I judge, in the place that was kept for you, 
 
 You never will murmur, " It's hell, you know." 
 
HE DRIFTED. 13 
 
 HE DRIFTED. 
 
 T T E drifted along on the river of life 
 
 Just drifted 
 
 When the current grew sullen, and weary the 
 strife, 
 
 He shifted. 
 
 He would sit on a box in the glint o' the sun 
 An' whittle up sticks around, one after one. 
 With plenty to do an' with little yet done, 
 
 He drifted. 
 
 With a talent for restin' this ease-takin' man 
 
 Was gifted, 
 
 Though he'd fish from a bank where a slow river 
 ran, 
 
 Or shifted. 
 For he said that to labor was too much like 
 
 work, 
 
 An' he guessed he could live and the hard strug- 
 gles shirk, 
 
 An' he 'lowed that old Fortune's best smile is a 
 smirk 
 
 So he drifted. 
 
14 HE DRIFTED. 
 
 When the messenger came and beckoned him on 
 
 He drifted 
 
 Through the door in the mist which the death 
 angel wan 
 
 Uplifted; 
 
 An' if he reached Heaven I'm here to suggest 
 In the shade of the throne he is takin' a rest, 
 An' wonderin' if harp-bangin' can't be sup- 
 pressed 
 
 Where he's drifted. 
 
NOW, WHY WAS THISf 15 
 
 NOW, WHY WAS THIS? 
 
 \\7 HEN the baby came he was homely as sin, 
 * * With a very bald pate and a very weak 
 
 chin, 
 
 With gums that were toothless and watery eyes, 
 A nose like a blur and a talent for cries; 
 And the women all said as he wriggled and 
 
 scowled 
 And puckered and twisted and bellowed and 
 
 howled 
 
 They said as they viewed him with critical eye: 
 " He's just like his father. Now, isn't he? My! 
 
 Why-y-y! 
 You can see the resemblance with half of an eye." 
 
 As the baby grew he was ugly some days, 
 With a strong inclination a hubbub to raise; 
 That his temper was grievous was plain to be 
 
 seen, 
 And with squalling and bawling he kept himself 
 
 lean. 
 
1 6 NOW, WHY WAS THIS? 
 
 He howled till his mouth wore a permanent 
 
 twist, 
 
 And the pleasure of living he constantly missed; 
 And when he yelled loudest the women would 
 
 cry: 
 " He favors his father. Now, doesn't he? My! 
 
 Why-y-y! 
 You can see the resemblance with half of an eye." 
 
 But a change was seen as the baby grew, 
 For his looks improved and his temper, too, 
 And his smiles chased the frowns and the scowls 
 
 away, 
 
 And the sunbeams loved in his dimples to play; 
 And I thought him sweet, in my fatherly pride, 
 As he toddled along on the floor at my side; 
 And then all the women who saw him would cry: 
 " He's just like his mother. Now, isn't he? My! 
 
 Why-y-y! 
 You can see the resemblance with half of an eye." 
 
WHEN THE BABY DIED. 17 
 
 WHEN THE BABY DIED. 
 
 T 17 HEN the baby died, so fair was she 
 
 * * Like a lily an angel had dropped for me 
 That I said to myself: " She is only asleep," 
 And I wondered that others would over her 
 
 weep; 
 
 And I stooped and kissed her, half dreaming she 
 Would open her blue eyes unto me, 
 And laugh again as on yesterday, 
 And dimple and croon in the dear old way 
 When the baby died. 
 
 When the baby died I could not weep, 
 And I said: " She is only asleep asleep. 
 She will wake ere long and I shall hear 
 The prattle I love beat on my ear." 
 And I smoothed all gently the golden hair, 
 And I would not believe she was otherwhere 
 As I cried, " My darling, look up and see!" 
 But only the night wind answered me 
 When the baby died. 
 
18 WHEN THE BABY DIED. 
 
 When the baby died sometimes I start 
 From a dream at night with a longing heart, 
 For I fancy I hear through the silence wide 
 A prattle of words from the babe that died. 
 Then my hands fall down, though they empty be, 
 For I know that my darling has gone from me, 
 And the night creeps into a somber day, 
 While my heart cries out: " Come back, I 
 pray" 
 
 Since the baby died. 
 
NIGHTTIME IN CALIFORNIA. 19 
 
 NIGHTTIME IN CALIFORNIA. 
 
 IGHTTIME in California. There's noth- 
 
 N 
 
 * ^ ing like it found, 
 
 Though to and fro you come and go and journey 
 
 earth around. 
 The skies are like a crystal sea, with islands made 
 
 of stars; 
 The moon's a fairy ship that sails among its 
 
 shoals and bars; 
 And on that sea I sit and look, and wonder 
 
 where it ends; 
 If I shall sail its phantom wave, and where the 
 
 journey tends, 
 
 And if in vain I wonder; let's change the sol- 
 emn theme, 
 For the nights of California were made for man 
 
 to dream. 
 
20 NIGHTTIME IN CALIFORNIA. 
 
 Nighttime in California. The cricket's note is 
 heard, 
 
 And now, perhaps, the twitter of a drowsy, 
 dreaming bird. 
 
 An oar is plashing yonder; the wakeful frogs re- 
 ply. 
 
 The breeze is chanting in the trees a ghostly lull- 
 aby. 
 
 The moon has touched with silver the peaceful, 
 sleeping world, 
 
 And in the weary soul of man the flag of sor- 
 row's furled. 
 
 'Tis a time for smiles and music; 'tis a time for 
 love divine, 
 
 For the nights of California are Heav'n this side 
 the line. 
 
NIGHTTIME IN CALIFORNIA. 21 
 
 Nighttime in California. Elsewhere men only 
 guess 
 
 At the glory of the evenings that are perfect 
 nothing less; 
 
 But here the nights, returning, are the wondrous 
 gifts of God 
 
 As if the days were maidens fair with golden slip- 
 pers shod. 
 
 There is no cloud to hide the sky; the universe is 
 ours, 
 
 And the starlight likes to look and laugh in Cu- 
 pid-haunted bowers. 
 
 Oh, the restful, peaceful evenings! In them my 
 soul delights, 
 
 For God loved California when He gave to her 
 her nights. 
 
22 O'ER THE SEA OF DREAMS. 
 
 O'ER THE SEA OF DREAMS. 
 
 R the sea of dreams to the sweet Dream- 
 
 land 
 
 Oh, little my love, come hither, I pray, 
 And place in my own your wee white hand 
 
 And we will go sailing away, away, 
 Down a path of gold by the Isles of Rest, 
 O'er the slumbrous depths of the Sundown 
 
 Sea, 
 
 To the land of lands that we love the best, 
 Where dream angels whisper to you and to me. 
 
 O'er the sea of dreams oh, little my love, 
 
 Closer yet creep to this heart of mine, 
 While lowly the dream angels hover above 
 
 And there in God's meadows the star-blossoms 
 
 shine. 
 Under your eyelids the visions shall creep. 
 
 Little one, little one, what shall they be? 
 Something to cause you to smile in your sleep, 
 
 Nestling yet closer and closer to me. 
 
O'ER THE SEA OF DREAMS. 
 
 O'er the sea of dreams to the sweet Dreamland 
 
 Oh, little my love, what dreams they must be, 
 Such dreams as a baby may understand, 
 
 Queer little fancies, as all must agree, 
 Little half notions, or foolish or wise, 
 
 Wee floating fragments of babyhood lore; 
 These are your dreams, as I sagely surmise 
 
 Heigh-ho, my little one, what are mine more? 
 
 O'er the sea of dreams; and who's at the helm, 
 
 Oh, little my love, nor you nor I 
 May wisely tell, for the sleep king's realm 
 
 Is hidden by mists from the passers-by. 
 It is hidden by mists, yet myself I tell, 
 
 While your eyelids flutter like petals of white: 
 The One who is guiding will guide her well 
 
 So, little my love, good night, good night. 
 
24 WHEN I WENT OUT A-HARVESTING. 
 
 WHEN I WENT OUT A-HARVESTING. 
 
 T T'S well enough to talk about the joys the 
 
 farmers know 
 Perhaps 'twill sort of brace them up to grapple 
 
 with their woe; 
 It's well to sing a paean to the sturdy sons of 
 
 toil 
 Who labor 'neath a summer sun and boil and 
 
 broil and boil; 
 But you'll kindly please to notice I'm not joining 
 
 in the strain, 
 For my farming recollections bring ' to me a 
 
 sense of pain, 
 And the horny-handed granger's life to me is 
 
 lacking charm 
 
 Since I went out a-harvesting on Deacon Big- 
 gins' farm. 
 
WHEN I WENT OUT A-HARVESTING- 25 
 
 I was young and somewhat hopeful, and the dea- 
 con said he'd pay 
 
 A dollar for my services on any blessed day. 
 
 So I went to labor for him. The recollection 
 still 
 
 Of what ensued is haunting me; I judge it ever 
 will 
 
 For when the deacon called me in the morn at 
 half past three 
 
 To rustle out and do the chores, it was a shock 
 to me; 
 
 And I longed to kill the cattle or to do them 
 other harm, 
 
 When I went out a-harvesting on Deacon Big- 
 gins' farm. 
 
 At half past five was breakfast, and then came 
 
 family prayers. 
 I still recall the good man's words, 'mid all life's 
 
 cumbering cares: 
 " We praise Thee, Lord," he murmured, " for 
 
 Thy mercy's constant streams 
 Now, boys, get out and hustle till you've hitched 
 
 up all the teams." 
 
26 WHEN I WENT OUT A-H ARRESTING. 
 
 And we got out and hustled, and the words we 
 bandied there, 
 
 While hitching up the weary teams, were not the 
 words of prayer, 
 
 For we judged the deacon's righteousness would 
 keep us from all harm, 
 
 When I went out a-harvesting on Deacon Big- 
 gins' farm. 
 
 Oh, days of weary labor by an awful hotness hit! 
 
 Did I enjoy a farmer's bliss? Well, I am doubt- 
 ing it. 
 
 From half past three of mornings till ten o'clock 
 of nights, 
 
 We toiled and broiled and broiled and toiled and 
 knew the farm's delights; 
 
 And still at times I hear these words and wake 
 from restless dreams: 
 
 " We praise Thee for Thy mercy and now hus- 
 tle out the teams." 
 
 And so I am not singing in praise of farming's 
 charm, 
 
 Since I went out a-harvesting on Deacon Big- 
 gins' farm. 
 
ARCADY. 27 
 
 ARCADY. 
 
 < /~"\UT yonder," she would say to me, 
 
 ^~^^ " Lies Heaven-land, lies Arcady. 
 Just yonder where the blue skies drop 
 Beyond the distant mountain's top, 
 The valley lies where all are blest; 
 The land of love and peace and rest. 
 Oh, let us go," she said to me, 
 " And find that land of Arcady." 
 
 And so we wandered hand in hand 
 To find that peaceful, happy land; 
 (Ah, that was years, long years ago, 
 And we were dreamers well I know), 
 But though we wandered long and far, 
 From morning star to evening star, 
 Yet did the happy vision flee; 
 We found not lovely Arcady. 
 
28 ARCADY. 
 
 And then she wearied on the way, 
 More wistful grew her eyes of gray. 
 (Ah, dark, sad day of long ago, 
 How did my tears unceasing flow!) 
 One long, long kiss one last embrace 
 The Angel's message on her face, 
 And then she passed from life and me 
 And found, I know, her Arcady. 
 
 Since then, I've wandered far and long, 
 Have seen the world and met its wrong; 
 I've sought in vain the land of peace, 
 The land where care and trouble cease. 
 'Twas but the vision of our youth 
 The years have taught their bitter truth 
 Yet still in dreams she whispers me, 
 " We'll meet and love in Arcady." 
 
LO, I AM THE CHANGELESS. 29 
 
 LO, I AM THE CHANGELESS. 
 
 LO, I am the Changeless, the Deathless. 
 Lo, I am the Passionless, Still. 
 In my presence archangels are breathless, 
 
 And the universe throbs at my will. 
 I wait, and the ages flit by me. 
 I wait, and their story is told. 
 All of life and of death hovers nigh me, 
 And I am the New and the Old. 
 
 In the dust of their definite places 
 
 My atoms, my men, they plod on; 
 And they lift to the heavens their faces, 
 
 Their faces all troubled and wan; 
 And they dream, and they term their dream, 
 living; 
 
 They dream, and their dream is, to die; 
 They dream they are gaining or giving 
 
 And over them, changeless, am I. 
 
3 LO, I AM THE CHANGELESS. 
 
 They dream of the glitter of treasure 
 
 I shatter the dream at my will. 
 They dance to the rhythm of pleasure 
 
 I nod, and the dancers are still. 
 They dream of the glory of power, 
 
 My atomies born for a day. 
 Ay, the visions press fast for an hour 
 
 I nod, and the dreamers obey. 
 
 Lo, I am the Changeless, the Deathless. 
 
 All other shall blossom and fade. 
 I speak, and the ages are breathless, 
 
 And the drama of living is played. 
 And whether the sleepers shall waken, 
 
 Or whether they dream as they lie, 
 Unheeding, uncaring, unshaken, 
 
 None other may answer save I. 
 
WHEN PA FIRS' ET TABASCO SAUCE. 3 1 
 
 WHEN PA FIRS' ET TABASCO SAUCE. 
 
 HEN pa firs' et tabasco sauce I'm smil- 
 
 w 
 
 in' 'bout it yet, 
 
 Although his subsekent remarks I always shall 
 regret. 
 
 We'd come to town to see the sights, an' pa re- 
 marked to me: 
 
 " We'll eat at a bong tong hotel an' sling some 
 style," says he. 
 
 An' then he sort o' cast his eye among the plates 
 an' all, 
 
 An' says, " That ketchup mus' be good; the bot- 
 tle is so small;" 
 
 An' then he took a piece of meat an' covered it 
 quite thick, 
 
 When pa firs' et tabasco sauce an' rose to make 
 his kick. 
 
32 WHEN PA FIRS' ET TABASCO SAUCE. 
 
 It all comes back so plain to me; I rikollect it 
 
 well; 
 He just was talkin' mild an' calm, an' then he 
 
 give a yell 
 An' tried to cave the ceilin' in by buttin' with his 
 
 head. 
 "Er-hooh! Er-hooh! Fire! Murder! Hooh! " I 
 
 can't tell all he said, 
 
 But when they heard his heated words six wo- 
 men lef the room 
 An' said such language filled their souls with 
 
 shame an' also gloom, 
 But pa he only gurgled some, an' then he yelled 
 
 again, 
 When firs' he et tabasco sauce an' told about it 
 
 then. 
 
 We laid him out upon a board an' fanned him 
 
 quite a while, 
 An' pa he sort o' gasped at firs' an' then he tried 
 
 to smile, 
 An' says: "Jus' heat a poker now an' run it 
 
 down my neck 
 I want to cool off gradual; it's better, I expeck." 
 
WHEN PA FIRS' ET TABASCO SAUCE. 33 
 
 But when he got me out o' doors, he says: " I 
 
 want to get 
 Thet there blame ketchup's recipe an' learn jes' 
 
 how it's het, 
 So I can try it on the boys when you an' me git 
 
 ^hum, 
 Till they, too, think the condiment is mixed with 
 
 Kingdom Come." 
 
 I've told the story, but I guess perhaps I 
 
 oughtn't to, 
 Fer pa don't go with me no more, the way he 
 
 used to do. 
 He said some words, of course I know, that were 
 
 too sizzlin' hot, 
 But still I hope up where he's gone they're all of 
 
 them forgot. 
 
 An' if they ain't per'aps my pa will to the an- 
 gels say: 
 " I wish you'd try that ketchup stuff I et down 
 
 there that day." 
 Of course I feel they can't approve, but I hope, 
 
 just the same, 
 If once they eat tabasco sauce they'll count him 
 
 less to blame. 
 
34 WHEN UNCLE JABEZ COME. 
 
 WHEN UNCLE JABEZ COME. 
 
 T 1 THEN Uncle Jabez come to see my folks 
 
 an' me out here, 
 Where California's summers keep a-lingerin' 
 
 through the year, 
 He kind o' took one look around, an' then he 
 
 says, " Amen " 
 
 The poppies shone like fields of gold he whis- 
 pered it again; 
 An' when I asked him why, he says : " Sech 
 
 glory everywhere! 
 Yew knew, my boy, it seems tew me jest like 
 
 ole natur's prayer;" 
 And then he kind o' sighed, an' says : " I wish 
 
 yew'd tell, I vum, 
 Just haow yew folks what's livin' here can tell 
 
 when winter's come." 
 
WHEN UNCLE JABEZ COME. 35 
 
 I showed him where the mountains glow like 
 
 fields by angels trod, 
 An' how the rose keeps smilin* back unto the 
 
 smile o' God, 
 An' how the rivers sparkle on without no ice to 
 
 chill, 
 
 An' how the birds with all their songs keep na- 
 ture all a-thrill; 
 An' he, he just stood there and breathed as 
 
 though the air was dear, 
 An' says: " Ef this is heaven well, say haow 
 
 did I git here? 
 We don't hev things like this back East; it ain't 
 
 the same tew hum. 
 Haow in tarnation dew yew tell when winter 
 
 time hes come?" 
 
 I showed him pumpkins overgrown. He looked, 
 
 an' says : " B* gosh, 
 Yew call that thing a punkin here? Back hum 
 
 we call it squash." 
 An' where the orange hides its gold behind a 
 
 screen of green 
 He looked, an' sighed, an' softly said: " Ef 
 
 mother could o' seen!" 
 
WHEN UNCLE JABEZ COME. 
 
 An' then he brushed a tear away she died not 
 
 long ago 
 An' the mockin' bird was whistlin' a tender song, 
 
 an' low; 
 An' then he sort o' straightened up, an' says, 
 
 says he: "I vum, 
 I can't see haow yew people know when winter 
 
 time hes come." 
 
 So Uncle Jabez, he's arranged to stay out here, 
 
 you know; 
 He says he kind o' calkerlates 'twill make him 
 
 younger grow 
 To live awhile where man is close to nature's 
 
 lovin' heart 
 An' God A'mighty an' His child is not so far 
 
 apart; 
 An' then he says: "An' ef I die, the diff'rence 
 
 will be small; 
 Tew go from here tew Heav'n I guess won't be 
 
 no jump at all." 
 But when we're all alone he says: " I vaow, I'm 
 
 puzzled some 
 Tew calkerlate how I can tell jest when the win- 
 
 ter's come." 
 
'/ PLEAD THY LOVE. 
 
 " I PLEAD THY LOVE." 
 
 T F I should go to-night where One doth sit 
 
 Upon a great and white and awful throne; 
 If back from me the mists of time should flit, 
 
 Leaving my soul and me to stand alone 
 In that vast presence, and if He should say: 
 " What is thy plea, poor soul, for peace 
 
 above?" 
 
 I would not then, despairing, turn away, 
 But low would answer: " Lord, I plead Thy 
 love." 
 
 I could not plead my merit. Nay, my way 
 
 Is strewn with wrack of faith and hope and 
 
 trust. 
 
 Life's dawn broke golden, but its eve growt 
 gray, 
 
 And sin has turned its flowers to yellow dust. 
 Yet, as a wayward child turns home at night, 
 
 Trusting the love all other loves above, 
 So will I turn, well knowing all is right, 
 
 As low I whisper: " Lord, I plead Thy love." 
 
38 HOW THE FLOWERS GROW. 
 
 HOW THE FLOWERS GROW. 
 
 O you know, darling, how pansies grow? 
 
 God takes the tints of the sunset glow, 
 The purple that floats in the mountain mist, 
 The blush of a maid by her love first kissed, 
 The blue that's asleep in the midday skies, 
 The brown that I love in my baby's eyes, 
 And He mingles them all in a flower; and so, 
 That is the way that the pansies grow. 
 
 Do you know, darling, how lilies grow? 
 God takes the soul of the beautiful snow 
 And molds it into a chalice sweet, 
 Pure and wonderful, fair, complete; 
 Then He takes the gold of my baby's hair 
 And sets it amid the whiteness there, 
 As in night's white skies the bright stars glow; 
 And that is the way that the lilies grow. 
 
HOW THE FLOWERS GROW. 39 
 
 Do you know, darling, how roses grow? 
 Ah, that is the strangest of all, I know; 
 For they are the fairest of all things fair, 
 The one perfect blossom, beyond compare; 
 Symbol of sweetness and all loveliness 
 God wished His children to comfort and bless, 
 And He wrote the thought in a flower; and so, 
 That is the way that the roses grow. 
 
40 HEY THERE, LITTLE GIRLS. 
 
 HEY THERE, LITTLE GIRLS. 
 
 T T EY there, little girls, who live in the West, 
 And were born here, you know, 'cause you 
 
 thought it was best, 
 
 Have you ever heard tell of the wonderful East, 
 Where the frost makes of little girls' noses a 
 
 feast, 
 Where the snowbirds wear stockings to warm 
 
 their poor toes, 
 
 And perhaps it's your finger, perhaps it's your 
 nose 
 
 That is frozen, you know, 
 And your tears won't flow, 
 
 For they freeze into ice in your eyes? Oh! Ohl 
 Have you ever heard tell? 
 You haven't? Well! Well! 
 Now listen to me, and you'll know, know, know. 
 
HEY THERE, LITTLE GIRLb. 
 
 Hey there, little girls, you'll be 'stonished to 
 
 know 
 
 That back in the East the rain is just snow; 
 And the poor little kitties all have to wear fur, 
 And their breath freezes hard whenever they 
 
 purr, 
 
 And if the dogs bark, that bark it will freeze, 
 And they use it, you know, to cover the trees, 
 
 And instead of "Hello!" 
 
 Meeting, folks say, " I know 
 That my ears both are frozen; they're frozen. 
 Oh! Oh!" 
 
 Had you ever heard tell? 
 
 You hadn't? Well! Well! 
 It really is time you should know, know, know. 
 
 Hey there, little girls, have you ever heard tell 
 How they hang their thermometers out in the 
 
 well, 
 And the mercury drops, and it drops, and it 
 
 drops, 
 'Till it reaches the water, and that's where it 
 
 stops; 
 
42 HEY THERE, LITTLE GIRLS. 
 
 And they thaw little girls it's a terrible shock! 
 And melt them each day at just four o'clock. 
 
 And the chilblains, you know, 
 
 They bite at your toe 
 Till it itches, and itches, and itches? Oh! Oh! 
 
 Did you ever hear tell? 
 
 You didn't? Well! Well! 
 I'm really so glad now you know, know, know. 
 
 Hey there, little girls; the cyclones blow there, 
 And they take little children right up in the air, 
 And they twist them and whirl them around and 
 
 around 
 Till their papas don't know them, supposing 
 
 they're found; 
 And sometimes they blow them clear up to the 
 
 sky, 
 
 And they never come back again ! Never! Oh, my! 
 Would you like East to go? 
 You wouldn't, I know, 
 
 For I've tried it myself, and it's dreadful. Oh ! Oh ! 
 So you hadn't heard tell? 
 You hadn't? Well! Well! 
 
 It was certainly time you should know, know, 
 know. 
 
THE TEACHER KNOWS. 43 
 
 THE TEACHER KNOWS. 
 
 NE time my teacher said, says she: 
 " It's no use talkin'; seems to me 
 
 That you're the worst boy that I've got; 
 
 You're worser than the rest, a lot. 
 
 I've whipped you, an' I've scolded, too; 
 
 Don't make no difference what I do; 
 
 You keep right on jus' if I'd not. 
 
 Ain't you the worst boy that I've got? " 
 
 An' then my teacher said, says she: 
 " Your case is always puzzlin' me. 
 Now don't you know it hurts me, too, 
 When scoldin' or a whippin' you? 
 I always want you to be good 
 An' actin' like a nice boy should, 
 Because I love you "Then she sighed, 
 An' I I well, I up an' cried. 
 
44 THE TEACHER KNOWS. 
 
 Since then my teacher's gone away, 
 An' I don't go to school an' play 
 An' study some, 's I used to do 
 Before my schoolin' days was through. 
 But still my Teacher says, says He: 
 " I'm teachin' you as seems to me 
 Is best; with sorrow's sting an' blow 
 I'm teachin' you the way to go." 
 
 An' then my Teacher says, says He: 
 
 " If only you'll look up to me 
 
 Through eyes bedimmed with trouble's rain, 
 
 You'll learn the lesson hid in pain, 
 
 An' know, though cruel seems the blow, 
 
 'Twas dealt because I love you so." 
 
 An', though I'm weary an' oppressed, 
 
 I guess my Teacher knows the best. 
 
SWING LOW, STARS. 45 
 
 SWING LOW, STARS. 
 
 OWING low, stars, for I want to hear your 
 ^ singing. 
 
 I want to hear the slumber song you murmur 
 
 to the night 
 In the distant, distant spaces where an angel 
 
 host is winging 
 Its way between the moonbeams to the farther 
 
 fields of light. 
 The daytime has its voices, but a cry is ringing 
 
 through them, 
 The weary cry of sorrow, the cruel cry of 
 
 wrong, 
 And we look upon God's sunlight in anguish to 
 
 renew them 
 Swing low, stars, for I want to hear your song. 
 
 Sleep sleep 
 
 Sleep sleep; 
 Better dream than wake to weep. 
 
 Care and doubt 
 
 May mortals flout 
 When the stars, the stars creep out. 
 
46 SWING LOW, STARS. 
 
 Swing low, stars, for I've been dreaming, dream- 
 ing 
 That up above the crystal heights is peace and 
 
 always peace, 
 And I'm burdened by the toiling, and I'm weary 
 
 of the scheming, 
 And I'd like to find a country where the care 
 
 and labor cease. 
 The days are full of effort, but the tranquil nights 
 
 are tender 
 As the eyes of one who loved me well, oh, long 
 
 ago, so long; 
 So I turn from pain and passion to the nights of 
 
 peaceful splendor 
 Swing low, stars, for I want to hear your song. 
 
 Rest rest- 
 Children, rest; 
 
 Care is but a daytime guest. 
 None should weep 
 Children, sleep 
 
 While the stars their vigils keep. 
 
WHEN MOTHER CALLED. 47 
 
 WHEN MOTHER CALLED. 
 
 A /T OTHER used to come and say: 
 1VX Come, little boy, it's time to rise. 
 Wake right up, without delay; 
 
 Shake yourself and rub your eyes." 
 An' I'd say: " Huh! Wha Ye-e-es," and then- 
 Go right off to sleep again. 
 
 After while she'd come and say, 
 
 Just as gently as before: 
 " Wake and see this lovely day. 
 
 Don't go to sleep, dear, any more." 
 An' I'd say: "Yes I'm coming;" then 
 Go right off to sleep again. 
 
 Didn't matter though; no less 
 
 Patient, gentle, kind was she 
 When she came and said: " I guess 
 
 My little boy asleep must be." 
 An' I said: " I'll get up," and then 
 Went right off to sleep again. 
 
48 WHEN MOTHER CALLED. 
 
 Then my grandpa came to call. 
 
 'Twas but little that he said; 
 Just one word, and that was all, 
 
 Just one word, and that, " A\-fred ! " 
 Just one word, you see, but then 
 I didn't go to sleep again. 
 
 Just that difference! But, you see, 
 I've been thinking here alone, 
 
 Should my mother now call me 
 In the tender, gentle tone 
 
 Of the past, I'd wake, and then 
 
 I wouldn't go to sleep again. 
 
TWO PRAYERS. 49 
 
 TWO PRAYERS. 
 
 /^REAT God, 'tis not for soul or heart 
 
 I plead with thee; 
 Nor that I act a nobler part, 
 
 Or better be; 
 'Tis not that I erect may stand 
 
 While life-dreams crash, 
 Nor that I reach a helping hand, 
 
 But just for cash. 
 
 Lord, give me cash ; I fain would be 
 
 Like all the rest; 
 No other god than red gold see, 
 
 But hold it best. 
 I'd barter honor, virtue, good 
 
 That life may hold, 
 And make my higher nature's food 
 
 Just gold gold gold. 
 
50 TWO PRAYERS. 
 
 The sorry sting of other's pain 
 
 I would not know, 
 For callous hearts may hope for gain 
 
 In coin; and so 
 I'd bury sympathy for all 
 
 And hug myself, 
 Engrossed in my ambitions small, 
 
 My greed for pelf. 
 
 So, Father, kill my better part 
 
 That I may be 
 Devoid of feeling and of heart 
 
 As those I see 
 About me, callous to the woe 
 
 That hems them in; 
 Let me no care for others know, 
 
 But lucre win. 
 
 I knew a millionaire, and he 
 
 Was praised of men; 
 O'er petty, small, he seemed to me, 
 
 And base, but then, 
 He had his gold and people bowed, 
 
 Or feared his lash. 
 I'd have the plaudits of the crowd, 
 
 So give me cash. 
 
TWO PRAYERS. 51 
 
 So runs the prayer. But 'tis not mine 
 
 Dear God, forbid! 
 For I have felt Thy thought divine 
 
 In me is hid; 
 I know that o'er the petty throng 
 
 There stands Thy Truth, 
 The principle that combats wrong, 
 
 Drea*^ of my youth. 
 
 It stands unmoved. Our little lives 
 
 Wail out their song; 
 Ill-seeming greed in fatness thrives, 
 
 But not for long; 
 For still Thy Truth moves changeless on 
 
 Through time's long day, 
 And still shall rule when stars grow wan 
 
 Show me Thy way. 
 
52 SAVE YOUR LETTERS. 
 
 SAVE YOUR LETTERS. 
 
 E here, you little fellows, whom I cannot 
 
 help but like, 
 Why don't you save your letters, and so get 
 
 yourselves a bike ? 
 Or if you do not know the way, or think I talk 
 
 in fun, 
 
 If you'll listen for a moment, I will tell you how 
 it's done: 
 
 Spell " rubber " r-u-b-e-r, and there you save a 
 
 . "b," 
 And that's a letter that you need, as any one can 
 
 see. 
 Then next spell " lief " just 1-e-f, and I've no 
 
 doubt you'll like 
 To notice that you now have saved b-i, one-half 
 
 of bike. 
 
SA VE YOUR LETTERS. 53 
 
 And then spell "stick" s-t-i-c; you've saved a 
 
 " k," you see, 
 
 And b-i-k is not so bad; it only lacks an " e;" 
 And we know how to save an " e;" we'll take the 
 
 small word " dike " 
 And spell it simply d-i-k, and there! You have 
 
 your bike! 
 
 So now, my little fellows, whom I could not fail 
 to like, 
 
 Start in to save your letters, and so get your- 
 selves a bike. 
 
 And, if your ingenuity is not exceeding small, 
 
 I think, no doubt, you, too, can save some mar- 
 bles and a ball. 
 
54 IT'S CHRISTMAS TIME. 
 
 IT'S CHRISTMAS TIME. 
 
 T T'S Christmas time; it's Christmas time. 
 Let Christmas bells ring out their chime; 
 Let Christmas fairies trip along, 
 A merry, maddening, gladdening throng; 
 Let Christmas blessings bring their bliss; 
 Let Christmas angels stoop and kiss 
 The world's gray heart to tuneful rhyme, 
 For, oh, it's Christmas, Christmas time. 
 
 It's Christmas time, both East and West, 
 But there the earth is crystal dressed, 
 While here its robes are bonnie green, 
 With brooks as silver threads between. 
 Cold winter there, bright winter here; 
 For them the frost, for us the cheer; 
 But East or West, to live's sublime 
 In merry, merry Christmas time. 
 
UNIVERSITY ) 
 
 IT'S C&XISTMAS TIME. 55 
 
 In Christmas time, or far or near, 
 There's just one creed: Be of good cheer. 
 There's just one song that rings again: 
 Peace, peace on earth; good will to men. 
 On this one day let's care forget, 
 The grief we know, the ill we met, 
 And let the bells ring chime on chime, 
 In Christmas time, the merry time. 
 
56 "//AS LIFE A FAILURE." 
 
 " HIS LIFE A FAILURE." 
 
 T T E had no " business tact;" 'tis plain enough. 
 * -* He stored no gold while on his earthly 
 
 way; 
 111 clad was he, with garments worn and rough; 
 
 Scarce knowing how he'd live from day to day. 
 Improvident! His little all he gave 
 
 To those who needed; poor, yet fed the poor, 
 And still neglected for himself to save. 
 
 Unhoused, unkempt, they voted him a boor 
 No tact had he! 
 
 No wisdom, surely! Why, the vagrant dared 
 
 To lift his voice 'gainst rulers of the State. 
 Not e'en the church God save us all ! he 
 
 spared, 
 But scourged alike earth's sainted and her 
 
 great. 
 To save a sinner, he, unwise, would say 
 
 That you must touch him with a tender hand; 
 Must touch the wretch of coarser, baser clay! 
 Say, when was e'er a scheme so foolish 
 planned? 
 
 No wisdom his! 
 
"HIS LIFE A FAILURE." 57 
 
 Fanatic, too! He held a strange belief 
 That man might reach to heights as yet but 
 
 guessed; 
 
 And, hoping much, he walked a path of grief 
 That they who falter might the more be 
 
 blessed. 
 Aye, thus he dreamed; who doubts the dream 
 
 was vain? 
 
 And thus he lived; was e'er such folly known? 
 Why, when he died, still scouting golden gain, 
 His grave was bought by charity alone! 
 So unwise, he! 
 
 " His life a failure! " So I hear you say; 
 And who can doubt who looks on earth's suc- 
 cess, 
 Where gilded folly proudly wears the bay 
 
 And simpering millions haste some knave to 
 
 bless? 
 Fanatic! Yes, according to your rule. 
 
 Foolish! No doubt, in average mankind's 
 
 ken. 
 
 A teacher with one lesson for his school; 
 Impractical, with faith in love, but then 
 He was The Christ. 
 
'775 THE SECRET OF YOUTH, 
 
 'TIS THE SECRET OF YOUTH. 
 
 T IFE taught me her lesson; I hold it as truth 
 ^ a smile in the heart is the secret of 
 
 youth; 
 
 For age cannot harm him, nor do him a wrong, 
 Who whistles a bit as he journeys along. 
 The face must be wrinkled, the hair must be 
 
 gray, 
 But the heart may be young till the end of the 
 
 day, 
 
 For ever and ever there standeth the truth: 
 A smile in the heart is the secret of youth. 
 
 What matter the wrinkles, except they shall 
 
 frown? 
 What matters the silver where once was the 
 
 brown? 
 For still we may smile though the morning is 
 
 gone, 
 And the light of that smile is the light of the 
 
 dawn; 
 
'775 THE SECRET OF YOUTH. 59 
 
 And still as we whistle dull care to the wind, 
 There's a way out of trouble forever we find; 
 For the ages have told it; they whisper the truth 
 That a smile in the heart is the secret of youth. 
 
 The shoulders must stoop, but the spirit may 
 
 stand 
 
 Serene as the dawnlight that kisseth the land. 
 Old age cannot touch them, the years they defy, 
 Who smile as life's phantoms go scurrying by. 
 A sigh is Care's agent to wrinkles enroll, 
 And a frown is the curtain we drop o'er the soul; 
 But the spirit still whispers 'mid sorrow and ruth 
 That a smile in the heart is the secret of youth. 
 
60 JIM WAS PECULIAR. 
 
 JIM WAS PECULIAR. 
 
 JIM was peculiar. The "folks all said 
 They kind o' suspicioned he's queer in the 
 
 head. 
 
 He'd go moonin' along in an absentish way, 
 An' lots o' the time he had nothin' to say. 
 An' when he did talk there was no one could 
 
 know 
 The thing that he'd say, fer his thoughts seemed 
 
 to go 
 
 In a style o' their own, an' likely, maybe, 
 He'd set folks to thinkin', which hurts us, you 
 see. 
 
 Jim was peculiar. I rickolleck now 
 
 He of'en remarked that he couldn't see how 
 
 A hull million dollars could do a man good. 
 
 " Do you reckon," he'd say, " he can use it in 
 
 food, 
 
 Er drinkin', er housin', er wearin' of clothes? 
 Well, then, what's the good of it, land only 
 
 knows." 
 
 An' then he'd go moonin' and moonin' away, 
 An', " Jim is peculiar," the neighbors 'ud say. 
 
JIM WAS PECULIAR. 6 1 
 
 Jim was peculiar. The children allowed 
 There wasn't his ekal in all o' the crowd; 
 An' you'd see 'em a-smilin' when he was around 
 An' tellin' 'em stories frum flat on the ground, 
 An' their laughter would sound like notes from 
 
 the choir, 
 
 When the angels is singin' an' callin' us higher; 
 An' the folks, w'en they saw it and heered it, 
 
 would say: 
 " That Jim gits more queerer an' queerer each 
 
 day." 
 
 Jim was peculiar. The day when he lay 
 At home on his bed while his life ebbed away 
 He only remarked: "Well, so fer as I know 
 I've made a few happy; I'm ready to go." 
 An' the people all come to the funeral then, 
 An' they mos'ly shed tears at the final amen; 
 An' they carved on his monument merely this 
 
 word: 
 " Jim Jones was peculiar, an' so was his Lord." 
 
62 DEUCE TAKE PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 DEUCE TAKE PHILOSOPHY! 
 
 T~~\ EUCE take philosophy! I know a way 
 *^ Better by far than philosophers know. 
 Ho, all ye sages with heads turning gray, 
 
 What in the end is the thing you can show? 
 Is it some knowledge to tell of the how, 
 
 With ne'er a perception of wherefore and why? 
 What is the morrow? And what is the now? 
 
 And what is the change that we label, to die? 
 
 Deuce take philosophy! I know a spot 
 
 Where all of the wisdom of dust-covered tome 
 And its half-erudition availeth us not 
 'Tis the place where Love reigns in the king- 
 dom of Home. 
 
 And, oh, ye philosophers, there is a light, 
 The light shining forth from the eyes that I 
 
 love, 
 Which maketh your wisdom to seem as the 
 
 night, 
 So high its revealment your knowledge abore. 
 
DEUCE TAKE PHILOSOPHY. 6j 
 
 Deuce take philosophy! Hands that reach out 
 
 To bless me, caress me, and lighten the pain 
 That comes 'mid the shadows of care and of 
 doubt 
 
 To double my labor and deaden my brain, 
 Yours is the wisdom the sages have missed; 
 
 Yours is the substance, and theirs is the foam. 
 So I turn from the books to the ones who have 
 kissed 
 
 My lips into smiles in the kingdom of Home. 
 
64 OUT IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 OUT IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 T WANT to be out in the mountains; I'm tired 
 
 of staying here, 
 With only the everlasting plain outstretching far 
 
 or near; 
 
 I am weary of the city and the pavement's cease- 
 less glare, 
 And I want to be out where God's about and 
 
 His glory's everywhere; 
 I want to lie down on the hillside and dream as 
 
 'the white clouds pass, 
 With no one to tell me I'd better move on, or 
 
 warn me, " Keep off the grass;" 
 I just want a chance to breathe an air that's 
 
 never been boxed as yet; 
 Oh, I'd like to be free as the brown quails be, 
 
 with never a care to fret. 
 
OUT IN THE MOUNTAINS. 65 
 
 I want to be out in the mountains where there's 
 
 room for the soul to grow; 
 Where the brooks just laugh in their freedom, 
 
 and the hills in the evening glow. 
 With a rod or a gun as poor excuse, I'd lazily lie 
 
 and dream, 
 And " Trouble," I'd say, " may go its way; it 
 
 isn't a part of my scheme." 
 And the trout might leap in the sunlight for all 
 
 of my rod and me, 
 And the quail might whistle, the deer might run; 
 
 I'd leave them safe and free, 
 For someway I think in the mountains dear life 
 
 is too sweet to lose; 
 It is only down here, where we worry and fear, 
 
 that a creature to die might choose. 
 
66 OUT IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 I want to be out in the mountains where freedom 
 
 is not a name; 
 Where the soul is glad in its birthright, nor 
 
 walks with the halt and lame; 
 For peace is upon the summits, and liberty's in 
 
 the vales, 
 And the heart, oft sad, can only be glad in the 
 
 shadow-haunted dales. 
 
 With the birds trilling out in gladness, the flow- 
 ers like thoughts of God, 
 With the blue above and the green beneath, and 
 
 the blossom-sprinkled sod; 
 With rest, dear rest for the spirit through the 
 
 peaceful, peaceful year, 
 I want to be out in the mountains; I'm tired of 
 
 staying here. 
 
MY LITTLE MOTHER'S PR A YER. 
 
 MY LITTLE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 
 
 HE was just a little woman, not more than 
 
 five feet tall, 
 But she had a way of working that was bound 
 
 to beat them all. 
 She would work for me and sister, and her hands 
 
 were never still; 
 She just kept working, working, as I guess she 
 
 always will. 
 And all my aunts would say to her: " Now, 
 
 Julia, don't you know 
 You'll spoil them children sure as fate if you 
 
 keep workin' so 
 And don't let them do some of it." I s'pose my 
 
 aunts were right, 
 But still my sister wasn't spoiled, and p'r'aps I 
 
 wasn't quite. 
 
68 MY LITTLE MOTHERS PRAYER. 
 
 I never see my mother now, but, wheresoe'er I 
 
 be, 
 I know that she is working yet and thinking still 
 
 of me; 
 And sometimes when she's thinking there's a 
 
 film before her eye, 
 And for me a prayer's ascending to the Father 
 
 up on high. 
 And, oh, I think I couldn't stray so very far 
 
 from Him, 
 While that sweet prayer's ascending and those 
 
 dear eyes are dim; 
 And sometimes as I wander I can almost see her 
 
 there, 
 With the dear hands working, working, and I 
 
 seem to hear the prayer. 
 
 I think the boys whose mothers work, and hope, 
 
 and always pray, 
 Though they may stumble oftentimes, won't 
 
 wander quite away; 
 And if they fall, and fall again, they'll rise again, 
 
 for there, 
 In every lowest depth of sin, they'll hear their 
 
 mother's prayer. 
 
MY LITTLE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 69 
 
 They'll hear it in the stillest night; 'twill follow 
 them by day, 
 
 And when they falter, " Rise again " 'twill ever, 
 ever say. 
 
 It reaches down the darkest years; it points to 
 guerdons fair. 
 
 Few hopeless fall who still recall a mother's lov- 
 ing prayer. 
 
 Oh, mother, little mother, God's hand has 
 
 touched to gray 
 The soft brown hair so smooth and fair that I 
 
 recall to-day, 
 Though the faithful hands still labor for the ones 
 
 they love the best, 
 As they will toil unto the end, until He giveth 
 
 rest; 
 Yet I think sometimes that they must fold, 
 
 while comes the misty host 
 Of visions of the girl and boy for whom they 
 
 toiled the most; 
 And I long that you shall feel and know, as you 
 
 sit dreaming there, 
 That your boy in love remembers every faithful 
 
 deed and prayer. 
 
70 AS THE YEARS GO BY. 
 
 AS THE YEARS GO BY. 
 
 T^OREVER and ever the suns go down; 
 
 Forever and ever they rise again; 
 And life is a maid with a golden crown 
 
 And sandals of darkness beloved by men. 
 We are dreaming to-day of a future of bliss; 
 
 To-morrow we bury the hope with a sigh, 
 With a long, long sigh and a farewell kiss 
 
 "And that is the way that the years go by. 
 
 " To-morrow," we say, " I will build me a home 
 
 In the beautiful, beautiful land of rest." 
 But the morrow comes and our feet yet roam, 
 
 And our hearts are sad and our lives unblest, 
 And the suns smile down on our falling tears, 
 
 And the friends we love are the ones who die, 
 And the phantom of pleasure is chased by fears 
 
 And that is the way that the years go by. 
 
AS THE YEARS GO BY. 
 
 Forever and ever we say at night: 
 
 " Oh, woeful to-morrow, to bring me pain! " 
 But the morrow comes, and the sun is bright, 
 And the loss that we dreaded has turned to 
 
 gain; 
 
 And the flowers of joy in our souls still bloom, 
 And the smile of the spirit has followed its 
 
 sigh, 
 And the daybeams of gladness have banished the 
 
 gloom 
 And that is the way that the years go by. 
 
 Forever and ever oh, valley of life, 
 
 Where joy is a phantom and woe is a shade ! 
 Mocked by our visions no less than our strife, 
 
 What is the game when the game is played ? 
 Who is the Player whose pawns are we, 
 
 Who sits in the mists as the moments fly? 
 Who is the One that the end doth see, 
 
 As the phantoms fade and the years go by ? 
 
72 MY DAUGHTER'S PRISCILLA. 
 
 MY DAUGHTER'S PRISCILLA. 
 
 TV /T Y daughter's Priscilla. I know not how 
 
 She came to my life from the Puritan 
 
 days, 
 With the calm, true eyes and the tranquil brow 
 
 And the voice as sweet as a hymn of praise; 
 But if some picture from days of old 
 
 Might step from its place in an oaken frame. 
 Bearing no trace of the gray past's mold, 
 I fancy that picture would look the same 
 
 The same as my daughter, whose calm, slow eyes 
 Look to my own, while the love shines 
 
 through, 
 As a star ray pierces the evening skies 
 
 Or a sunbeam cleaves through the dome of 
 
 blue. 
 
 In the touch of her hand all comfort dwells, 
 And Peace through her dear lips makes her 
 
 plea, 
 
 For her voice is sweet as a chime of bells 
 My daughter Priscilla, who blesses me. 
 
MY DAUGHTER'S PRISCILLA. 73 
 
 My daughter's Priscilla. Ah me ! Ah me ! 
 
 My heart is turbulent, wild and worn; 
 But her tranquil eyes I need but see, 
 
 And the cloak of unrest from my soul is torn. 
 I know not how I say it again 
 
 She came from the past with her eyes a-shine, 
 But this I cry to my soul's amen : 
 
 " I thank the Father that she is mine." 
 
74 AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA. 
 
 AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA. 
 
 "T"\ O you think you'd like to be at the bottom 
 **f of the sea, 
 
 With the pollyhinkus swinging all around, 
 And the gogglers with their eyes big as mama's 
 
 custard pies, 
 
 And the winkus that goes crawling on the 
 ground, 
 
 And the spry, 
 (Oh, my eye !) 
 The spry, spry, spry, 
 The very, very, very, very spry springaree 
 
 That slides through the glare of the water 
 
 everywhere, 
 
 On the shifting, lifting bottom of the deep blue 
 sea? 
 
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA. 75 
 
 At the bottom of the sea there is strangest mys- 
 tery, 
 
 For the queen of all the sprites is living there, 
 With amber beads for eyes, and she lives on oys- 
 ter fries, 
 
 And she hates to hear the wicked sailors swear; 
 And her hair, 
 It is fair; 
 
 It is fair, fair, fair; 
 
 It is very, very, very, very, very bright and fair; 
 And the fishes swim about through her palace 
 
 in and out, 
 
 Through the water that is shifting and is lifting 
 everywhere. 
 
76 AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA. 
 
 But I want to tell you, dear, and I hope that you 
 
 will hear, 
 That really it is better to be living on the 
 
 ground, 
 
 Where the things are not so queer, but the at- 
 mosphere is clear, 
 
 And in order to enjoy it 'tisn't needful to be 
 drowned; 
 
 For you know 
 (It is so, 
 
 And you should know, know) 
 It is really, really chilly where the dim depths be; 
 And it's surely very tough; yes, it certainly is 
 
 rough, 
 For you can't breathe a little in the deep blue 
 
LITTLE WHITE SISTER. 77 
 
 LITTLE WHITE SISTER. 
 
 , little white Sister, secluded out yonder, 
 Saying your Aves from day unto day, 
 What are your hopes and your visions, I wonder. 
 
 What are your fancies of life and its way ? 
 Know you the burdens, the cares and the losses 
 
 Waiting the weary outside of your door ? 
 Know you how heavy, how heavy the crosses ? 
 Know you the hearts that are troubled and 
 sore ? 
 
 Little white Sister, 
 Tell me, I pray, 
 What do you dream 
 As the years grow gray ? 
 
78 LITTLE WHITE SISTER. 
 
 Oh, little white Sister, your heart has its fan- 
 cies 
 
 I look in your eyes and I know it is so 
 They steal from your soul in the half-timid 
 
 glances, 
 
 Then steal again back, as a spirit might go. 
 Your voice is so quiet, I wonder, I wonder 
 If the charm of contentment you really have 
 
 found. 
 
 Does peace indeed dwell your white raiment un- 
 der ? 
 
 Does your spirit's horizon no mist of doubt 
 bound ? 
 
 Little white Sister, 
 Tell me, I pray, 
 Does peace in your breast 
 Dwell ever and aye ? 
 
LITTLE WHITE SISTER. 79 
 
 Oh, little white Sister, out here in the battle 
 The smoke of the struggle envelops us all; 
 We lose His low voice in the musketry's rattle, 
 And the mad dream of glory still holds us in 
 
 thrall; 
 And we drag on our chains, or iron or golden, 
 
 And we cry at the last that this life is a lie; 
 And we turn dreamy eyes to the days that are 
 
 olden 
 
 Do the years with you, Sister, glide peacefully 
 by ? 
 
 Little white Sister, 
 Tell me, I pray, 
 Is your soul at peace, 
 Removed from the in.y ? 
 
LITTLE WHITE SISTER, 
 
 Oh, little white Sister, in gentle petitions 
 I pray you remember one soul of unrest; 
 Shorn of his happiness, mocked by ambitions, 
 Cross little white hands for him over your 
 
 breast; 
 
 For he has forgotten the battle's so dreary! 
 The words that he learned at a dear mother's 
 
 knee, 
 
 And his heart it is dumb for life is a- weary! 
 Little white Sister, reach upward, for me. 
 Little white Sister, 
 Peace unto thee; 
 In gentle petitions 
 Remember thou me. 
 
THE SCHOOLGIRL THA T 1 HA TED. 8l 
 
 THE SCHOOLGIRL THAT I HATED. 
 
 OMETIMES when memory draws the veil 
 
 and I look back a way 
 To where the sun was shining in my happy, 
 
 youthful day 
 I catch the scent of lilacs as they blossomed by 
 
 our door, 
 And I hear the robins chirping as they used to 
 
 chirp of yore, 
 
 And the oriole is flitting like a ball of living fire, 
 And the river's sort o' whispering just as thougk 
 
 'twould never tire; 
 And then, amid the faces that on memory'i 
 
 screen I see, 
 Comes the schoolgirl that I hated when she sat 
 
 in front of me. 
 
82 THE SCHOOLGIRL THA T I HA TED. 
 
 Someway I see her plainly now in scanty dress of 
 
 blue, 
 With eyes in part coquettish and in part serene 
 
 and true; 
 With curls that liked to catch the light and twist 
 
 it in and out, 
 
 And lips just right for kissing, if they were in- 
 clined to pout. 
 I knew that she was pretty, but I said she was no 
 
 good 
 Though I couldn't help admiring her; no boy 
 
 that's human could 
 But she made up faces at me, and she could a 
 
 vixen be, 
 The schoolgirl that I hated when she sat in front 
 
 of me. 
 
THE SCHOOLGIRL THA T I HA TED. 83 
 
 She wouldn't play at marbles, and she couldn't 
 
 play at ball, 
 And I often intimated that she was no good at 
 
 all. 
 I dropped a cricket down her back in cheerful, 
 
 boyish way, 
 And she yelled first; then I yelled next, when 
 
 teacher was to pay. 
 She wouldn't " coon " a melon, though I asked 
 
 her oftentimes, 
 And she ridiculed my first attempts at poor and 
 
 broken rhymes. 
 Oh, she was a thorough failure, as any boy can 
 
 see, 
 The schoolgirl that I hated when she sat in front 
 
 of me. 
 
84 THE SCHOOLGIRL THA T I HA TED. 
 
 She beat me at the lessons that we found within 
 
 our books, 
 And when she went above me all scornful were 
 
 her looks; 
 But when the teacher whipped me I saw her cry 
 
 one day, 
 And I said that " girls is better than what some 
 
 fellers say; " 
 And I sort of half forgave her for her lack of 
 
 hardihood, 
 Though I even then insisted that she really was 
 
 no good; 
 But times have changed since then, for I I'm 
 
 married, don't you see, 
 To the schoolgirl that I hated when she sat in 
 
 front of me. 
 
IF DREAMS WERE GOLD. 
 
 IF DREAMS WERE GOLD. 
 
 T F dreams were gold I'd build for you, 
 * My love, my own, a palace fair 
 As Babylonian monarchs knew, 
 
 And you should dwell right regnant there. 
 For, oh, my love, I've wealth of dreams; 
 
 They press upon my waking brain. 
 Half glad, half sad that pressure seems, 
 
 Like the strange joy akin to pain. 
 
 If dreams were gold, dear heart, dear heart, 
 
 The realm of beauty were your own, 
 And skilled designers of the mart 
 
 Should weave and build for you alone. 
 For, oh, these dreams whose glories shine 
 
 Within my heart, within my soul, 
 Their joy, alas, is only mine; 
 
 And I would give to you the whole. 
 
86 IF DREAMS WERE GOLD. 
 
 If dreams were gold Oh, love of mine, 
 
 Full well I know, who sit and dream, 
 That gold ne'er bought one bliss divine; 
 
 No heaven answers to its gleam. 
 Then since I dream I know not why 
 
 And since the dreams are mine alone, 
 Let all the lack of part supply, 
 
 And take the dreamer for your own. 
 
 Take the poor dreamer, and his dreams 
 
 Shall bathe you in their mellow light, 
 As in some vale the moonlight gleams 
 
 About the rose asleep at night; 
 And we shall richer be, I trow, 
 
 Ay, richer by a wealth untold, 
 Than any riches we might know 
 
 If dreams were gold, if dreams were gold. 
 
WHEN THE STARS SLEEP. 87 
 
 WHEN THE STARS SLEEP. 
 
 \\J HEN the little stars sleep, they rest, we 
 
 * * . know, 
 
 On the cloudland's misty pillows, 
 Till the sun creeps over the western world 
 
 And is drowned in the ocean billows; 
 Then straightway they peep from their chamber 
 out, 
 
 A watch on the gray earth keeping, 
 But the world rolls on, with its toil and doubt, 
 
 And it cares not a whit for their peeping. 
 
 The world rolls on, and its children sing 
 
 A song to the rhythm of pleasure, 
 Till the Player strikes a minor string 
 
 And slower, and slow, is the measure. 
 Passion and Happiness, Joy and Shame, 
 
 Join hands while the world is dreaming 
 Still the stars look down from their heights of 
 flame, 
 
 God's peace o'er the tumult beaming. 
 
SS WHEN THE STARS SLEEP. 
 
 Then the sun comes up o'er the eastern land, 
 
 And the stars creep back in wonder, 
 Till he tucks them away with his great white 
 hand, 
 
 The sky's blue coverlet under; 
 But all of the day they wait and wait, 
 
 And all of its moments they measure, 
 Till they look again on that strange, mad dance 
 
 The dance to the rhythm of pleasure. 
 
IN THE CITY, THE CITY. 
 
 IN THE CITY, THE CITY. 
 
 T N the city, the city, the fog creeps in 
 
 ** To hide with its curtain the phantom of sin, 
 
 And the fever of hurry has seized on all, 
 
 The rich and the poor, and it holds them im 
 
 thrall; 
 
 And they race with Time till the race is run, 
 And the grave is the goal that the effort won, 
 And they push and jostle and scheme and plot 
 In the city, the city, where God is not. 
 
 In the city, the city, I note the care 
 That gnaws at a life till the life is bare; 
 And the children who skulk in the alleys, all 
 Are old from their birth and pinched and small. 
 There are women who live in a self-made hell, 
 And their hearts beat on like a funeral knell; 
 And lives like the nightshade blossom and rot 
 In the city, the city, where God is not. 
 
 f or THE 
 
 { UNIVERSITY 
 
 V 
 
90 IN THE CITY, THE CITY. 
 
 In the city, the city, I long to rest 
 
 Where the hills stoop down to the crimson west, 
 
 Where the brooks leap down from the summer's 
 snow 
 
 And the poppied fields are with flame aglow, 
 
 Where the squirrels hide and the brown quail 
 nest 
 
 And God sets a seal on the soul's unrest. 
 
 To the hills and the mountains, each peace- 
 breeding spot, 
 
 I turn from the city, where God is not. 
 
CITY AND COUNTRY WAYS. 91 
 
 CITY AND COUNTRY WAYS. 
 
 T GUESS that I can never git much used to 
 
 city ways. 
 Someway in dodging through the streets I feel 
 
 I'm in a maze, 
 And when some driver runs me down, or almost 
 
 does, before 
 I know he's anywhere around, I jump a rod or 
 
 more 
 An' give a yell, the while he laughs and says, 
 
 " You fool, git out! " 
 I wish that I was back again and jus' a loafin' 
 
 'bout 
 An' knowin' all my neighbors' biz an' tendin' to 
 
 it, too, 
 The way that country people can an' almost 
 
 always do. 
 
92 CITY AND COUNTRY WAYS. 
 
 When these here waggins that they run without 
 
 no horses on 
 Comes slidin' up to where I am an' scare me till 
 
 I'm wan, 
 I always wish that I could be back where the 
 
 country lies 
 Jus' sort o' reachin' out to God and smilin' to 
 
 His skies. 
 
 I want to go back there again an' hear the peo- 
 ple say: 
 " Waal, how's your inflooenzy now, and how's 
 
 the kid to-day? " 
 Per city folks don't know my biz an' sort o' run 
 
 it, too, 
 
 The way that country people can an' almost 
 always do. 
 
CITY AND COUNTRY WAYS. 93 
 
 Of course I know the city folks has theatres an' 
 
 all, 
 But when the baby's middlin' sick they hardly 
 
 ever call; 
 They don't drop in an' say, " B'gee! D'you hear 
 
 that Bilkins' twins 
 Has took the measles? Punishment, I s'pose, 
 
 fer father's sins." 
 An' when my rheumatiz comes on an' breaks my 
 
 needed rest 
 There's not a wave of trouble rolls across their 
 
 peaceful breast. 
 An' so I say I want to go where folks my biz'll 
 
 run, 
 The way the country folks I know have almost 
 
 always done. 
 
94 THE OLDEN DA YS, THE GOLDEN DA YS. 
 
 THE OLDEN DAYS, THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 E olden days, the golden days, the days 
 
 when we were young, 
 When life was all a hymn of praise and we the 
 
 ones who sung; 
 The laughter of that elder time comes ringing 
 
 back to me, 
 The echo of a silvery chime from o'er a widening 
 
 sea; 
 And still I hear both sweet and clear the voices 
 
 hushed and low, 
 Like whispers from another sphere, of friends of 
 
 long ago. 
 Like some gray ghost my spirit strays the 
 
 ghosts of dawn among 
 And sighs to praise the olden days, the days 
 
 when we were young. 
 
I 
 THE OLDEN DA KS, THE GOLDEN DA YS. 95 
 
 The olden days, the golden days oh, boyhood's 
 
 heart of fire, 
 Is this the ending of the ways? For this didst 
 
 thou aspire? 
 A dream that ended in a dream? A hope now 
 
 lying dead? 
 A little time to toil and scheme with naught but 
 
 gloom o'erhead? 
 Is this the answer life must give unto its promise 
 
 fair? 
 Hopes, idle hopes, that may not live, and faith 
 
 that fights despair? 
 
 A dream that never pain allays? A halting, lisp- 
 ing tongue? 
 Oh, better far the olden days, the days when we 
 
 were young. 
 
96 THE OLDEN DA YS, THE GOLDEN DA YS. 
 
 The olden days, the golden days when care was 
 
 all unknown, 
 Still back to them my memory strays and there 
 
 it dwells alone, 
 Alone and lonely, yet 'tis blessed, for so they 
 
 cheer me yet, 
 The ones who wandered or do rest unheeding 
 
 care and fret. 
 
 Far fields of clover all abloom, low hills my boy- 
 hood knew, 
 From the dim present and its gloom, I turn, I 
 
 turn to you; 
 From the drear maze of weary days with clouds 
 
 of doubt o'erhung, 
 I turn to days, the golden days, the days when 
 
 we were young. 
 
TO THE PIONEERS THAT REMAIN 97 
 
 TO THE PIONEERS THAT REMAIN. 
 
 T HAVE no word to speak their praise. 
 * Theirs was the deed; the guerdon ours. 
 The wilderness and weary days 
 
 Were theirs alone; for us the flowers. 
 They sowed the seed that we might reap; 
 
 Ours is the fruitage of their years. 
 And now, behold, they drop to sleep, 
 
 And we have naught for them save tears. 
 
 The flag, whose luster none may mar, 
 
 The brightest thing that loves the air, 
 See you our California's star 
 
 Amidst the rest? They set it there. 
 What wonder that it droops to-day, 
 
 The while another folds his hands, 
 And, silent, floats away, away, 
 
 From golden sands to golden sands. 
 
98 TO THE PIONEERS THAT REMAIN. 
 
 So they go out. A little while, 
 
 And none shall answer to the call. 
 Still shall the great world weep or smile, 
 
 But they shall be all silent all. 
 Still shall the life-tides ebb and flow 
 
 And mark the rhythm of the years, 
 But they no more shall heed or know, 
 
 Forgotten cares and hopes and fears. 
 
 When they are gone; when o'er one's clay 
 
 Our tears of long farewell shall fall, 
 We'll pay our tribute then, and say: 
 
 " He was the last, the last of all. 
 Ah, they were stalwart men," we'll sigh, 
 
 " The future's promise on each brow." 
 So shall we whisper then, but I 
 
 I pay that tribute here and now. 
 
A LITTLE, LITTLE FELLOW. 99 
 
 A LITTLE, LITTLE FELLOW. 
 
 HERE'S a little, little fellow, and he's really 
 
 very small, 
 For he measures by my table and he isn't quite 
 
 so tall; 
 And this little, little fellow in the evening seeks 
 
 my knees, 
 And he says: " Now won't oo tell me jus' the 
 
 nicest 'tories, p'ease? " 
 And then I tell him stories that I wouldn't dare 
 
 to say 
 Are of the usual run of things we meet on every 
 
 day; 
 
 And the last thing that he asks me is, with story- 
 telling through, 
 " Now do you 'pose when I'm growed up I'll 
 
 know as much as you? " 
 
100 A LITTLE, LITTLE FELLOW. 
 
 Oh, little, little fellow, who sit upon my knee, 
 
 I know how all misplaced is this, the faith you 
 rest in me. 
 
 My wisdom is a fiction, and my stock of knowl- 
 edge small; 
 
 Like you, I guess the Father knows, and He is 
 over all. 
 
 I stumble on the journey and I falter as I go, 
 
 And where the days shall lead me I never, never 
 know. 
 
 But, th'ough I'm all unworthy of your faith, it 
 cheers me, too, 
 
 With " Do you 'pose when I'm growed up I'll 
 know as much as you? " 
 
A LITTLE, LITTLE FELLOW, IOI 
 
 Oh, little, little fellow, I really hope you will. 
 
 I want to feel when I leave off you'll be advanc- 
 ing still; 
 
 And if sometimes I half have seen a light beyond 
 the mist, 
 
 I trust that by its purest rays your pathway may 
 be kissed. 
 
 But whatsoe'er the years may bring, and what- 
 soe'er their lore, 
 
 Someway I'm hoping here to-night, as I have 
 hoped before, 
 
 That you may keep some part, at least, of faith 
 in me you knew 
 
 When oft you asked if " when I'm growed I'll 
 know as much as you." 
 
102 WHO KNEW THIS MAN? 
 
 WHO KNEW THIS MAN ? 
 
 GOD touched his eyes, and then, no doubt, 
 he saw 
 
 What other men may only vaguely guess; 
 Behind dumb sorrow saw the loving Law, 
 
 And knew His wisdom sendeth pain to bless. 
 He saw (though dimly) that behind the deed 
 There stands the Doer waiting the event; 
 So o'er the rocks where human feet must bleed 
 He walked, though bruised, with calm and full 
 content 
 
 God touched his eyes. 
 
 God touched his heart, and, lo, he felt the pain 
 Of those dread sorrows borne by human kind; 
 To help another counted surest gain, 
 
 And lost himself that he might others find. 
 Oh, ne'er a hand outreached to him in vain, 
 For " I must love them " was his tender 
 
 thought; 
 
 He wiped the eyes bewet with trouble's rain, 
 Till glorious manhood for himself he 
 wrought 
 
 God touched his heart. 
 
WHO KNEW THIS MAN? 103 
 
 God touched his soul. The clink of yellow gold 
 
 He counted nothing save to better men; 
 For selfish ends the stuff he could not hold, 
 
 But saw dread want and let it go again. 
 Alone he walked, yet blessed by all he knew; 
 
 Alone he lived, but hundreds loved his name; 
 Into the lives of careworn men he grew, 
 
 And saw and felt dull sorrow's strenuous 
 claim 
 
 God touched his soul. 
 
 God touched his life. One night they found him 
 
 there, 
 
 With smile of welcome for the angel gray; 
 But Death himself could only make him fair, 
 
 And peace was with him, as he, dreaming, lay. 
 And then they came, glad youth and somber age, 
 
 And stood beside that humble, lowly bed, 
 And tears fell fast that nothing might assuage, 
 And, "Much I loved him;" it was all they 
 said 
 
 God touched his life. 
 
104 THE BOYS OF THE COUNTRY PRESS. 
 
 THE BOYS OF THE COUNTRY PRESS. 
 
 *THHE boys, the boys of the country press 
 * Who strive and toil while their " pile " 
 
 grows less, 
 
 Who take in potatoes and wood and hay 
 And corn and mutton and beans for pay, 
 Who write heavy leaders, and set them, too; 
 Who say, " Well, I guess that these beans will 
 
 do 
 
 When the flour gives out," nor whistle the less 
 I sing to the boys of the country press. 
 
 I sing to the boys God bless them all! 
 Who sit in their sanctums drear and small, 
 While the partisan tells them why times are bad, 
 And the merchant drops in to stop his " ad," 
 And the parson explains theological things, 
 And the granger remarks, as his trophy he 
 
 brings: 
 " Naow this here pertater's the socker, I 
 
 guess " 
 I sing to the boys of the country press. 
 
THE BOYS OF THE COUNTRY PRESS. 105 
 
 I sing to the boys in a humble place 
 Who turn to the days a resolute face, 
 Who feel that each duty has something to bless, 
 Though they bow to the sweep of the old hand- 
 press; 
 
 The boys who toil on till their toiling is done, 
 As editor, foreman and typo in one, 
 With people who curse them, and others to 
 
 bless 
 I sing to the boys of the country press. 
 
 I sing to the boys may a blessing fall 
 On the toilers who sit in the sanctums small! 
 And if patient endeavor is worthy its prize, 
 If the low path of duty leads on to the skies, 
 If there's never an effort, how lowly soe'er, 
 But its certain fruition draws steadily near, 
 Why, then, when the shadows have folded, I 
 
 guess 
 
 The One who is leading and guiding to bless 
 His subscription will pay to the country press. 
 
106 WE SHALL REST SWEETLY. 
 
 WE SHALL REST SWEETLY. 
 
 1 \ 7 E shall lie down to the infinite rest, 
 
 E'en as the millions before us. 
 Sweetly we'll sleep on the great Mother's breast, 
 
 The calm, tender Mother that bore us. 
 Passion of loving and tumult of strife, 
 
 They shall be buried forever; 
 With white hands enfolded we'll look back to life 
 
 And smile at its weary endeavor. 
 
 We shall rest sweetly oh, wonderful rest! 
 As a babe lies asleep on its dear mother's breast; 
 Trials forgotten and errors confessed, 
 We shall rest sweetly, so sweetly. 
 
WE SHALL REST SWEETLY. IO7 
 
 Haply through eyelids down drooping shall steal 
 
 A vision One sendeth to cheer us, 
 White homes of peace that the earth-mists con- 
 ceal, 
 
 Loved ones and vanished ones near us. 
 Haply from out of the little, low room 
 
 A stairway and star-way shall lead us 
 To the country of light from the valley of gloom, 
 
 Where angels shall guide us and heed us. 
 
 We shall rest sweetly down under the sod, 
 Knowing the stairway that leads up to God, 
 The crystal white star-way by angel-feet trod 
 We shall rest sweetly, so sweetly. 
 
108 1 JUDGED HE WAS RIGHT. 
 
 I JUDGED HE WAS RIGHT. 
 
 F the crops was good Brother Ephrum 
 
 would say, 
 
 " Well, I jedge that the price'll be low, anyway;" 
 An' if prices was good he'd say, " Well, I fear 
 They're goin' to be down in the stiller nex' 
 
 year;" 
 
 Ef ever'thing went jest es smooth es could be, 
 He'd look to the futur', an' trouble he'd see, 
 An' he'd say: "Well, per'aps it's all right, but, 
 
 I jing! 
 
 I'm mightily skeered what nex' season'll bring." 
 That's the way that he talked. 
 
 Ef the weather was windy he said that he knowed 
 The buds frum the dern apple trees would be 
 
 blowed; 
 
 Ef a fortnight went by with no signs of a rain 
 He said that a drowth was a-comin' again; 
 
/ JUDGED HE WAS RIGHT. 109 
 
 An' he said that the wheat would be half of a 
 
 crop, 
 
 Per the bugs was jus' certain to eat it all up; 
 An' his fav'rite expression was alters: " I jing! 
 I'm mightily skeered what nex' season'll bring." 
 It was allers that way. 
 
 One day Brother Ephrum was passin' away, 
 An' the fambily gathered to hear what he'd say. 
 But he didn't say much, jest heavin' some sighs, 
 Wile the mists was a-gatherin' in front of his 
 
 eyes, 
 
 But at last a low whisper the fambily heard, 
 An' o' course they stooped down so's to catch 
 
 every word; 
 
 But all that he uttered was only: " I jing! 
 I'm mightily skeered what nex' season'll bring." 
 An' I j edged he was right. 
 
HO A SONG FOR THE LITTLE CHAPS. 
 
 A SONG FOR THE LITTLE CHAPS. 
 
 T T ERE is a song for the little chaps, 
 
 * * The little, wee fellows who don't know 
 
 why 
 The round world turns; and I guess, perhaps, 
 
 That neither do you and neither do I. 
 Here is a song for the comical mites, 
 
 Round and rosy and fat and sleek, 
 Who gaze in amaze on the world's queer sights; 
 
 And here is the blessing I cannot speak. 
 
 Here is a song for the ones that gaze 
 
 In queer consternation on finger and toe, 
 And note they are moving in speechless amaze, 
 
 And wonder who wound them and made the 
 
 things go. 
 The dear little fellows who deem mother's breast 
 
 Is all of the world, and a good world, too, 
 I am singing to them, while they lie at rest; 
 
 And really what better is there to do? 
 
A SONG FOR THE LITTLE CHAPS. Ill 
 
 Here is a song for the babes that stand 
 
 Nearer to God than the grown folk do; 
 Fresh little buds from the Heaven-land 
 
 Who deem that the world is fresh and new. 
 Bundles of helplessness, dearer than all 
 
 Yet born of the morning and kissed by its 
 
 dew; 
 Feeble and wondering, blinking and small, 
 
 Babes whom I love, I am singing to you. 
 
H2 WE WEARY OF IT ALL. 
 
 WE WEARY OF IT ALL. 
 
 \\7 HO does not weary of it all, 
 V * Of hope so high, fulfillment bare; 
 The petty strife, the petty care, 
 And doubt which holds the soul in thrall? 
 
 Of little jealousies we feed, 
 Of that incessant, spiteful cry, 
 " I fear that he is more than I," 
 
 When both of us are small indeed? 
 
 Our hands fall down like leaden things, 
 But soon we lift them with a frown 
 And strive to tear our brother down 
 
 From that low height whereto he clings. 
 
 And " This," we say, " this ceaseless strife, 
 Which bids us when one falls rejoice," 
 But, oh, the vailing in the voice! 
 
 " This constant warfare, this is life." 
 
WE WEARY OF IT ALL, 113 
 
 And so we build for some poor prize 
 Our foolish structure on the sand 
 Until it crumbles 'neath our hand, 
 
 And, " God," we cry, " our dreams are lies." 
 
 And if one holds a clearer thought, 
 A faith, a hope no red earth bribes, 
 " Oho," we cry, with mocking gibes, 
 
 " He is a dreamer and distraught. 
 
 " He is a savior. Crucify ! " 
 Oh, mad, mad world, thy Calvary 
 Still bears its bitter fruit for thee, 
 
 And still to love is but to die. 
 
 Oh, God, we weary of it all, 
 
 Of this incessant, cruel strife; 
 
 Of grief, of hatred, aye, of life; 
 We weary, and we wait Thy call. 
 
114 A LULLABY. 
 
 A LULLABY. 
 
 O LEEP, my little one, where you float 
 ^On the Dreamland Sea in the Dreamland 
 
 Boat; 
 
 But where is that sea and whither you go, 
 Ah, who is so wise that he ever may know? 
 There the sails of the voyager onward are fanned 
 By the lullaby breezes from Hushabyland, 
 And the boat is a cradle that swings to and fro, 
 But whither it bears you, ah, none of us know. 
 
 Sleep, my little one. None may know 
 Whither the Dreamboat saileth, 
 
 But One heedeth ever wherever you go, 
 And His is a love never faileth. 
 
A LULLABY. 115 
 
 Sleep, my little one, sleep and dream 
 As you float, float away on the wonderful stream 
 That leads to the land where the white angels be, 
 Which I, in my blindness, no longer may see. 
 There the Angel of Love and the Angel of Rest 
 Shall cuddle my bairnie so close to the breast 
 That only the thought of the mother and me 
 Could bring you safe home again over the sea. 
 
 Sleep, my little one, sleep and smile, 
 Floating, ah, none may know whither; 
 
 You shall sail back again after a while, 
 Guided by angel hands hither. 
 
Il6 IT IS WELL TO REMEMER 
 
 IT IS WELL TO REMEMBER. 
 
 TT is well to remember this thing, you know: 
 ^Though the rains may descend and the winds 
 
 may blow; 
 Though the skies may be dark as the hour of 
 
 fate, 
 
 And our latter be worse than our former state, 
 Yet over the clouds there is always the sun, 
 And the stars will appear when the tempest is 
 done; 
 
 And the soul needs its woe 
 'Neath the rain, flowers grow 
 It is well to remember this thing, you know. 
 
 It is well to remember this thing, you know: 
 The stalwart may stand 'neath the crudest blow. 
 For the soul, tempest driven, must turn to its 
 
 God, 
 
 As the rain-beaten flowers look up from the sod; 
 And the fragrance of love is the price of our 
 
 pain, 
 As the blossoms grow sweet 'neath the blows of 
 
 the rain. 
 
 Heigh-ho and heigh-ho ! 
 We weep, but we grow, 
 And it's well to remember this thing, you know. 
 
WAITING FOR SANTA CLAUS. 
 
 WAITING FOR SANTA CLAUS. 
 
 nr*HEY say he's but a pretty myth, the Santa 
 
 * Glaus I knew 
 
 When I was but a little chap, with little notions, 
 
 too; 
 They say he doesn't go about with reindeers and 
 
 a sleigh, 
 And lots and lots of toys and things he means to 
 
 give away. 
 But let them say whate'er they please, I not the 
 
 less must feel 
 That few indeed are things of life so very, very 
 
 real 
 As was the joy of girl and boy say not it lacked 
 
 a cause 
 When mother tucked us in our bed to wait for 
 
 Santa Glaus. 
 
Il8 WAITING FOR SANTA CLAUS. 
 
 " Now go to sleep," our mother said ah, still 
 
 the words I hear, 
 But how on earth could children sleep when 
 
 Santa Claus was near? 
 And so we whispered for a time and rolled and 
 
 tumbled some, 
 And felt assured that Christmas morn would 
 
 never, never come, 
 Until at length the elves of sleep tied down our 
 
 lashes fast, 
 
 And gently we sailed o'er the sea the dream- 
 land sea at last; 
 And in the morning ere the sun first peeped our 
 
 windows through 
 Don't tell me Santa didn't come; 1 guess we 
 
 children knew. 
 
WAITING FOR SANTA CLAUS. 119 
 
 Don't tell me Santa didn't come O, dreamland 
 
 girl and boy, 
 It was no fiction that you knew a joy surpassing 
 
 joy. 
 White-robed, I hear you patter still across the 
 
 bedroom floor 
 To delve within the stockings' depths for toys, 
 
 and yet for more. 
 
 If this be fiction I recall, then by my sager years 
 I vow that they are phantoms all our hopes, 
 
 and e'en our fears. 
 And I am wishing here to-night, despite cold 
 
 wisdom's laws, 
 That mother now might tuck us in to wait for 
 
 Santa Claus. 
 
120 AS I WOULD BELIEVE. 
 
 AS I WOULD BELIEVE. 
 
 T WANT to keep thinking that God's as true, 
 * And the grass as green and the skies as blue, 
 As they used to be when my life was young 
 And the bird of the morn to my spirit sung. 
 I want to look out through my time-dimmed 
 
 eyes 
 
 To the ships of mist in the sea of skies, 
 And feel that the hand that guides them there 
 Will still for my faltering footsteps care. 
 
 For someway I think as the years grow old 
 And our heads turn gray that our hearts grow 
 
 cold; 
 
 And I'd like to keep the old-time trust, 
 Lest my soul shall turn to ashes and dust; 
 I would like to hold my faith in man, 
 Nor his life's emotion with coldness scan; 
 I fain would believe, as I used to do, 
 When my life was young and its skies were blue. 
 
AS I WOULD BELIEVE. 121 
 
 For I'd sooner have faith in one heart's truth, 
 As I did in the days of my golden youth, 
 Than, knowing the world, lose faith and sigh: 
 " Ah, hope's a delusion and life is a lie! " 
 I would sooner believe, though it prove me a 
 
 fool, 
 That the Teacher is heeding our lessons in 
 
 school 
 
 Than moan to the night: " It all is vain, 
 And the object of pain is only pain." 
 
 So I'll cling to the trust that I'm battling here 
 Though it be with a sigh or a falling tear 
 For an end that is hidden the mist behind; 
 And I'll dream that His purpose is always kind. 
 Let it prove me a fool, if you will. I say 
 That I'd sooner press on in such simple way 
 Than, knowing o'er much (which Is nothing), 
 
 sigh: 
 " Alas! I have lived, but my life was a lie." 
 
122 AS I LIE HE HE AND DREAM. 
 
 AS I LIE HERE AND DREAM. 
 
 A S I lie here and dream I hear 
 
 A mead'lark whistling sweet and clear, 
 And straightly then his mate replies 
 From yonder where the willow lies. 
 " Oh, life is sweet," he sings alway; 
 " And love is life," she hastes to say. 
 And then they sing together so 
 That angels listen where they go 
 As I lie here and dream. 
 
 As I lie here the river flows, 
 And whispers to me as it goes, 
 And just one word it seems to say, 
 Just "Peace" and "Peace" and "Peace" alway. 
 And soon the world grows hushed and still; 
 Down drops the sun behind its hill, 
 And, " Soul, be silent,"- low I say, 
 " For now is Nature going to pray " 
 As I lie here and dream. 
 
AS I LIE HERE AND DREAM. 123 
 
 x ' . 
 
 As I lie here the stars creep out 
 And wink their eyes and look about. 
 A katydid chirps out its cheer, 
 And then there sound, or far or near, 
 The tiny voices of the night, 
 And all the world is hushed and white; 
 And straight are banished care and doubt 
 They are so small when God's about 
 As I lie here and dream. 
 
124 A SONG FOR THE UNDER DOG. 
 
 A SONG FOR THE UNDER DOG. 
 
 XT OW here is a song for the under dog, the 
 
 weak under dog in the fight, 
 For though he is down, and he's terribly down, 
 
 mayhap he's the dog that is right. 
 It isn't the cur who is largest, you know, whose 
 
 morals are always the best, 
 And a sanctified pup with a halo, I trow, might 
 
 succumb in a physical test. 
 If might could make right but it cannot, you 
 
 see, and I think you'll admit it were quaint 
 If a blacksmith must always the best of men be, 
 
 and a bruiser must pose as a saint. 
 The man who succeeds may succeed as a knave, 
 
 and in morals fly fearfully light, 
 And that's why your sympathy kindly I crave for 
 
 the weak under dog in the fight. 
 
A SONG FOR THE UNDER DOG. 125 
 
 The martyrs who died for the cause that they 
 
 deemed was surely the cause of their God, 
 From whose wounds, gaping widely, the life- 
 blood has streamed till it reddened the 
 
 blossoming sod; 
 The martyrs who gave it was all they could 
 
 do their fives for the truth and the right, 
 What were they, bethink you with sorrow and 
 
 rue, but man's under dogs in the fight? 
 Perhaps in the far-away end but who knows? 
 
 and your guess is no better than mine, 
 For we preface our knowledge always with 
 
 " suppose " as the great verb " to live " we 
 
 decline. 
 So, putting all guesses straightway to the rear, it 
 
 seemeth most certainly right 
 To take off our hats and to heartily cheer for the 
 
 weak under dog in the fight. 
 
126 A SONG FOR THE UNDER DOG. 
 
 So here is my cheer for the poor under dog. He 
 
 is not the strongest, but then, 
 It may hap that he's better by far than the dog 
 
 that chews him again and again. 
 His stock may be finer, his loyalty proved, and I 
 
 think you will hardly demur 
 When I say that quite often the dog on the top 
 
 is the scurviest kind of a cur. 
 And as the rule runs in the big canine world, so 
 
 it runs with us humans, I know; 
 Too often some cur of a man is on top, with a 
 
 really good fellow below, 
 And that's why I'm singing as best I know how 
 
 this lame little anthem to-night 
 To the poor, hungry devil who's clear out of 
 
 luck the weak under dog in the fight. 
 
WHA 7 IS THE DREAM IN MY BABY'S EYES? 1*7 
 
 WHAT IS THE DREAM IN MY BABY'S 
 EYES? 
 
 \\7 HAT is the dream in the baby's eyes, 
 
 As she lies and blinks in mute surprise? 
 With little, wee hands that aimlessly go 
 Hither and thither and to and fro; 
 With little, wee feet that shall lead her God 
 
 knows, 
 
 But a prayer from my heart like a benison goes; 
 Bundle of helplessness, yonder she lies 
 What is the dream in my baby's eyes ? 
 
 What does she wonder, and what does she know 
 That we have forgotten so long, long ago? 
 Bathed in the dawnlight, what does she see 
 That slow years have hidden from you and from 
 
 me? 
 
 Out of the yesterdays, seeth she yet 
 The things that in living she soon shall forget, 
 All that is hidden beyond the blue skies? 
 What is the dream in my baby's eyes? 
 
1 28 WHA T IS THE DREA M IN MY BABY'S E YES f 
 
 Speak to me, little one, ere you forget: 
 What is the thought that is lingering yet? 
 Where is the land where the yesterdays meet, 
 Waiting and waiting the morrows to greet? 
 You wee, funny bundle, who only will blink, 
 What do you wonder, and what do you think? 
 Blue as the moonlight asleep in the skies, 
 What is the dream in my baby's eyes? 
 
MY GRANDSIR&S ''LET US PR A K" 129 
 
 MY GRANDSIRE'S " LET US PRAY." 
 
 "II THEN the morning meal was ended, my 
 * grandsire used to say: 
 
 " Let us ask our Heavenly Father now to help 
 us through the day." 
 
 Then he took the well-worn Bible from the little 
 corner stand, 
 
 And read about the glories of the happy, prom- 
 ised land. 
 
 There was just a little quaver in his voice when- 
 e'er he read 
 
 How the One who loved the people had not 
 where to lay His head, 
 
 But he told in tone triumphant how the stead- 
 fast win the fray; 
 
 Then closed the book with reverence, softly say- 
 ing: " Let us pray." 
 
 Our Heavenly Father, in Thy hands 
 
 Our lives are placed for keeping. 
 Guard us in mercy through the day; 
 
 Watch over us while sleeping; 
 And, if we sin, in love forgive; 
 
 Thou knowest all our blindness. 
 In darkness groping, still we trust 
 
 Ourselves unto Thy kindness. 
 
130 MY GRANDSIRE'S "LET US PRA K" 
 
 It was a little homely prayer, old fashioned if 
 
 you will, 
 But in my heart it's echoing yet and never will 
 
 be still. 
 
 Its only eloquence or charm was on my grand- 
 sire's face, 
 Yet I'm certain that it mounted to the Father's 
 
 throne of grace; 
 And I think the angels listened just to hear the 
 
 reverent tone 
 In which that gray-haired Christian made his 
 
 wants and sorrows known; 
 And though my feet have wandered oft from 
 
 duty's narrow way 
 Somehow I feel I'm better for my grandsire's 
 
 " Let us pray." 
 
 Oh, teach us, Father, that Thy way 
 
 Is always one of beauty, 
 And guide us lest our feet shall stray 
 
 From out the path of duty. 
 Life's hill is rugged, Father; lead, 
 
 Oh, lead us safely on; 
 Fit thou Thy mercy to our need, 
 
 Till robes of light we don. 
 
MY GRANDSIRE'S "LT US PRAY." 131 
 
 The prayer was long. I still recall how I would 
 
 squirm and wriggle, 
 And at my sister faces make till she perforce 
 
 must giggle; 
 Yet, through the recklessness of youth, some 
 
 words of human pleading 
 Would touch the boy and make him think of 
 
 paths to Heaven leading. 
 The kindness on that dear old face was written 
 
 like a blessing; 
 The love and peace that lingered there are past 
 
 my poor expressing, 
 But I know that I am better for the words he 
 
 used to say 
 When he closed the Bible gently, saying softly, 
 
 " Let us pray." 
 
 Oh, Thou, who blessed the children here 
 
 And held them in Thy keeping, 
 Bless Thou these two to us so dear, 
 
 Thy mercies on them heaping. 
 Through weary ways their feet must go; 
 
 Temptation will assail them, 
 But Thou wilt loving kindness show 
 
 And never, never fail them. 
 
132 MY GRANDSIR&S "LET US PRA K" 
 
 "Tis many years since he went home, by God's 
 
 own angels greeted 
 I know in Heaven's foremost row the rare old 
 
 man is seated. 
 No more I hear his loving words, no more his 
 
 kindly greeting, 
 But if I live one-half as well there'll be another 
 
 meeting. 
 My feet have wandered oftentimes; I caused him 
 
 care and worry; 
 I'd like to take his hand in mine and tell him " I 
 
 am sorry; " 
 And there's one thing I hope he knows up in the 
 
 land of day: 
 I've always been the better for his gentle " Let 
 
 us pray." 
 
WHEN WHEAT IS WORTH A DOLLAR. 133 
 
 X 
 
 WHEN WHEAT IS WORTH A DOLLAR. 
 
 XI 7 HEN wheat is worth a dollar, with a ten- 
 * * dency to rise, 
 
 On the horny-handed granger there are scarcely 
 
 any flies; 
 And he often stops to chuckle 'mid the labors of 
 
 the day, 
 And to ask the passing stranger, " Have you 
 
 read the markets? Hay! " 
 And his smile's a combination of a chasm and a 
 
 hole 
 
 And there's not a wave of trouble stirs his opti- 
 mistic soul, 
 As he says : " They call us hayseeds, but I 
 
 reckon we're no guys, 
 When wheat is worth a dollar, with a tendency 
 
 to rise." 
 
134 WHEN WHEAT IS WORTH A DOLLAR. 
 
 When wheat is worth a dollar I wish that I 
 
 eould stand 
 Among the honest grangers, with a pitchfork in 
 
 my hand; 
 With a pitchfork for an emblem, and a granary 
 
 full of wheat, 
 And a cinch upon that mortgage that would 
 
 seem amazing sweet. 
 I would not be a banker, nor with the bankers 
 
 stand, 
 But I yearn to be a granger of the horny-handed 
 
 brand; 
 Then my hayseed jubilate would uplift the 
 
 vaulted skies 
 When wheat is worth a dollar, with a tendency 
 
 to rise. 
 
WHEN WHEAT IS WORTH A DOLLAR. 135 
 
 When wheat is worth a dollar and still is going 
 
 up; 
 When the farmer drinks the nectar Nature pours 
 
 into his cup; 
 When his smile is broad and beaming, and his 
 
 laugh is like a roar 
 As he sees the golden gleaming of the wheat he 
 
 has in store, 
 Then I hope congratulations are a thing that's 
 
 rather neat, 
 From a man who isn't farming and is mighty 
 
 short of wheat, 
 For be sure that I extend them, as this pean will 
 
 advise, 
 When wheat is worth a dollar, with a tendency 
 
 to rise. 
 
THE LAND WHERE OUR DREAMS COME TRUE. 
 
 THE LAND WHERE OUR DREAMS 
 COME TRUE. 
 
 TN the land where our dreams come true, little 
 "* one, 
 
 In the land where our dreams come true, 
 We will bathe in the waters of Aidenn that run 
 From the glorified land, from the land of the sun, 
 And we'll joy in the prize that our life-effort won, 
 
 In the land where our dreams come true, 
 Little one, 
 
 In the land where our dreams come true. 
 
 There are those whom we loved in the long, long 
 
 ago, 
 
 In the land where our dreams come true, 
 And we'll look in their eyes with the lovelight 
 
 aglow, 
 And we'll walk by their side where the calm 
 
 waters flow, 
 With a peace in our hearts that the glorified 
 
 know, 
 In the land where our dreams come true, 
 
 Heigh-ho, 
 In the land where our dreams come true. 
 
THE LAND WHERE OUR DtfEAMS COME TRUE. 
 
 The hopes that have perished shall waken again, 
 
 In the land where our dreams come true; 
 They will troop to our side from the yesterdays' 
 
 fen, 
 
 From the valley of doubting, the shadowy glen; 
 They will come with a blessing to children of 
 
 men, 
 In the land where our dreams come true, 
 
 Do you ken, 
 In the land where our dreams come true. 
 
 So we'll turn from the past and its wrack, dear 
 
 heart, 
 
 To the land where our dreams come true; 
 Where the miles shall not sunder or hold us 
 
 apart, 
 
 But the hope that we knew into being shall start, 
 And to know and to love is the ultimate art, 
 In the land where our dreams come true, 
 
 Dear heart, 
 In the land where our dreams come true. 
 
138 HE HE'S TO THE MAN WHO RISES AGAIN. 
 
 HERE'S TO THE MAN WHO RISES 
 AGAIN. 
 
 XT OW here's to the man who rises again! 
 
 *^ I know that the battle is long; 
 
 We dream of the morrows, and dreaming is vain, 
 
 Downbeat in the maddening throng. 
 We walk and we stumble; we fall as we go, 
 
 And our hopes are but written in vain, 
 But we still may arise from the heaviest blow, 
 Stand stalwart, erect, with our face to the foe; 
 And there's no one more worthy of honor, I 
 trow, 
 
 Than the man who arises again. 
 
 We are down in the valley; the mists are about, 
 
 The pitfalls lie close at our feet; 
 We send our Ideals to turmoil and rout, 
 
 And many's the failure we meet; 
 
HER&S TO THE MAN WHO RISES AGAIN. 139 
 
 We are crushed in the struggle; we're weary and 
 
 worn, 
 
 And we feel that our hopes are in vain. 
 But still in the battle we're held and upborne 
 By the thought that not vainly we sigh and we 
 
 mourn; 
 Though the burden of failure in anguish we've 
 
 worn, 
 We may rise to our stature again. 
 
 To throw and to lose is a wearisome tale, 
 
 A tale that is old as the sun; 
 But who dares to write that the thrower shall fail 
 
 Till the sum of his throwing is done? 
 In the uttermost failure success may be writ, 
 
 For we stumble, the height to attain ; 
 In the wardrobe of nature there's not a misfit, 
 And the height over yonder is ours, I submit, 
 If, crushed and downfallen, we still strive for it, 
 
 And rise, though we're stricken, again. 
 
140 HER FAITH NEVER FALTERS. 
 
 HER FAITH NEVER FALTERS. 
 
 TV /T Y little daughter comes to me, 
 
 And whispers, " I am sorry; " 
 And I I take her on my knee 
 
 And tell her not to worry; 
 And then I kiss her, and she knows 
 
 How tenderly I love her. 
 We're just two children, I suppose; 
 
 I not a whit above her. 
 
 And then she lays her cheek to mine, 
 And says, " I love you dearly; " 
 
 And in my eyes the teardrops shine- 
 My heart will act so queerly. 
 
 She says, " My papa is so good," 
 Though I'm unworthy of her. 
 
 Dear little type of maidenhood, 
 I love her, oh, I love her. 
 
HER FAITH NEVER FALTERS. 
 
 I think sometimes I'd like to go 
 
 And tell her " I am sorry," 
 For, oh, my feet do falter so 
 
 'Mid life's unending worry. 
 Dear, loyal heart! Suppose I should 
 
 (I have done so or nearly), 
 She'd only say, " My papa's good. 
 
 I love him, oh, so dearly." 
 
 So, 'mid the storm of life and years, 
 
 My little daughter's kisses 
 And loyal faith have dried my tears, 
 
 And cares exchanged for blisses. 
 And, as I write, if tears will start,- 
 
 They're tears of gladness merely, 
 For these words bless my weary heart 
 
 " I love my papa dearly." 
 
142 WHEN I GO OUT ON MY WHEEL. 
 
 WHEN I GO OUT ON MY WHEEL. 
 
 TIT HEN I go out on my wheel, the world 
 
 * * Goes scurrying past, as the Hand unfurled 
 The leagues of hurrying brown or green; 
 And I see the little white houses between 
 The hedges and trees, and the air strikes hard 
 On my lifted face, and the odor of nard, 
 Of myrtle and roses, exalts like wine, 
 As I ride on my wheel and the world is mine. 
 
 When I go out on my wheel, the town 
 
 Fades away fades away into stretches of brown; 
 
 And I hear the murmur of brooks that run 
 
 Through the shady nooks till they greet the sun. 
 
 And it's ho! oho! for the joy I feel 
 
 As I ride, as I glide, on my steed cf steel; 
 
 And the day and its moments are all divine, 
 
 As I ride on my wheel and the world is mine. 
 
WHEN I GO OUT ON MY WHEEL. H3 
 
 When I go out on my wheel, I know 
 
 That back to the toil and the grind I must go; 
 
 But I do not mind as the moments fly, 
 
 For the world is fair and its child am I. 
 
 So it's ho! for the hedges that glide and glide, 
 
 And it's ho! for the brooklets that hide and hide, 
 
 And it's ho! for the day with its smile benign, 
 
 When I ride on my wheel and the world is mine. 
 
144 A SONG FOR THE RANK AND FILE. 
 
 A SONG FOR THE RANK AND FILE. 
 
 "V TOT to the brave commanders who ordered 
 
 *" the boys to go 
 
 Where the hail of death beat on them and the 
 
 blood of the brave must flow; 
 Not to the ones who wore the straps, though 
 
 theirs is the hero's claim, 
 And their names and their deeds are written on 
 
 the wonderful scroll of Fame, 
 But to those, unsung, unhonored, who marched 
 
 at their country's call 
 Where lives went out to the battle shout and the 
 
 flag was a funeral pall; 
 To these, the humbler heroes, who marched 
 
 where their duty lay; 
 
 To the soldiers who bore the muskets, I'm sing- 
 ing a song to-day. 
 
A SONG FOR THE RANK AND FILE. 145 
 
 To the soldiers who bore the muskets for them 
 not a hope of fame, 
 
 Nor the witch'ry that lingers ever in that mys- 
 tical spell, a name. 
 
 No dream of the future lured them, nor the heat 
 of ambition's breath, 
 
 As they shouldered their muskets calmly and 
 marched to the valley of death. 
 
 Where the Cuban suns beat on them, in the 
 drench of the tropical rain, 
 
 Or stricken by Spanish bullets, they took up the 
 burden of pain. 
 
 They saw but their duty, and did it no hope of 
 the laurel or bay, 
 
 And so to the boys with the muskets I'm sing- 
 ing a song to-day. 
 
146 A SONG FOR THE RANK AND FILE. 
 
 The world has praise for its heroes, a chosen 
 
 and honored few, 
 But I say that they all are heroes, the boys who 
 
 have worn the blue. 
 
 They went at their country's summons; they of- 
 fered their gift of life, 
 And what could the ones we honor do more in 
 
 the nation's strife? 
 Unnamed in the " late dispatches," and weary 
 
 and worn the while, 
 They marched where the bullets whistled, the 
 
 men of the rank and file; 
 So others may chant their praises, the chosen 
 
 and honored few, 
 I sing to the boys with the muskets the men in 
 
 the unstrapped blue. 
 
HUSHABY, LULLABY. 147 
 
 HUSHABY, LULLABY. 
 
 T T USHABY, lullaby, my little men; 
 
 ^ -^ The sandman conies, but he goes again. 
 
 Hushaby, lullaby, little wee maids; 
 
 The round world turns and it seeks the shades, 
 
 And Sleep comes stealing adown, adown, 
 
 And he closes the eyes of blue or brown, 
 
 And he weaves his net and it holds you thrall 
 
 Hushaby, lullaby, little ones all. 
 
 Hushaby, lullaby. One little star 
 
 Is peeping adown from afar, so far 
 
 That its great white light is a slender beam 
 
 When it reaches the world where the babies 
 
 dream, 
 
 A slender beam that can only kiss 
 The little wee heads for it came for this 
 Ere it dies away in a glimmer small 
 Hushaby, lullaby, little ones all. 
 
148 HUSHABY, LULLABY. 
 
 Hushaby, lullaby. Life is a maze 
 
 Where blindly we wander through wearisome 
 
 days, 
 Through wearisome days when the spirit is 
 
 numb, 
 
 Till out of the shadows the little ones come. 
 Then mothers stoop to them to kiss and caress, 
 And the souls of the fathers they gladden and 
 
 bless; 
 For straight from the heavens God's angels they 
 
 call 
 Hushaby, lullaby, little ones all. 
 
IN OUR LAND OF CALIFORNIA. 149 
 
 IN OUR LAND OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 T 17 HEN the daylight all has faded and the 
 
 * * sunbeams are at rest, 
 
 When the last faint streak of crimson dies to 
 
 ashen in the west; 
 When the god of day and glory hides his face 
 
 behind the world, 
 And the earth is like a maiden in a mantle dew- 
 
 impearled, 
 Then beyond the untrod spaces, and beyond the 
 
 misty bars, 
 
 In their distant, distant places shine the multi- 
 tude of stars; 
 But their utmost, tender splendor, it is showered 
 
 on us here, 
 In our land of California, in our Summer land 
 
 of cheer. 
 
ISO IN OUR LAND OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 There is glory in our sunlight as it sparkles o'er 
 
 the plain, 
 As it laughs adown the valleys till the valleys 
 
 laugh again; 
 
 But it's only when the starlight shimmers, glim- 
 mers down the world 
 That back unto their hidden home the brood of 
 
 trouble's hurled. 
 For who could harbor discontent when comfort's 
 
 everywhere, 
 When peace is in the tranquil night and peace is 
 
 in the air; 
 When every breeze that fans your cheek seems 
 
 whispering, " Rest is here," 
 In our land of California, in our Summer land 
 
 of cheer. 
 
IN OUR LAND OF CALIFORNIA. 15* 
 
 That gray old mantle yonder, with its sparkling 
 
 diamonds set, 
 Beyond its utmost border is the Land of Care 
 
 and Fret; 
 And every star that sparkles there is where an 
 
 angel stands, 
 And every breeze that whispers bears a blessing 
 
 from His hands. 
 But in the Eastern country, lo! the mists are in 
 
 the way, 
 And so the benediction's lost, the blessing goes 
 
 astray; 
 But I think if man will listen he will hear that 
 
 blessing here, 
 In our land of California, in our Summer land 
 
 of cheer. 
 
152 REACH DOWN FROM YOUR HEAVEN. 
 
 REACH DOWN FROM YOUR HEAVEN. 
 
 EACH down, reach down from your heaven, 
 
 My love whom I loved so well, 
 For my day sinks down to its even, 
 And the darkening shadows dwell 
 Where my heart like a monk is sitting 
 
 Mid the wrack of its wasted years, 
 And my soul of its hopes is knitting 
 A shroud that is bleached by tears. 
 
 Reach down, reach down from your heaven, 
 
 For I dream in the mist-hid sphere, 
 The God to your soul hath given 
 
 The right of returning here, 
 And, lo! when the twilight presses 
 
 Its seal on my dreamy eyes, 
 You come with the old caresses, 
 
 And care from my spirit flies. 
 
REACH DOWN FROM YOUR HEAVEN. 153 
 
 They say, where the white rose blooming 
 
 Smiles back to the smile of its God, 
 You lie in the daytime and glooming, 
 
 Asleep 'neath the life-giving sod; 
 But I fathomed the lie that they told me 
 
 When you came in the even's shade 
 To kiss and caress and enfold me, 
 
 With your heart to my warm heart laid. 
 
 Then the years turned back in their creeping, 
 
 And the past was again to-day, 
 And I knew that you waked from your sleeping 
 
 To lighten the weary way 
 I walk through the tear-wet valley 
 
 Which leads to the hills of light, 
 Where the angels of happiness rally 
 
 And His smile breaks the seal of the night. 
 
 Reach down, reach down from your heaven, 
 
 Lest my soul in its helplessness fall, 
 And I take of the world's dread leaven 
 
 That poisons the spirit of all. 
 Then whisper me upward and onward, 
 
 Though they tell me my dream is a lie; 
 For the soul that cleaves starward and sunward 
 
 Shall live though the universe die. 
 
154 THE POOR LITTLE BIRDIES. 
 
 THE POOR LITTLE BIRDIES. 
 
 'T^HE poor little birdies that sleep in the trees, 
 * Going rockaby, rockaby, lulled by the 
 
 breeze; 
 
 The poor little birdies, they make me feel bad, 
 Oh, terribly, dreadfully, dismally sad, 
 For think of it, little one; ponder and weep 
 The birdies must stand when they sleep, when 
 they sleep; 
 
 And their poor little legs 
 
 I am sure it is so 
 They ache, and they ache, 
 
 For they're weary, you know. 
 And that is the reason that far in the night 
 You may hear them say " Dear-r-r! " if you lis- 
 ten just right, 
 For the poor little birdies would sleep on the 
 
 bough, 
 
 And they want to lie down, but they do not 
 know how. 
 
THE POOR LITTLE BIRDIES. 155 
 
 Just think of it, darling; suppose you must stand 
 On those little brown legs, all so prettily 
 
 planned; 
 Suppose you must stand when you wanted to 
 
 sleep, 
 I am sure you would call for your mama and 
 
 weep, 
 And your poor little legs, they would cramp, I 
 
 have guessed, 
 And your poor little knees, they would call for a 
 
 rest; 
 
 And you'd cry, I am sure, 
 For so weary you'd be; 
 And you'd want to lie down, 
 But you couldn't, you see. 
 And that is the reason why we should feel bad 
 For the poor little birdies, who ought to be glad; 
 For they want to lie down as they sleep on the 
 
 bough; 
 They want to lie own, but they don't know 
 
 how. 
 
THE BROOK THA T RAN DOWN TO THE HILL. 
 
 THE BROOK THAT RAN DOWN TO THE 
 MILL. 
 
 T MET you that night at the charity ball, 
 And you looked like a fairyland queen, 
 And your smile was so gracious it held me in 
 thrall, 
 
 A most willing captive, I ween; 
 And I wondered, I wondered perhaps it was 
 wrong-^- 
 
 If then you remembered them still, 
 The days when we waded the afternoons long 
 
 In the brook that ran down to the mill. 
 
 I am only a scribe, with a pencil for fate, 
 
 While you are a fairyland queen, 
 But someway I thought as the moments grew 
 late 
 
 That perhaps you remembered that scene, 
 When two little children, with little bare legs, 
 
 And voices with laughter athrill, 
 Dug deep in the sand for the brown turtle's 
 eggs, 
 
 Near the brook that ran down to the mill. 
 
THE BROOK THA T RAN DOWN TO THE MILL. 
 
 And I wondered, I wondered perhaps it was 
 wrong 
 
 If you wouldn't be willing, you know, 
 To wander again to that country of song 
 
 Where the barefooted little ones go; 
 And I would go with you; my pencil should fall, 
 
 And my fancy should rest at its will, 
 While with pin-hooks we'd fish for the "shiners" 
 o'ersmall 
 
 In the brook that ran down to the mill. 
 
 Oh, queen of the fairyland, little bare feet 
 
 Are hardly a dress-party theme, 
 But, someway, to me is their memory sweet, 
 
 As their patter I hear in my dream; 
 And honest whatever life's glories may be, 
 
 Would you not barter all for the thrill 
 That you knew in the past when you waded with 
 me 
 
 In the brook that ran down to the mill? 
 
158 AS WE JOG ON TOGETHER. 
 
 AS WE JOG ON TOGETHER. 
 
 T LOVE my love, and she loves me. 
 * We jog along together 
 O'er rocky upland, flowery lea, 
 
 Through fair or stormy weather. 
 And if the day bring naught of cheer, 
 
 Or if the way be weary, 
 'Tis all forgotten when she's near, 
 
 My dearie, oh, my dearie. 
 
 Sometimes the mists about us close, 
 
 Of doubt and boding blended, 
 And where we journey neither knows, 
 
 Nor where the journey's ended. 
 Yet do we but the closer press, 
 
 While fogs creep o'er the heather, 
 And still we feel that life doth bless, 
 
 As we jog on together. 
 
AS WE JOG ON TOGETHER. 159 
 
 A little homely home of cheer; 
 
 Two hearts that love me dearly 
 If this bring not a heaven here, 
 
 I know it does it nearly. 
 So if the suns shall shine or hide, 
 
 Be fair or foul the weather, 
 I'm full content the end to bide 
 
 While we jog on together. 
 
l6o "J/y BROTHER* LL BE ALL RIGHT' 
 
 " MY BROTHER'LL BE ALL RIGHT." 
 
 T ALWAYS was in those old days the family's 
 
 A blackest sheep; 
 
 Somehow I couldn't curb the blood that in my 
 veins would leap. 
 
 My cousins walked a straight-hewn path accord- 
 ing to a rule, 
 
 And rarely swore, and never fought nor " hook- 
 ey " played at school; 
 
 And all my uncles shook their heads and said, 
 " He will go bad; 
 
 There never was more cussedness boiled down 
 in one small lad." 
 
 But whatsoever they all vowed, and whatsoe'er 
 my plight, 
 
 My sister stood right up and said, " My brother'll 
 be all right." 
 
<MY BROTHER* LL BE ALL RIGHT." l6t 
 
 She didn't say, " My brother is," you mind- 
 she didn't dare; 
 But when she said, " My brother'll be," I'd voW 
 
 right then and there 
 That though I fell and barked my shins until 
 
 they were a sight, 
 I'd rise again and prove at last that that dear 
 
 girl was right. 
 And so her trust would follow me, for boys, you 
 
 know, like men, 
 Whene'er they fall need human faith to pick 
 
 them up again; 
 And few I think are ever lost or conquered in 
 
 the fight 
 Who somewhere know one soul that says, " My 
 
 brother'll be all right." 
 
162 "MY BROTHER' LL BE ALL RIGHT* 
 
 Sometimes in that sweet hour before the daylight 
 
 all had fled 
 My sister'd creep into my arms and rest her bon- 
 
 nie head 
 Upon my shoulder, and she'd tell of all she 
 
 dreamed for me. 
 Oh, loyal heart of foolish faith! Through eyes 
 
 bedimmed I see 
 The eyes of blue her soul looked through, the 
 
 face with love aglow, 
 And scarcely will my heart believe 'twas long, so 
 
 long ago, 
 That golden hour; for still I hear as 'twere but 
 
 yesternight 
 The words she whispered in my ear, " My 
 
 brother'll be all right." 
 
'MY BROTHER' LL BE ALL RIGHT." 163 
 
 'Twas long ago; the frost of Time has cooled my 
 
 youthful blood; 
 No more it hurries to and fro, nor runs a restless 
 
 flood. 
 The miles are wide 'twixt her and me; the years 
 
 ar3 long between; 
 She walks where earth's asleep in white, and I 
 
 where it is green; 
 Yet does her faith still urge me on, and whisper 
 
 me, " Be true," 
 To fight my fight, and, stumbling oft, the battle 
 
 yet renew; 
 And I reply: Oh, sister mine, though dark may 
 
 be the night, 
 I'll justify the trust that said, " My brother'll be 
 
 all right." 
 
164 KNEE-DEEP IN CLOSER. 
 
 \ 
 
 KNEE-DEEP IN CLOVER. 
 
 TV" NEE-DEEP in clover the way I used to be, 
 When earth was more like Heaven than 
 
 now it seems to me; 
 When the bees were droning 'round me as if 
 
 they didn't care 
 To work too hard with laziness just pulsing in 
 
 the air; 
 When skies were clear, so crystal clear that I 
 
 could look up through 
 
 And sort of fancy that I saw the things the an- 
 gels do; 
 
 When far or near, 
 And rising clear, 
 The notes of birds fell on my ear; 
 With chipmunks sitting on the fence and talking 
 
 back to me 
 Knee-deep in clover the way I used to be. 
 
KNEE-DEEP IN CLOVER. 165 
 
 Knee-deep in clover, with robins chirping 
 'round, 
 
 And all the world about me just running o'er 
 with sound; 
 
 Fellow whistling yonder merry as could be; 
 
 River dimpling in the sun as if 'twere wooing 
 me; 
 
 Fragrance of the blossoms nothing like it 
 now 
 
 Nature smiling on me as she's forgotten how; 
 A dream of peace, 
 To never cease 
 Till life gives memory her release; 
 
 With gladness whispering in my heart and fill- 
 ing, thrilling me 
 
 Knee-deep in clover the way I used to be. 
 
1 66 TENDERLY TAKE AND HOLD THEM. 
 
 TENDERLY TAKE AND HOLD THEM. 
 
 strong right hand, O, my Father, 
 Reach down and tenderly press 
 To the eyes where the teardrops gather; 
 
 Reach down with a soft caress, 
 And through the dark night spaces 
 Let dreams like the angels come, 
 To gladden with memory's graces 
 The hearts by their pain made numb. 
 
 With eyes that are wistful and weary 
 
 They look to the shadowy veil, 
 And still are the long hours dreary, 
 
 And still do the visions fail. 
 Then come when the night's gray streamers 
 
 Float back from the faded day, 
 And gladden the pale-faced dreamers 
 
 And soothe all their trials away. 
 
TENDERLY TAKE AND HOLD THEM. 167 
 
 Where the chasms of life are yawning 
 
 They struggle and falter and fall; 
 They stand with their eyes to the dawning, 
 
 But darkness is over them all. 
 Then tenderly take and hold them, 
 
 As mothers their babes caress; 
 In the arms of Thy pity enfold them, 
 
 And soothe them, and comfort, and bless. 
 
 As the breeze to the toiler seemeth; 
 
 As the dews to the heart of the rose; 
 As love to the maiden that dreameth; 
 
 As the rains that the desert knows, 
 So come when the world lies sleeping, 
 
 Soft rocked in the cradle of rest, 
 Thy loved in Thy strong arms keeping 
 
 Close, close to Thine infinite breast. 
 
168 WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 
 
 WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 
 
 SOMETIMES 'long after supper my grand- 
 
 ^ sire used to sit 
 
 Where the sunbeams through the window things 
 
 of beauty liked to knit, 
 And he'd light his pipe and sit there in a sort of 
 
 waking dream, 
 
 While to bathe his form in glory seemed the sun- 
 light's pretty scheme; 
 And then, whatever happened, he didn't seem to 
 
 see, 
 And a smile lit up his features that used to puzzle 
 
 me, 
 And I would often wonder what pleasant inner 
 
 theme 
 Had caused that strange and tranquil smile when 
 
 grandpa used to dream. 
 
WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 169 
 
 Sometimes, though, when I'd listen I'd hear the 
 good man sigh, 
 
 And once I'm almost sure I saw the moisture in 
 his eye, 
 
 But whether he would smile or sigh, he didn't 
 seem to see 
 
 The things that happened 'round him, and that's 
 what puzzled me. 
 
 With the wreaths of smoke ascending as the twi- 
 light gathered there, 
 
 The shadows crept about him in the old arm- 
 chair, 
 
 And through the evening darkness I could see 
 the fitful gleam 
 
 From the embers in his lighted pipe when grand- 
 pa used to dream. 
 
170 WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 
 
 I used to wonder in those days. I wonder now 
 
 no more, 
 For now I understand the thing that puzzled me 
 
 of yore, 
 And I know that through the twilight and the 
 
 shadows gathering fast 
 Came unto my grandsire, dreaming, the visions 
 
 of the past. 
 The boys who played with him were there within 
 
 that little room; 
 His mother's smile no doubt lit up the darkness 
 
 and the gloom; 
 Again he ran and leaped and played beside an 
 
 Eastern stream; 
 The ones he loved were there, I know, when 
 
 grandpa used to dream. 
 
WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. I? I 
 
 And so he smiled and then she stood, his dear- 
 est, at his side, 
 
 With the glow of youth upon her, red-lipped and 
 laughing-eyed, 
 
 And he told the old, sweet story, and she lis- 
 tened, nothing loth, 
 
 And dreams of hope were written in the happy 
 hearts of both; 
 
 And then, by strange transition, he saw her 
 pulseless lie 
 
 And 'twas then I viewed the moisture in the cor- 
 ner of his eye. 
 
 Old friends were gathered round him, though 
 they'd crossed death's mystic stream, 
 
 In that hour of smiles and sighing when my 
 grandsire used to dream. 
 
1 72 WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 
 
 Oh, glad, sad gift of memory to call our dear 
 ones back 
 
 And win them from their narrow homes to 
 Time's still beaten track! 
 
 Yours was the power my grandsire held while 
 twilight turned to night; 
 
 Through you his loved returned again and 
 blessed his longing sight; 
 
 And I no longer wonder, when his dreaming I 
 recall, 
 
 At smiles and sighs succeeding while the shad- 
 ows hid us all, 
 
 For, while my pencil's trailing and I've half for- 
 got my theme, 
 
 I, too, am seeing visions, as my grandsire used 
 to dream. 
 
'I'M PRAYING FOR YOU." 173 
 
 "I'M PRAYING FOR YOU." 
 
 HERE'S a quaint little letter that lies on 
 
 my stand, 
 
 A quaint little letter in old-fashioned hand. 
 It is lacking somewhat in rhetorical grace, 
 And its capital letters at times lose their place; 
 It scarcely would bear the most critical test, 
 Yet of all correspondence I hold it the best, 
 For it ends ah, in love it was written all 
 
 through : 
 " Remember, my boy, that I'm praying for you." 
 
 " Remember, my boy " oh, an old boy am I, 
 With a head that shines back to the laugh of the 
 
 sky, 
 
 But to her I'm " my boy," and I always will be, 
 Till the white angel steps 'twixt my mother and 
 
 me, 
 
 And longer the love that has guarded my way 
 I know will not cease at the close of the day, 
 But will whisper me still from the infinite blue, 
 " Remember, my boy, that I'm praying for you." 
 
174 "J'Jtf PRAYING FOR YOU." 
 
 " I'm praying for you " God knows we all need 
 That some heart of love to the Father shall plead, 
 For our feet will but stumble on life's rugged 
 
 way, 
 
 And we frequently find that we're sadly astray. 
 We say to our spirits, " Be brave and press on," 
 But the spirit will faint and the soul will grow 
 
 wan; 
 And then comes the message, our strength to 
 
 renew: 
 " Remember, my boy, that I'm praying for you." 
 
 Remember! Oh, mother, I could not forget. 
 Still the dear, loving message my lashes will wet, 
 As I read it here written in old-fashioned hand 
 In the quaint little letter that lies on my stand; 
 And in fancy I see you, as often of old, 
 When love kissed your face into beauty untold, 
 As you knelt by my cot With eyes strangely 
 
 dim, 
 Your boy does remember you're praying for him. 
 
THE OLD, OLD SONG. 175 
 
 THE OLD, OLD SONG. 
 
 T T ERE is a song that no one sings; 
 
 * Here are the words that no one knows. 
 
 Out of the breath of a thousand springs, 
 
 Out of the chill of a thousand snows, 
 Cometh the song that I sing to-day, 
 A song that is new and is old alway: 
 
 A little joy, a little woe, 
 
 An unseen path we blindly go, 
 
 A little time for weeping, 
 
 A little hour to walk or creep, 
 A little faith but half to keep 
 
 And then there comes the sleeping. 
 
1 76 THE OLD, OLD SONG. 
 
 A song that echoes down the years; 
 
 A song as old as time is old; 
 A song we hear with falling tears, 
 
 While heads turn gray and hearts grow cold; 
 The old, old song, the song of life, 
 A chant from out a vale of strife: 
 
 A little joy, a little woe, 
 
 An unseen path we blindly go, 
 
 A little time for weeping, 
 
 A little hour to walk or creep, 
 A little faith but half to keep 
 
 And then the final sleeping. 
 
 OF THE 
 
 1 UNIVERSITY 1 
 
PS3I57 
 
 CVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY