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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. | 
 
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 GIFT OF | 
 
 GEORGE MOREY RICHARDSON. 
 
 Received, ^August, 1898. 
 Accession No. ^3 Class No. 7^<J? 
 
 
73 3 Z 2- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Dear friends: one aud all. 
 
 The little volume, I uow present to you, 
 Is my first work, 
 
 Composed for a public view. 
 
 -3 A. j 
 And I hope that you, 
 
 Unheeded will not pass it by, 
 With careless manner, 
 
 And cold averted eye. 
 
 Please, at this little volume look, 
 
 And then to kindly take ; 
 Perhaps you ll not regret it, 
 
 Buy it for the writer s sake. 
 
 Pause, gentle reader, ere your criticism, 
 
 On my little volume cast ; 
 Remember it is my first, 
 
 Though it may not be my last. 
 
 That you may buy the Forget me not, 
 
 And of it may not tire, 
 That it may gain your kind approval, 
 
 Is the authoress earnest desire. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE, 
 
 Lines After Sickness 5 
 
 To Alice 6 
 
 Reflections 7 
 
 The Sabbath Bell 8 
 
 They Say 9 
 
 To , 11 
 
 My Cottage Home 11 
 
 Lost 13 
 
 The Stepmother s Chair 13 
 
 Au Revoir 15 
 
 On the Eve of Parting 15 
 
 We All Must Pass Away 15 
 
 Lines on a Sick Bed 16 
 
 The Rainbow 17 
 
 Lines Composed on Thanksgiving Day 18 
 
 To My Cousin on His Birthday 18 
 
 The Married Daughter 19 
 
 A Happy Thought 20 
 
 Twilight Musings 20 
 
 Farewell to my Old Pen 21 
 
 The Old Pen s Reply 22 
 
 Never Despair 23 
 
 My Favorite Village 23 
 
 The Old Woman s Wish 24 
 
 Childish Love 26 
 
 That Fatal Cup 28 
 
 The Faded Ribbon 30 
 
 An Inventory 33 
 
 Lines From Amicus , 34 
 
 Only a Lock of Hair &5 
 
 The Sunlight 37 
 
 On the Death of Eddie Hudson 38 
 
 Our Chapel \ 40 
 
 Lines Suggested at a Watch-Meeting 41 
 
 By-and-By . 43 
 
iv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Air Castles 44 
 
 To My Mother, on Her Birthday 45 
 
 The Widow s Child 46 
 
 The Maple Leaf 47 
 
 Alice s Prayer 47 
 
 Only One Eye : . 50 
 
 The Empty Chair 51 
 
 On the Death of Allie Avery 52 
 
 A Visit to the Old Butternut Tree 53 
 
 No Letter 55 
 
 To a Robin 56 
 
 Letter to My Cousin, J. W. H., on His Birthday 56 
 
 Dick, My Chicken 58 
 
 On the Death of Hon. Erastus Corning 60 
 
 On the Death of Allie Watson 61 
 
 The DroAvned Boy 62 
 
 The Philanthropist 63 
 
 Rest 63 
 
 The Old Red School-house 64 
 
 The Drunkard s Wife 65 
 
 A Reminiscence 66 
 
 My Choice 67 
 
 The Gossip s Mistake 68 
 
 To-morrow "0 
 
 The Bible 70 
 
 Is it Any Thing to Me? 71 
 
 The ,Lost Basket 72 
 
 Judge Not 73 
 
 A Summer Evening 74 
 
 Reading a Newspaper 74 
 
 The Potato 76 
 
 Then and Now 77 
 
 No 78 
 
 An Old Mirror 79 
 
 Wanted 80 
 
 Watching a Candle Burn 81 
 
 My Mother s Chair 82 
 
 A Child s Diary 83 
 
 Not Too Far 84 
 
 " Thy Will Be Done " 84 
 
 The Flower Garden 85 
 
 If You Have a Will 87 
 
 Nut Gathering 88 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 "Too Late " 89 
 
 The Bridal 90 
 
 The Close of Day 92 
 
 My Faith 93 
 
 A Visit To The Cemetery 94 
 
 A Fashionable Prayer 102 
 
 What Shall We Make of Him 102 
 
 Sunday . . 103 
 
 Robbie 104 
 
 "Make Yourself at Home" 105 
 
 Parting Words 106 
 
 The First Glass 107 
 
 The Blue Gauze Veil 108 
 
 One Step at a Time 109 
 
 Lin es for an Album 109 
 
 The Old Fashioned Stage 110 
 
 " May Day " Ill 
 
 To the Readers of My Volume 112 
 
 A Question 112 
 
POEMS. 
 
 LINES AFTER SICKNESS. 
 
 The flowers have withered and leaves turned red, 
 
 And formed for the walks a mat; 
 And the village has grown dull and lonesome, 
 
 Since by this window last I sat. 
 
 Things look dull and dreary now, 
 
 Sadly I look at my gipsy hat, 
 And think of the pleasant days gone by, 
 
 And the day when by this window last I sat. 
 
 I sit again by my favorite window. 
 
 But can see nobody but Irish Pat, 
 For the people have left the village, 
 
 Since by this window last I sat. 
 
 There almost seems a blank in my life, 
 
 As sadly I think of this and that. 
 And the many changes that have taken place, 
 
 Since bv this window last I sat. 
 
And over the graves of some I knew 
 
 The leaves have formed a mat, 
 And the grass is growing o er them, 
 
 Since by this window last I sat. 
 
 I am lonesome, weak and spiritless ; 
 
 I have no pets, not even a cat, 
 And truant memory wanders to the day, 
 
 When by this window last I sat. 
 
 I ll coax mamma to go on a visit, 
 
 On a pleasant visit to nncle Mat ; 
 And try to forget the time, 
 
 When by this window last I sat. 
 
 The flowers have withered and leaves turned red. 
 
 And formed for the walks a mat ; 
 A nd the village has grown dull and dreary, 
 
 Since by this window last I sat. 
 
 TO ALICE. 
 
 The time has come that we must part, 
 And now dear cousin fare thee well ; 
 
 I say it with a sad and aching heart, 
 And feelings that I cannot tell. 
 
REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Home from church once more, 
 
 Closed are the shutters, 
 
 And barred is the door, 
 
 Down for the night again I ve lain, 
 
 Gently falls the pattering rain, 
 
 I close my eyes and wander once more 
 
 Far into the past, 
 
 Among scenes that are o er ; 
 
 In the old familiar orchard 
 
 Again I stand, 
 
 With book tightly clasped in hand; 
 
 Now I m under the old sweet tree, 
 
 Fairy book upon my knee ; 
 
 Now I m conning swiftly o er 
 
 The pages I love so well, 
 
 Not thinking that the truth 
 
 They wholly fail to tell ; 
 
 Again I wander near the spot, 
 
 Where blooms the sweet forget-me-not ; 
 
 Again I m bending o er the sweet scented flowers, 
 
 Planted there in childhood s hours; 
 
 Now I m at the garden gate, 
 
 A pleasant good evening to Jennie and Kate, 
 
 Chatting childish nonsense, 
 
 Over the garden fence ; 
 
 Again I m seated in the old church on the hill, 
 
 Singing the Sunday school song, 
 
 "Drink from the sparkling rili " ; 
 
Now I sit in the old red school house, 
 
 Listening to the childish stammer. 
 
 At the monotonous question, 
 
 What is. English Grammar ? 
 
 Now I m strolling down the garden walk, 
 
 Plucking as I go the slender stalk 
 
 Of the stately Hollyhock ; 
 
 Again I follow the running brook, 
 
 Watching the fishes on Willie s hook ; 
 
 Now I m in the old brown barn, 
 
 Where large stacks of new mown hay 
 
 Have been deftly mowed away ; 
 
 Again I stand by my favorite window 
 
 Where so oft I ve stood 
 
 In the happy days of childhood. 
 
 But lo ! the midnight bell 
 
 Calls me from my favorite scene ; 
 
 Alas ! it was only a visionary dream. 
 
 THE SABBATH BELL. 
 I lie alone in my room 
 
 With feelings I cannot tell, 
 And the only sound I hear, 
 
 Is the Holy Sabbath bell. 
 
 I lie alone in my quiet room, 
 Listening some sound to hear, 
 
 When joyfully, joyfully 
 
 The Sabbath bell greets my ear 
 
THEY SAY. 
 
 "They say" is a bitter fiend to all 
 
 Old and young, 
 
 Eich and poor, 
 
 Alike to all ; 
 
 Even on the most innocent 
 The "They Say" rumors fall. 
 
 They generally commence 
 
 Without foundation, 
 And touch upon those 
 
 Of every rank and every station. 
 
 " They Say " is told to an intimate friend. 
 And here, of course, it does not end ; 
 Soon into another friendly ear, 
 The tale is poured, with a laugh and sneer, 
 
 "They Say" has blighted many a life 
 Has caused hatred, envy and strife ; 
 Yet, the " They Say " rumors do not cease, 
 But rather continue to increase. 
 
10 
 
 Could the innocent and unsuspecting 
 
 For a moment know 
 
 That " They Say " is on the go, 
 They would not wonder why 
 Old friends pass them coolly by. 
 
 "They Say" is continually causing 
 
 Sorrow, grief and woe, 
 And is, indeed, to all (exceptions are rare) 
 
 A bitter foe. 
 
 " They Say " rumors are ever 
 
 On the wing, 
 And few they are who stop to ask 
 
 Whence they spring. 
 
 Let each and every one, 
 
 To whom is told " They Say," 
 
 Just pause, before replying, 
 And ask who are the " They." 
 
11 
 
 TO 
 
 The pleasant hours have past, 
 
 And I must now return ; 
 Tis hard to say good-bye, 
 
 But the lesson we must learn. 
 
 But I shall not forget the hours 
 
 We ve spent by the bright green sea, 
 
 And though I may be far away 
 I shall often think of thee. 
 
 Through life s stormy weather, 
 
 Where e er thou goest, where e er thou be, 
 Though daily cares be many, 
 
 Please sometimes think of me. 
 
 MY COTTAGE HOME. 
 
 If thou will listen a while to me, 
 
 I will try and paint a picture for thee, 
 
 But do not expect it to be great, or grand, 
 
 Painted by my inexperienced hand ; 
 
 It will be no spiral arch, 
 
 Nor celebrated dome ; 
 
 No monarch s palace, 
 
 Nor king s high throne ; 
 
 The picture I will paint for thee, 
 
 Is simply my cottage home ; 
 
 It stands upon a little hill, 
 
Of the brightest mossy green, 
 
 Close beside a sparkling rill, 
 
 The merriest ever seen ; 
 
 Its size is just the kind 
 
 To please any cheerful, contented mind ; 
 
 Its color is white, with blinds of green, 
 
 So bright and new, 
 
 Methinks the prettiest 
 
 Ever the sun shown through ; 
 
 And of flowers the most brilliant store, 
 
 That human eye hath seen, 
 
 Surrounds my cottage door ; 
 
 Roses of every size and hue, 
 
 And morning glories red, white and blue, 
 
 Arid running vines are clinging o er, 
 
 And peeping in at my cottage door ; 
 
 My cottage home is simple, neat and plain. 
 
 Of grandeur it does not boast, 
 
 Pretensions to wealth it does not claim, 
 
 But comfort and cheerfulness doth 
 
 My cottage home surround, 
 
 And many attractive features 
 
 Can here be found ; 
 
 But alas the happy days, 
 
 That I could call it mine, have flown, 
 
 And a stranger owns my cottage home. 
 
13 
 
 LOST. 
 
 Lost last evening between sun down and dark, 
 
 Between the stone church and the village Park, 
 
 A priceless treasure of value untold, 
 
 More precious by far than silver or gold; 
 
 Money did not purchase it, 
 
 And money cannot replace it ; 
 
 It was a gift from no earthly friend, 
 
 But a gift that God did send ; 
 
 For the gratification of pleasure 
 
 Was lost this beautiful treasure ; 
 
 For the sake of a walk, 
 
 And a little small talk, 
 
 Without regard to cost, 
 
 The priceless gem was lost ; 
 
 Xo reward is offered the finder, 
 
 For to find no one has the power; 
 
 The treasure lost was a golden liour. 
 
 THE STEPMOTHER S CHAIR 
 
 To those, who are contemplating 
 
 Connubial bliss, 
 A word of kind advice is offered, 
 
 It is this : 
 
 Consider the step you re about to take, 
 And be sure you re wide awake, 
 For your happiness is now af stake ; 
 
14 
 
 Whether good or whether bad, 
 You are choosing your future fate ; 
 Pause then ere it be too late, 
 And above all things beware ! beware ! 
 Of taking the stepmother s chair. 
 
 Joy may seem in store for you, 
 
 Pleasures too may seem in view, 
 
 But no happiness will you see, 
 
 After a stepmother you ve come to be; 
 
 Though the future look bright and fair, 
 
 Sorrow and trouble are lurking there, 
 
 Of this fact be well aware, 
 
 Happiness comes not from the stepmother s chair 
 
 It is no trifling act to do, 
 
 But indeed, a serious and sad affair, 
 
 To take the step which seats you 
 
 In the stepmother s chair; 
 
 There is a mystic nymph called fate 
 
 Who is ever at your hand, 
 
 And like a messenger from fairy land, 
 
 She is whispering, ere it be too late, 
 
 List to a warning voice, 
 
 Beware of your impending fate, 
 
 And, beware ! beware ! 
 
 Of the stepmother s chair. 
 
AU REVOIR. 
 Farewell is hard to say, 
 Adieu is not much better, 
 While good-by, I fail to utter, 
 
 What shall I say ? 
 Some word must soon be spoken,- 
 
 Only to-morrow, 
 Oh ! I ll say simply au revoir. 
 
 ON THE EVE OF PARTING. 
 
 On the morrow we must part : 
 This little token I give to thee, 
 
 And though we never meet again, 
 I trust thou wilt remember me. 
 
 WE ALL MUST PASS AWAY 
 
 We are young and happy now, 
 With spirits blithe and gay ; 
 
 But let us not forget 
 That we all must pass away. 
 
 While we re planning for the, 
 And fortune smiles on us to-day, 
 
 Let us not forget, but e er remember 
 That we all must pass away. 
 
16 
 
 Others, too, have formed bright plans, 
 With hearts and spirits just as gay, 
 
 And we know the time will come 
 
 When, as they have, so must we all pass away. 
 
 Our bright eyes will soon grow dim 
 
 Our glossy hair turn gray ; 
 Oh, let us, then, be well prepared, 
 
 For we all must pass away. 
 
 LINES ON A SICK BED. 
 
 Fve been wild and wayward, 
 
 But you ll forgive me now, 
 And place one hand upon my breast 
 
 The other on my brow. 
 
 As you ve watched with me by night, 
 And watched with me by day, 
 
 I trust you ll not forget me 
 When I have passed away. 
 
 Farewell, mother, I must leave thee 
 Leave thee for my home on high ; 
 
 Do not weep for me, dear mother, 
 But kiss me a sweet good-bye. 
 
17 
 
 [The following poem I probably should never have writ 
 ten, had it not been for a dream my mother had. She thought 
 a certain person asked her if I ever had written on the rain 
 bow. That reminded me of the subject.] 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Oh, what a glorious sight it is, 
 
 When the sun is growing low, 
 To look far down in the west 
 
 And see the beauteous rainbow. 
 
 I love to look at the rainbow 
 
 Not merely because it is pretty to see, 
 
 But because it reminds me of God s promise 
 And all He has been to me. 
 
 At any time I love to see the rainbow, 
 But I think it by far a prettier sight, 
 
 And love to gaze at it longer 
 When tis growing nearly night. 
 
 It reminds me of something cheerful 
 
 The beautiful, beautiful rainbow ; 
 And what a pretty sight it is 
 
 Just at night, when the sun is low. 
 
 Other subjects, than this, to write upon, 
 
 To me far easier seem, 
 And of this one I should not" have thought, 
 
 But, for my mothers dream. 
 
18 
 
 LINES COMPOSED ON THANKSGIVING DAY. 
 
 [ remember this day four years ago, 
 I felt as bright as the flowers of May, 
 
 And well might I feel so then, 
 
 For bright was the morn of Thanksgiving day. 
 
 How many changes have taken place 
 Since this day four short years ago ; 
 
 Many of my friends that then were well 
 Now in the grave lie low. 
 
 I, too, was then in perfect health, 
 No sickness had dimmed my brow, 
 
 Then I was free from care and pain, 
 But oh, how different now ! 
 
 TO MY COUSIN, ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Dear cousin this is thy birthday, 
 
 But give thee no gifts rare or very nice, 
 
 But if thou ll accept it kindly, 
 I ll give thee what is better good advice. 
 
 Twelve years thou now hast seen, 
 And hast thou improved them well ? 
 
 Those beautiful years that are gone ; 
 Ah ! art thou ashamed to tell ? 
 
 Now dear cousin improve the years 
 
 That God shall give to thee, 
 And know, for every one of them, 
 
 Thou accountable must be. 
 
11) 
 
 When thy next birthday comes, 
 I may be far from thee, 
 
 But I trust thou will remember 
 These simple lines for me. 
 
 THE MARRIED DAUGHTER. 
 
 A mother once two daughters had 
 
 Who cheered her home as she older grew ; 
 
 She loved them both, but her favorite 
 Was the elder of the two. 
 
 For many years she cheered that home, 
 But happy circles must sometimes break, 
 
 Even though death comes not, 
 A favored one to take. 
 
 And there came a day when she left her home 
 To share her joys and sorrows with another; 
 
 Ah ! the lonely home she left 
 For her broken-hearted mother. 
 
 Every place where she had trod 
 Every thing that she had done 
 
 Seemed dearer, far, to that sad mother, 
 Now that she had gone. 
 
 Years swept on ; but Time 
 
 The loneliness could not deface ; 
 Nor from that mother s memory 
 
 Could it the loved form erase. 
 
A HAPPY THOUGHT. 
 
 Though loved ones have left us, 
 And severed hath been the chain, 
 
 It is a happy thought 
 
 That the pure can meet again. 
 
 TWILIGHT MUSING. 
 
 The twilight hour again has come, 
 The hurry and worry of the day is done ; 
 I sit me down by the blazing firelight 
 To enjoy for awhile the calm twilight. 
 I close my eyes and ponder o er 
 The scenes that will return no more ; 
 Varied and many are they 
 Some are sad and some are gay. 
 I love the sad ones not the best ; 
 Still, to think of them gives me rest ; 
 The loving clasp and sweet good-bye, Lilly, 
 Lisped by my dear little cousin Willie, 
 Whom, on earth, I was no more to see, 
 Is a very precious recollection to me ; 
 And yet the tears from eyes will fall 
 As oft as I that sad moment recall ; 
 But the lamps are lit and burning bright, 
 My twilight hour is o er to-night. 
 
FAREWELL TO MY OLD PEN 
 
 Old pen, thy work is nearly done, 
 But thou hast served me well, 
 
 And of thy faithfulness to me 
 I am not ashamed to tell. 
 
 Thou hast stood by me well, old pen, 
 Thou hast never forsaken me ; 
 
 Now thou art old and worthless, 
 I will not despise thee. 
 
 Thou hast been true to me, old pen, 
 
 I can safely say a friend, 
 In forming the many letters 
 
 That I have had to send. 
 
 Thou hast been with me far and near, 
 
 In many a shady nook; 
 ID the flowery grove and dell 
 
 And by the purling brook; 
 
 Oft thou hast paused awhile, 
 
 When from my eye there fell a tear, 
 
 Or trembled in my hand 
 Which shook with fear. 
 
 Many a secret, dear old pen, 
 
 Have I confided to thee, 
 And well enough I know 
 
 Thou never will betray me. 
 
22 
 
 At every call dear pen thou sfc come, 
 
 And done for me much good, 
 In sickness and in sorrow, 
 
 Thou by me as a friend have stood. 
 
 So long have we been friends together ; 
 
 So many lonely hours thou st cheered me ; 
 That tho I change thee for a new, 
 
 Still will I ever keep thee. 
 
 Yes, dear old pen, thou st served me well, 
 And now no hand shall harm thee, 
 
 For highly I prize thy valued worth, 
 And what thou st done for me. 
 
 THE OLD PEN S REPLY. 
 
 I have served thee long and well, 
 
 But now my work is done, 
 And I expect soon to be forsaken, 
 
 For a new and better one. 
 
 Oft when thou hast been seated, 
 Thy ringers tightly clasping me, 
 
 I ve noticed thy sad and tearful look, 
 And how I ve pitied thee. 
 
 I ve done for thee what e er I could, 
 And now do not want to leave thee ; 
 
 I am grateful for thy kindness, 
 
 And ask that near thee thou will put me. 
 
NEVER DESPAIR. 
 
 If your pathway be not smooth, 
 And your future look not fair, 
 
 Or you get vexed at some little trifle, 
 Oh, don t give up in despair. 
 
 Brighter days will come to you, 
 
 Days that will be fair, 
 If you only will have courage, 
 
 And not give up in despair. 
 
 Though dark and dreary be your lot 
 And fortune frown on you to-day ; 
 
 To-morrow your luck may change 
 And fortune turn the other way. 
 
 Never despair, let come what will, 
 Think there are better days in store 
 
 Press on, press on, with courage bold, 
 And never despair any more. 
 
 MY FAVORITE VILLAGE. 
 
 The pleasant little village of C , 
 
 Why do I love it so well? 
 
 Because it hath many charms for me 
 Charms that I cannot tell. 
 
 The pleasant little village of C , 
 
 Though why I can hardly tell ; 
 
 I know tis very dear to me, 
 
 And there s none I love so well. 
 
Yonder s the little grove, 
 
 Through which in days gone by 
 
 I ve passed so many times, 
 Oh, how can I say good-bye ? 
 
 Don t ask me why I love it, 
 
 For that I cannot tell, 
 But let me stay, I pray thee, 
 
 In the village I love so well. 
 
 And when my life is done, 
 
 And the hand of death shall fell ; 
 Oh, bury me here, bury me here, 
 
 In the village I love so well. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN S WISH. 
 I boast not wealth nor fame, 
 
 Nor aught to cherish pride ; 
 But I prize far more than these 
 
 My cottage by the river side. 
 
 My cottage is plain and humble, 
 
 But from it I can see the ebbing tide, 
 
 And for neither wealth nor fame would I exchange 
 My cottage by the river side. 
 
 In this humble cottage I was born, 
 
 And who me will dare to chide, 
 For loving with such fervent love 
 
 My cottage by the river side. 
 
25 
 
 In this cottage I passed my childhood, 
 
 And in it I became a bride ; 
 Do you wonder that I love 
 
 My cottage by the river side ? 
 
 By a thousand ties tis bound to me ; 
 
 In that corner my mother her needle plied, 
 And brothers and sisters here have played 
 
 In my cottage by the river side. 
 
 Yonder is the little hill 
 
 Down which we used to slide ; 
 I can see it plainly 
 
 From my cottage by the river side. 
 
 Here in this little cottage 
 
 Loved ones have lived and died. 
 
 And I want no other home 
 
 Than my cottage by the river side. 
 
 Sorrow and trouble may come to me, 
 But what e er befall, what e er betide, 
 
 I still will cling with fond affection 
 To my cottage by the river side. 
 
 And I only ask that I, 
 
 While my sands of life so swiftly glide, 
 May spend my few remaining days 
 
 In my cottage by the river side. 
 
 And when I die I wish my friends, 
 No fashionable burial spot provide, 
 
 I only wish to be buried near, 
 My cottage by the river side. 
 
26 
 
 CHILDISH LOVE. 
 
 We stood at the garden gate, 
 Freddie, my childhood s playmate 
 
 And I; 
 Many happy hours together 
 
 We had passed, 
 And there had often met before, 
 
 But this time was our last ; 
 Freddie was twelve, 
 
 And I was eight, 
 When last we stood 
 
 At the garden gate. 
 The sun had set, t was growing late } 
 Still we lingered at the gate, 
 Hands tightly clasped together; 
 At last he spoke, 
 You ll not forget me, 
 
 Never ; 
 You ll think of me ? 
 
 Yes, ever ; 
 
 Another pause and then he said, 
 With trembling voice 
 And drooping head : 
 My little pet, my pride, 
 We may never meet again, 
 Never more stand side by side ; 
 But darling will you not say, 
 Should we live to meet again, 
 Sometime you ll be my bride ? 
 
27 
 
 How grand it sounded to my ears; 
 For joy I could almost shed tears ; 
 (You must remember I was only eight, 
 When this transpired at the garden gate,) 
 
 Yes, I will, was nearly spoken, 
 When suddenly something seemed to whisper, 
 
 Childish promises soon are broken : 
 No, no, I quickly said, 
 I cannot promise you that, Fred, 
 You know it would be very wrong, 
 Because we are both so young, 
 But this I say, you go your way 
 And I ll go mine, 
 
 And perhaps sometime I may be thine. 
 The sad, reproachful look he gave me 
 The same look now I see ; 
 How I pitied him, 
 
 I thought I had almost committed a sin ; 
 At last he said, I will be satisfied, 
 If you think it better so, 
 And now dearest I must go ; 
 
 O * 
 
 Believe me, I shall ever be true, 
 And never shall love any but you ; 
 And I never shall love another, said I, 
 As I kissed Freddie a sad good bye : 
 For a while every week, 
 A white-winged messenger came, 
 Bearing at the close Freddie s name, 
 But shorter they grew and farther apart, 
 (At first I framed an excuse in my heart) ; 
 
28 
 
 But ere long they ceased to come at all, 
 
 Then tears from my eyes would fall, 
 
 When I thought that he 
 
 Had so soon forgotten me ; 
 
 Ten years had fled 
 
 Many changes taken place ; 
 
 Some friends were dead, 
 
 Others in a western land had gone to roam ; 
 
 I had removed to a city home, 
 
 When one day I received from Freddie a letter, 
 
 (Do you think my heart began to nutter?) 
 
 Calmly I opened it and read, 
 
 For my love for him had long been dead ; 
 
 I read without a tear, 
 
 Wondering the while he ever was dear, 
 
 I am married, and my wife s name is Kate ; 
 
 How often I laugh at our childish talk, 
 
 As we parted at the garden gate. 
 
 Into the burning embers I threw the letter, 
 
 And with it a locket, his last little token, 
 
 Alas ! said I, childish promises soon are broken ; 
 
 And childish love is soon forgotten. 
 
 THAT FATAL CUP. 
 
 That fatal cup hath caused the death of many 
 Who in premature graves are sleeping ; 
 
 It hath caused the grief of many 
 Who with broken hearts are weeping. 
 
29 
 
 That fatal cup hath caused sorrow and woe. 
 
 Hath been fruitful of sin and strife, 
 Hath ruined many a happy home, 
 
 And blighted many a happy life. 
 
 That fatal cup hath caused a blight 
 On many an innocent and youthful life 
 
 The bitter blight and seething curse 
 Of being a drunkard s wife. 
 
 And she hath, for him she loved, 
 
 Patiently borne the stain, 
 TJiat fatal cup hath cast upon 
 
 Her pure and spotless name. 
 
 That fatal cup hath caused the suffering, 
 
 The grief and terror wild, 
 Of many a little one who s borne, 
 
 The name of drunkard s child. 
 
 How many a broken-hearted mother, 
 
 A prayer to God is sending, 
 For a son much loved, 
 
 Who o e.r that fatal cup is bending. 
 
 That fatal cup invites to shame 
 
 Our every virtue pure, 
 And on toward the grave 
 
 It rapidly cloth lure. 
 
 How many health, wealth, friends, 
 And even life, have yielded up, 
 
 For the sake of drinking from 
 TJiat cursed fatal CUD. 
 
30 
 
 THE FADED RIBBON. 
 I was rummaging leisurely o er 
 
 A box of things cast aside 
 To be used no more ; 
 
 And had searched it nearly through, 
 When lo ! a faded ribbon 
 
 Met my view. 
 
 But why should a faded ribbon 
 Cause a tear in my eye to start, 
 
 As tremblingly 
 
 I press it to my heart ! 
 
 Ah to me it is no mystery, 
 I ll tell you why, 
 
 That faded ribbon has a history. 
 
 Excuse me, readers, it is chance 
 
 That makes this little sketch 
 A romance; 
 
 It was a beautiful day, 
 And a cloudless morning 
 
 In the month of May. 
 
 Into the shaded wood to gather flowers, 
 
 Went my brother and I ; 
 We spent two happy hours, 
 
 Then, when we had done, 
 We sat down to rest, on an old brown stone. 
 
31 
 
 No sooner had we taken our seat, 
 
 Than to rest my head, I let it forward sink, 
 When just at my feet 
 
 I discovered a ribbon of the brightest pink 
 We examined that ribbon well, 
 
 But whose it was, or whence it come, 
 We could not tell. 
 
 She 11 be a fool, 
 
 If she don t be sent to a boarding school, 
 
 Besides it isn t fair, 
 
 Keeping Will in college way off there, 
 
 And keeping our only girl at home, 
 
 Her school days will soon be done ; 
 
 His aid to mother s, Will kindly lent, 
 
 And finally, I to boarding school was sent. 
 
 It will be such pleasure and delight, 
 You really must go to the party to night, 
 Said Kitte May to me ! 
 She was my most intimate friend you see ; 
 How it happened so 
 I certainly do not know, 
 She was wealthy and very fair, 
 Neither my wealth nor looks could with hers 
 compare. 
 
32 
 
 I pleaded what I always plead, 
 Kittle I ve nothing to wear, 
 
 But she minded not what I said, 
 And kept on frizzing my hair, 
 
 There, all that s lacking now, 
 
 Is a ribbon for a bow. 
 
 No ribbon could I find, 
 
 Suitable for the bow, 
 At last I thought of the ribbon 
 
 That I found so long ago, 
 That ribbon, said she, is mine. 
 
 I lost it years ago. 
 I was riding with Uncle Sime, 
 
 Through the old pine woods at 0., 
 I wore that ribbon in my hair, 
 
 I never saw it after, 
 I must have dropped it there. 
 
 Suffice to say it tied a lover s knot, 
 For her and brother Will ; 
 
 They both have long been dead, 
 But I keep the faded ribbon still. 
 
33 
 
 AN INVENTORY. 
 
 A rough, bare and broken floor, 
 
 One hinge off the only door, 
 
 A rusty stove minus one leg, 
 
 A worn out cap on a broken peg ; 
 
 Old hats and caps for window lights, 
 
 (They 11 keep out storm on stormy nights,) 
 
 Three old and broken plates, 
 
 A cup and two saucers that are not mates, 
 
 One iron spoon and part of another, 
 
 A tea-pot minus handle and cover, 
 
 An old kettle with many a crack, 
 
 Two old spiders that handles lack; 
 
 A rusty, worn out can, 
 
 One bottomless basin and old tin pan, 
 
 Parts of a few knives and forks, 
 
 A jug and stack of corks: 
 
 A table minus a leaf and leg, 
 
 And one old broken keg, 
 
 A woman crouching in perfect awe, 
 
 Near a poor old pallet of straw, 
 
 On which a haggard man lies, 
 
 Uttering wild and piercing cries ; 
 
 Six hungry mouths that will not be shut, 
 
 Is an inventory of a drunkard s hut. 
 
34 
 
 [.The Stepmother s Chair, which has been previously in 
 serted, was written and sent to the press on a certain occa 
 sion, and the writer not caring to have it known that she was 
 the author of it, signed the fictitious name of Amicus, which 
 is the Latin word for friend. The next week the verses 
 did not appear in the paper, but instead the following : 
 "Anonymous. We have received a poetic effusion of more 
 or less merit, entitled The Stepmother s Chair. Amicus 
 should know that we always expect the true name of the 
 writer, not necessarily for publication, but as a guaranty 
 of good faith. That little editorial article elicited the 
 following:"] 
 
 LINES FROM AMICUS. 
 
 The author of the Stepmother s Chair 
 
 Certainly was not aware 
 
 That your rules for publishing claim, 
 
 That the writer must send her name. 
 
 She regrets she did not know 
 
 Your rules were strictly thus and so ; 
 
 She thought if she did the verses send 
 
 To you, as coming from a friend. 
 
 That, if worthy to print them, you w r ould deign, 
 
 Though the writer withheld her name, 
 
 But she finds alas too late, 
 
 Where she made a slight mistake ; 
 
 This time she sends to you her name, [gain ; 
 
 And hopes her verses may your kind approval 
 
 Simple, though those verses be, 
 
 They were composed, and written bona fide, 
 
 And, as a guarantee of good faith, 
 
 This to you the writer saith, 
 
 That she will, every week, if you choose, 
 
 Send you a piece in verse or prose, 
 
 Providing her name you ll not disclose. 
 
35 
 
 You say the verses have of merit more or less, 
 
 And this the writer does confess, 
 
 That herself she dare not flatter, 
 
 And so concludes it is the latter, 
 
 But ere you criticism at those verses hurl, 
 
 Know that Amicus is only a school girl ; 
 
 And that the verses sent to you 
 
 Were the first she has composed for public view. 
 
 And were but the production of an hour s pas- 
 
 Whicli, as luck would have it, [time. 
 
 Chanced to be a rhyme, 
 
 And lest you might think her bold, 
 
 Amicus did her name withhold; 
 
 Hoping you will not think her dull, 
 
 She gives you now her name in full, 
 
 It is simply this, 
 
 ONLY A LOCK OF HAIR. 
 
 What is left me now 
 
 Of the one I loved of yore, 
 
 Of the one who died so young and fair, 
 
 Alas ! it is only a lock of hair. 
 
 And yet how highly prized by me ; 
 
 No costly gems nor jewels rare 
 Could purchase from me . 
 
 This lock of hair. 
 
36 
 
 Long years have passed since, from 
 
 That dear head 
 
 I slipped this lock of hair, 
 
 And little thought when I did so, 
 
 It would so soon be lying low, 
 
 But oh tis now with the greatest care 
 
 That I preserve this lock of hair. 
 
 Only a lock of hair; 
 
 It is not much, and is not much 
 
 To see, 
 
 But oh, it brings to memory 
 
 Fresh 
 
 That one so dear to me. 
 
 The world is bright and gay, 
 And the things within are fair, 
 But oh ! I ask for them not, 
 While there is left me 
 This lock of hair. 
 
 When my few years have run 
 
 Their race, 
 And I lie down in my 
 
 Resting place, 
 When I have passed from 
 
 This world of care, 
 On my heart let lie 
 
 This lock of hair. 
 
37 
 
 THE SUNLIGHT. 
 
 I raise my head from the weary pillow, 
 On which it has lain all night, 
 
 O * 
 
 Aching, throbbing and beating, 
 And welcome the glad sunlight. 
 
 Oh ! how gladly I welcome it, 
 
 Dear, delightful sight, 
 And raise a prayer to God on High, 
 
 For the beautiful sunlight. 
 
 However ill I may be, 
 
 It gives me a feeling bright, 
 
 As I open my eyes, 
 
 And am greeted by the glad sunlight. 
 
38 
 
 [Edward Clarke Hudson, only son of our beloved pastor, 
 Rev. Thomas B. Hudson, died in Clinton, 1ST. Y., December 
 9, 1871, after a long and painful illness, aged ten years 
 and ten months. Little Eddie was a member of the 
 Sunday school, a bright, active and intelligent little fellow, 
 who, by his kindness of heart and loving disposition, had 
 gained many friends. His farewell message to his Sabbath 
 school mates was : "Tell them all I love them, and want 
 them to love Jesus."] 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF EDDIE HUDSON. 
 
 Little Eddie them art gone, 
 
 Gone from this world of sin and strife. 
 Short indeed, but beautiful, 
 
 Has been thy little life. 
 
 For many long and weary weeks, 
 
 Extended on a bed of pain, 
 Watched o er by anxious friends, 
 
 Thy little form has lain. 
 
 But now thou art free from pain, 
 
 We know thou art at rest, 
 Within thy Heavenly Father s arms, 
 
 In the mansions of the blest. 
 
 We miss thee, little Eddie, 
 
 When in the Sabbath room we meet, 
 
 Involuntarily our eyes 
 
 Eest upon thy vacant seat. 
 
 Sadly indeed we miss thee, 
 Where e er thou wert wont to go. 
 
 And yet we would not wish thee back, 
 To this world of sin and woe. 
 
39 
 
 For them hast died in childhood, 
 With all thy fresh loveliness now, 
 
 With the mark of youthful innocence 
 Upon thy pure young brow. 
 
 What! wish thee back to this cold world ! 
 
 Dearly as we loved thee, 
 Wish thee back, the sin and wickedness 
 
 Of this cold world to see ! 
 
 No ! no ! far better is thy little form 
 
 Resting beneath the downy sod, 
 Thy little spirit safe 
 
 Within the portals of thy God. 
 
 Thou hast reached thy home, 
 
 Beyond the azure skies, 
 Far happier than we, 
 
 Who yet must fight to win the prize. 
 
 Dear Eddie, we shall miss thee, 
 
 And oft in the future shall shed a tear, 
 
 Sacred to thy memory, 
 
 W T hich we shall hold so dear. 
 
 But we will not wish thee back ; 
 
 W^e will bid thee a sweet, but sad good bye, 
 And strive hard that we one day, 
 
 May meet thee in thy home on High. 
 
40 
 
 OUR CHAPEL. 
 
 It is a quiet secluded spot, 
 Where envy and strife enter not. 
 
 Each Tuesday eve, we gather there. 
 To spend an hour of prayer. 
 
 While the noise of the world ceases not, 
 We gather in that hallowed spot ; 
 
 While the worldly man is hurrying by, 
 With flushed cheek and sunken eye ; 
 
 While street boys arc yelling loud, 
 And yonder passes a gala crowd ; 
 
 And drunkards are gathering at the shop, 
 Ought we gather in that sacred spot ? 
 
 Till we extend to every one and each, 
 That is anywhere within our reach ; 
 
 A hearty, friendly call, 
 
 That will touch the heart of all. 
 
 To join us. in the chapel there, 
 
 And spend with us an hour of prayer ! 
 
 After they once had joined us there, 
 And spent with us an hour of prayer. 
 
 They might prefer to the street or shop, 
 That quiet, consecrated spot. 
 
[A watch-meeting is a meeting held at the close of the 
 year, where services are held till twelve o clock, to watch 
 out the old year, as it is called, and watch or welcome m the 
 new. This meeting is generally held by the Methodists, 
 but the other denominations are not slow to attend it.] 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED AT A WATCH-MEETING, 
 
 Old year thou art dying now, 
 All thy busy days are past, 
 
 We ve gathered in this sacred place, 
 To watch thee breathe thy last. 
 
 What the new year will bring, 
 
 None of us can tell, 
 And it is with sadness, and with joy 
 
 We bid thee now farewell. 
 
 Tis hard to give thee up, 
 To part with thee, old year ; 
 
 Thou hast brought much joy, 
 Tho oft the sigh and tear. 
 
 Many a soul from sin and sorrow 
 
 Thou hast helped us save, 
 Hast been at the marriage altar, 
 
 And by the open grave. 
 
 And tho thou wilt soon be gone, 
 And a new one we shall see, 
 
 Amid its cares and duties, 
 We shall often think of thee. 
 
Hark ! tis the clock, one hour 
 And we shall know thee no more, 
 
 Thou will be added to the list, 
 Of those that have gone before. 
 
 Pause a moment, tread lightly, 
 
 Speak soft and low, 
 And breathe gently, 
 
 The old year is dying now. 
 
 Silence now reigns around, 
 Scarce can we suppress a tear, 
 
 As we watch the last breath 
 Of the dying year. 
 
 Old year thou art gone, 
 
 All thy work is done, 
 And once again we bid farewell 
 
 To eighteen seventy-one. 
 
 And now it is with mingled feelings, 
 But friendship warm and true, 
 
 That we extend a cordial welcome, 
 To eighteen seventy-two. 
 
 Sunday eve... Dec. 31, 1871. 
 
43 
 
 BY AND BY. 
 
 A little girl was saying impatiently, 
 
 What is the reason why 
 I never can do this or that ? 
 
 Fll do it by and by. 
 
 A maiden fair looked from her window, 
 
 And gently heaved a sigh ; 
 Ah ! she murmured to herself, 
 
 Fll be happy by and by. 
 
 A young and lovely bride, 
 
 With joy and happiness high, 
 Murmured fondly to herself, 
 
 Fll be happier by and by. 
 
 A mother watched o er her first-born babe, 
 
 With loving, anxious eye, 
 And murmured fondly to herself, 
 
 I ll be so happy by and by. 
 
 An aged one sat by the hearth, 
 
 With silver locks and tear-dimmed eye, 
 
 And murmured sadly to herself, 
 Witt. I be happy by and ly ? 
 
 For four score years I ve been preparing, 
 For something grand and high, 
 
 But never once thought to prepare 
 For the future by and by. 
 
44 
 
 But now I am old and feeble, 
 The hand of death draws nigh ; 
 
 ! that I had made ready, 
 For the future by and by. 
 
 Oh ! that we who from day to day 
 Are aspiring to something high, 
 
 May bear in mind, and be prepared, 
 For the future by and by. 
 
 AIR CASTLES. 
 Ah ! I ve built them many a time, 
 
 Built them cautiously, too, with care, 
 But found alas! they were naught 
 
 But castles in the air. 
 
 I ve built them of every shape and size ; 
 
 Large and small, plain and fair, 
 But I found the best of them, 
 
 Were but castles in the air. 
 
 Every time I d think, this, time, 
 
 I ll lay the foundation with such care 
 
 It cannot be a failure, 
 
 But it would prove a castle in the air. 
 
 I ve built them of the choicest material, 
 The most precious and most rare, 
 
 But it mattered not, they proved alike 
 But castles in the air. 
 
45 
 
 I ve smiled triumphantly as I said, 
 Nothing can with this compare, 
 
 But twas only a foolish boasting, 
 Of a castle in the air. 
 
 They ve fallen so many times, 
 Built too with so much care, 
 
 That every thing I undertake, I ask, 
 Will it be a castle in the air ? 
 
 I trust that as, myself, I try, 
 
 For Heaven to prepare, 
 It may not, like all the rest, 
 
 Prove a castle in the air. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER, ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Mayst them to day dull care put away, 
 And may happiness near thee hover, 
 
 May a bright ray near thee stay, 
 On this thy birthday, dear mother. 
 
 And as o er vanished years, thro a mist of tears, 
 
 Memory flies quick and fast, 
 Oh ! dry thy tears, and all doubts and fears 
 
 Far from thee cast. 
 
 Do not sigh for the years gone by, 
 
 But,rather thank our Heavenly Father, 
 
 Who from on High, with loving eye, 
 
 Has spared and watched o er thee. dear mother. 
 
46 
 
 Now may He hear my prayer and kindly spare 
 Thee to see many birthdays more, [fair, 
 
 And when thro with care, and this false world 
 Receive thee on that beautiful shore. 
 
 THE WIDOW S CHILD. 
 
 Her lot is a hard, hard one to bear, 
 
 Her sorrow deep and wild, 
 But who has a smile or pitying tear 
 
 To give the widow s child ? 
 
 My friend we will not call on her, 
 They have no carpets on the floor, 
 
 No sofas nor piano, 
 
 I know they must be poor. 
 
 But here she is coming now, 
 
 (Where is the smile or soft word mild ?) 
 Just turn your head aside, 
 
 She s only a widow s child. 
 
 Oh ! how few there are 
 
 Who with a word friendly, mild, 
 (Not merely as an act of duty) 
 
 Would greet the widow s child. 
 
 Ah ! dainty miss, remember you 
 
 In grief and sorrow wild, 
 May yet be bowing low your head, 
 
 And be a widow s child. 
 
THE MAPLE LEAF. 
 
 The trees were gently shaking. 
 
 The leaves were falling beneath, 
 I picked from among them all, 
 
 A single maple leaf. 
 
 I now am many miles, 
 
 From the tree it fell beneath, 
 And I cherish warm and true, 
 
 This single maple leaf. 
 
 [The original of the following, is in 
 Scenes," and I transform it into verse:] 
 
 Death Bed 
 
 ALICE S PRAYER. 
 
 Two parents this bright, green earth once trod, 
 
 Who had no desire to worship God ; 
 
 Two lovely children, He had given them, 
 
 A girl of five, a boy of. ten ; 
 
 These two children, lovely and fair, 
 
 Had never been taught the meaning of prayer. 
 
 Once on a visit, little Alice went, 
 
 And with her friends the night she spent ; 
 
 These little girls had been taught to pray, [day, 
 
 And were accustomed to repeat their prayers each 
 
 But when they knelt them down this time, 
 
 Two little girls of seven and nine, 
 
48 
 
 They noticed quickly, with much dismay, 
 
 Their guest knelt not down to pray. 
 
 Said the eldest, will you not " Our Father " say ? 
 
 Said Alice, I know not the meaning nor the way; 
 
 Will you not learn then ? said she ; 
 
 Kneel and learn it, please, of me ; 
 
 And Alice, quick to learn, soon knew well, 
 
 The prayer, of which, she had never heard tell. 
 
 When she went home, she taught her brother to say 
 
 The pretty prayer she had learned that day ; 
 
 And every day they knelt side by side 
 
 To say their prayer at eventide ; 
 
 But ere one short year had passed, 
 
 A shadow was over that household cast, 
 
 And the voice that had with merriment gushed, 
 
 Was silent now by anguish hushed ; 
 
 And to the weeping parents standing by, 
 
 The doctor whispered, Freddie must die ; 
 
 The minister called to see the child, 
 
 Who, looking heavenward, gently smiled ; 
 
 He was surprised to hear the mother say, 
 
 Will you kneel by my boy and pray ? 
 
 And then she told him with much joy, 
 
 How her little girl and darling boy 
 
 Had knelt each day, side by side, 
 
 To say their prayer at eventide, 
 
 Since that well-remembered day, 
 
 When Alice first learned " Our Father " to say. 
 
 It was night ! dread silence reigned around, 
 
 The mother watched her boy with grief profound, 
 
49 
 
 And started, as she heard him softly say, 
 Mother dear, I want some one to pray ; 
 Pray ! how strange and sad to say, 
 That mother could not pray ; 
 What could be done that time of night ? 
 To send for the minister would not be right, 
 She went to the room of her sleeping child, 
 And bade her in accents soft and mild, 
 To come and kneel by her brother s side. 
 And pray as they used at eventide ; 
 And there that little girl of five years old, 
 Who the prayer to her brother first told, 
 Knelt in her night dress of snowy white, 
 Knelt her there in the dead of night, 
 By her dying brother s side, 
 And prayed as they had prayed at eventide ; 
 Those parents after laying their child beneath the 
 Both gave up their hearts to God. [sod. 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 ONLY ONE EYE. 
 
 Oh ! she was a lovely girl, 
 
 So pretty and so fair, 
 With gentle, lovelit eyes, 
 
 And wavy, dark-brown hair. 
 
 I loved the gentle girl, 
 
 But oh ! I heaved a sigh, 
 When first she told ine she could see, 
 
 Out of only one eye. 
 
 But soon I thought within myself, 
 I d better save my tear and sigh, 
 
 To bestow upon some I know, 
 Who has more than one eye. 
 
 She is brave and intelligent, 
 
 Too she is witty and wise, 
 She ll accomplish more now, than many 
 
 Who have two eyes. 
 
 Ah ! you need not pity her. 
 
 She needs not your tear and sigh, 
 She makes good use, I tell you, 
 
 Of her one remaining eye. 
 
 In the home where we are hastening 
 In our eternal Home on High, 
 
 See that you be not rivaled, 
 By the girl with only one eye. 
 
51 
 
 THE EMPTY CHAIR. 
 
 You look at it now with misty eyes, 
 And think of her who once sat there ; 
 
 Anew she comes to your memory, 
 As you see her empty chair. 
 
 You see her soft, blue eyes aglow, 
 
 Her heavy curl s of hair, 
 You see her as she used to sit, 
 
 In that little empty chair. 
 
 You see the work she used to hold, 
 The thimble she used to wear, 
 
 As she sat and sewed, 
 
 In that little empty chair. 
 
 You remember the day so cold and rainy, 
 That to let her go out you did not dare ; 
 
 Eemember how she sat and cried, 
 In that little empty chair. 
 
 You remember an evening in May, 
 Remember the cold, damp air, 
 
 And the last time that she sat, 
 In that little empty chair ? 
 
 Dust it carefully and clean, 
 
 And put it away with care, 
 For very sacred to you now, 
 
 Is that little empty chair. 
 
52 
 
 [Died in Clinton, N. Y., January 31, 1872, after a few hours 
 illness, Alice Delia Avery, eldest child of Theodore and 
 Elmira M. Avery, and granddaughter of Dr. Charles Avery, 
 aged 13 years, 2 months and 9 days.] 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF ALLIE AVERY. 
 
 Dear Allie thou art gone. 
 
 Gone from this world of sin and woe, 
 Thy gentle form and smiling face, 
 
 We shall see no more below. 
 
 But thou art greatly missed, 
 Nor shall we soon forget thee, 
 
 As we gather in the places, 
 Where tliy face we used to see. 
 
 And most of all we miss thee, 
 
 When in the Sabbath school we meet ; 
 
 Alas ! our little band again is broken, 
 There is another vacant seat. 
 
 Death, that fatal messenger, 
 With his cold relentless hand, 
 
 Stepped in and singled thee, 
 From out our golden band. 
 
 Now, when we gather there, 
 
 We never more can see thy smiling face, 
 Thy gentle little form ; 
 
 But instead thy vacant place. 
 
53 
 
 But though tis hard to give thee up, 
 
 And hard our grief to quell, 
 Still we can make, it if we will, 
 
 A brief, and not a last farewell. 
 
 We know that thou art happy now, 
 Within the mansions of the skies ; 
 
 We think thou must be happier than we, 
 Who yet must strive to win the prize. 
 
 And ma} 7 we who still are striving, 
 Those mansions keep in view ; 
 
 May we as we journey on, 
 The Heavenly way pursue. 
 
 Dear Allie may we all, 
 
 Each member of our little band, 
 Strive hard, that we one day 
 
 May join thee in that happy land. 
 
 A VISIT TO THE OLD BUTTERNUT TREE. 
 
 Where are they all, the girls and boys, 
 
 Who used to sit with me, 
 Beneath the spreading branches 
 
 Of this old Butternut tree ? 
 
 Ah ! it was many long years ago, 
 Since they bade farewell to me, 
 
 And I parted with them all* 
 Beneath this Butternut tree. 
 
54 
 
 Some have found a watery grave, 
 
 Far down in the deep, deep sea, 
 And some have died in foreign lands, 
 
 Who sat beneath this Butternut tree. 
 
 I wish I could recall all their names, 
 
 So familiar they were to me, 
 But I can t recall the names of half, 
 
 Who sat beneath this Butternut tree. 
 
 There was Kate, yes, I remember, 
 
 Always so full of romance she, 
 I ll write down one authoress, 
 
 From the old Butternut tree. 
 
 And Maggie with always a book, 
 And pencil and paper on her knee, 
 
 I ll write down one preceptress, 
 From the old Butternut tree. 
 
 And Lucy with paint and brush, 
 
 Trying to paint a house or barn, the land or 
 I ll write down one artist, [sea, 
 
 From the old Butternut tree. 
 
 And Fan with sober, solemn face, 
 Holding ever the peacemaker s key, 
 
 I ll write one missionary s wife, 
 From the old Butternut tree. 
 
 And Kit forever worrying and stewing, 
 About her breakfast, dinner or tea, 
 
 I ll write down one farmer s wife, 
 From the old Butternut tree. 
 
55 
 
 And Sue who couldn t bear work, 
 But always could hold a plea, 
 
 I ll write down one lawyer s wife, 
 From the old Butternut tree. 
 
 And Min, if ever you spoke of a cold. 
 
 I must make you some catnip tea, 
 I ll write down one doctor s wife, 
 
 From the old Butternut tree. 
 
 But they all are scattered now 
 
 Who used to sit with me 
 Beneath the spreading branches 
 
 Of this old Butternut tree. 
 
 NO LETTER. 
 
 I stood shaking and trembling, 
 
 I couldn t compose myself any better 
 
 But how I wanted to cry, 
 
 At the monotonous words, no letter. 
 
 My heart was as heavy 
 
 As if it were bound with a fetter ; 
 Does everybody feel so badly 
 
 At the monotonous words, no letter ? 
 
 Or am I so much to blame ? 
 
 Could I compose myself any better ? 
 I hardly think I could, 
 
 At the monotonous words, no letter. 
 
5G 
 
 TO A ROBIX. 
 
 Welcome sweet little robin of spring, 
 Welcome to your last year s nest, 
 
 I am glad to have you again to sing, 
 And will treat you to food of the best. 
 
 LETTER TO MY -COUSIN, J. W. H., ON HIS 
 BIRTHDAY. 
 
 It is thy birthday, cousin dear; 
 
 Twelve ere this one thou hast seen, 
 And I wish I could be near, 
 
 On this that numbers thee thirteen. 
 
 I was with thee, one short year ago, 
 
 And as to day I cannot be, 
 I send this missive, that thou mayst know 
 
 I am thinking of thee. 
 
 God has spared thee till thirteen years, 
 
 Thou now hast seen ; 
 Some joy, though many tears, 
 
 Have with them mingled been. 
 
 Grief and sorrow have not passed thee by. 
 
 JL J J 
 
 Though thou art still so young, 
 
 The bitter tear and deep drawn sigh, 
 
 Have oft from thee been wrung. 
 
57 
 
 Thou wert yet but a little babe, 
 
 When thy loving father 
 Within the grave was laid : 
 
 Next died thy little brother : 
 
 Deep grief was upon thee then, 
 When died thy little brother, 
 
 But it was deeper far, when 
 Death seized thy fond mother. 
 
 But two short years have passed 
 Since death, breaking again thy joy. 
 
 Entering thy household last, 
 Left thee an orphan boy. 
 
 But J esus will n er forsake thee ; 
 
 Seek Him early in thy youth ; 
 He will ne er forgetful be ; 
 
 Learn of Him the blessed truth. 
 
 Strive to meet father and mother, 
 
 Who have gone on before, 
 And thy dear little brother, 
 
 On that beautiful shore. 
 
 I wish to ask something of thee, 
 Then my missive I will close, 
 
 And hope thou wilt excuse me, 
 For not writing it in prose. 
 
58 
 
 From evil habits thyself keep free, 
 
 Ever " keep the right side of the hedge," 
 
 And tho the use, thou mayst not see, 
 Please sign the temperance pledge. 
 
 I might displease thee in this rhyme, 
 
 If more I should ask or tell, 
 So I ll defer the rest till another time, 
 
 And bid thee now farewell. 
 
 Such parts thou needst but once peruse, 
 
 As do not suit thee to a T, 
 And please them kindly to excuse, 
 
 In your loving cousin, L. E. C. 
 
 DICK, MY CHICKEN. 
 
 It was the first pet I ever had, 
 A lovely, bottle green chick, 
 
 I never have seen another, 
 
 That looked like my little Dick 
 
 She followed me everywhere, 
 In every corner and nick, 
 
 Ah ! she was a winsome creature, 
 My darling little Dick. 
 
OF THK 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 (59 
 
 Upon my arm she would jump, 
 With her musical click, click, 
 
 She was a knowing creature, 
 My petted little Dick. 
 
 She grew to be a nice large hen, 
 And my cousin used to say, 
 
 (Though I didn t credit it,) 
 She laid two eggs a day. 
 
 But once when I had been away, 
 They told me with much dread, 
 
 And after much evasiveness, 
 That little Dick was dead. 
 
 Do not feel bad, said they, 
 For you can have your pick, 
 
 Out of a large flock, 
 And get another Dick. 
 
 But I shook my head and said, 
 I ll never pet another chick, 
 
 But ever sacred to my memory, 
 Shall be my little Dick. 
 
60 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HON. ERASTUS CORNING. 
 
 Albany, yea, we may say the world, 
 
 Has lost another friend, 
 In the death of him whose useful life, 
 
 Has now come to an end. 
 
 To every good and useful cause, 
 He always lent a helping hand, 
 
 And he ll now be mourned by many, 
 Scattered o er our land. 
 
 His was a kind and generous heart, 
 He aided the needy without a show, 
 
 And of the good deeds he did, 
 
 He cared not for the world to know. 
 
 As a successful, prosperous merchant, 
 
 He was known far and near, 
 And many now in that pursuit, 
 
 Will drop for him a tear. 
 
 Adverse circumstances he passed through, 
 
 And many obstacles overcame, 
 But amid them all he gained, 
 
 A brave and honored name. 
 
 He has indeed been a public benefactor, 
 On a scale both great and grand ; 
 
 To whom are we so much indebted 
 
 For the railroads throughout our land ! 
 
01 
 
 Who did more, who so much as he 
 
 Who is now gone forever, [West, 
 
 To ope communication between the East and 
 And link them thereby together ? 
 
 By many in various institutions, 
 
 And in many business marts, 
 His name will long be cherished, 
 
 Sacred to their hearts. 
 
 He is gone, but the good that he has done, 
 
 Twere not possible to tell, 
 And a large, tearful eyed crowd, it was, 
 
 Gathered to bid him a last farewell. 
 
 [Died at Clinton, N. Y., June 9, 1871, Allyn Presseguie 
 Watson, youngest child of Capt. J. Watson, aged 3 yeara 
 and 8 months.] 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF ALLIE WATSON. 
 He was a bright and active child, 
 
 With merry, laughing eye, 
 And won a smile from every one 
 
 Who chanced to pass him by. 
 
 Generally, as you passed his father s store, 
 
 Little Allie was to be seen, 
 He was a knowing little fellow, 
 
 So active and so keen. 
 
 But the little pet is gone, 
 
 His little spirit fled, 
 And little Allie now, * 
 
 Is numbered among the dead. 
 
His little toys are put away, 
 Aside is set his little chair, 
 
 And folded carefully in the drawer, 
 Are the clothes he used to wear. 
 
 His little life had but just begun, 
 But then he was but given, 
 
 To fade upon this cold earth, 
 And blossom bright in heaven. 
 
 [A son of Cyrus N. Ballon was drowned in the Cayadutta 
 creek near Fonda, N. Y., Monday, April 8, 1872.] 
 
 THE DROWNED BOY. 
 
 He started from home as usual. 
 And little then thought they, 
 
 That in the cold, deep water he would lie, 
 Before the close of day. 
 
 Two other men were with him, 
 But as the boat whirled round, 
 
 The other two were saved, 
 
 But the little boy was drowned. 
 
 No loving friends watched o er him, 
 
 Or closed his eyes in sleep ; 
 He struggled with the waves alone, 
 
 And sank beneath them deep. 
 
 On the resurrection morn, 
 
 When we wake at the trumpet s sound, 
 Parents and friends again will meet, 
 
 The little bov that drowned. 
 
63 
 
 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 You know him by his kind, benignant eye, 
 
 Clear as the morning mist, 
 You know him by his every word and deed. 
 
 The noble hearted Philanthropist. 
 
 However oft you see him, 
 
 Tho it be for many successive days, 
 He is always doing something, 
 
 Some mortal, from woe to raise. 
 
 To the tales of his fellow beings 
 
 He never fails to list, 
 And always has a smile for all, 
 
 The noble hearted Philanthropist. 
 
 REST. 
 
 Many ask that with great wealth 
 They may abundantly be blest, 
 
 But Father in Heaven, ! give to me, 
 The boon I crave, sweet rest. 
 
 From the turmoil of the world, 
 From its noisy joke and jest, 
 
 From the hurry and confusion, 
 ! give, I pray thee, rest. 
 
64 
 
 I ask not for hoarded wealth. 
 But, ! for some quiet nest, 
 
 Aside from the world s confusion, 
 Where I can find sweet rest. 
 
 I am tired of vanity and show, 
 And of the haugthy jest, 
 
 I want a quiet, secluded spot 
 Where I can find sweet rest. 
 
 Ah ! there is a spot, not on earth, 
 
 If ever I m so blest. 
 As to reach that happy spot, 
 
 I shall find sweet rest. 
 
 THE OLD RED SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 I remember its battered and broken door, 
 Its marred and time-worn sill, 
 
 I remember every feature 
 
 Of the School-house on the hill. 
 
 It stood twenty rods from a little grove, 
 As many from the old, brown mill, 
 
 And it was a merry group that gathered 
 In the School-house on the hill. 
 
 But that merry group is scattered now; 
 
 Some sleep beneath the ocean wave, 
 And others, in some distant land, 
 
 Have found a martyrs grave. 
 
65 
 
 Some for our country s welfare 
 
 Their life did nobly yield, 
 And fell, without a murmur, 
 
 On the Southern battle field. 
 
 A modern school-house now stands, 
 Where the old red one used to stand 
 
 And where there used to gather 
 Such a merry, laughing band. 
 
 Yes it has the modern improvements, 
 The new fashioned door and sill ; 
 
 It bears little or no resemblance, 
 To the old School-house on the hill. 
 
 THE DRUNKARD S WIFE. 
 
 The room was cold and cheerless, 
 The fire in the grate burned low, 
 
 A woman pale, weak and weary, 
 Eocked a cradle to and fro. 
 
 She wrapped her babe still closer, 
 And prayed for him to come, 
 
 Then she paused and listened ; 
 The town clock was striking one. 
 
 Again she listened, and this time 
 The staggering step she heard, 
 
 She ope d the door and pulled him in, 
 But uttered not a word. 
 
66 
 
 No kind and loving word 
 
 Greeted her tired ear, 
 From him who promised to love, cherish 
 
 And protect her from every fear. 
 
 And that faded woman was once a belle, 
 
 And led a happy, joyful life, 
 But what has caused so great a change ? 
 
 Alas ! she is a drunkard s wife. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 Though I should live for four score years, 
 I should never forget that night, 
 
 The happy group upon the stage 
 In gala dresses of snowy white. 
 
 We stood and sang our parting hymns 
 
 Without a signal of tears ; 
 So young, careless and gay, 
 
 We had no thought of future years. 
 
 That happy group was not to meet again, 
 
 Until it meets on high ; 
 Alas ! who thought that we were singing 
 
 Our last good bye ? 
 
 Some have happy brides become ; 
 
 Some have in the grave been lain, 
 That happy group is sadly scattered ; 
 
 Here it will never meet again. 
 
67 
 
 MY CHOICE. 
 
 They tell me of the pure country air, 
 And the woodland flowers fresh and fair, 
 And though there is nothing pedantic, 
 Still every thing is very romantic, 
 And to leave the city noise, din and strife, 
 And enjoy a while the blessed country life. 
 
 From their description it ought to suit me 
 
 Like a charm, 
 So I find myself some fine morning 
 
 On my uncle s farm ; 
 The first thing that greets my ear 
 
 Is a grunt and a squeal, 
 The first thing that greets my sight, 
 
 Molly with a basin of meal. 
 
 They said every thing was so nice and fine, 
 
 But then I ll not take this as a sign ; 
 
 I 11 not begin to worry and fret, 
 
 I may find it pleasant yet ; 
 
 I 11 go to the orchard, it must be nice there, 
 
 And pick some flowers, as I go, for my hair ; 
 
 The orchard now I can plainly see, 
 
 And lo ! the pigs for they are there before me, 
 
 I return to find the boys 
 
 Over a little money, or few worthless toys, 
 
 Very deep in anger and strife. 
 
 Is this blessed country life ? 
 
68 
 
 Where is the quietness and seclusion ? 
 I ve seen nothing but noise and confusion, 
 So I think it all but a fond delusion. 
 
 Here, for me, there is no bliss, 
 
 I far prefer the city to this, 
 
 But, better than either of these still, 
 
 (If I speak with my own free will, 
 
 And do not suffocate my voice,) 
 
 I like a village, and that s my choice. 
 
 THE GOSSIP S MISTAKE. 
 
 She s an idle girl, I know she is, 
 For this morning, I stopped there, 
 
 And there she sat as usual, 
 Lolling in the rocking chair. 
 
 I don t believe she does a chore, 
 Not even to comb her hair, 
 
 For the other day I saw her sister 
 Combing it with great care. 
 
 She ll never do for me a wife, 
 
 Said poor Harry Blake, 
 And my way to California 
 
 Straightway, I think I ll make. 
 
 Meanwhile the unconscious subject, 
 "Was busy with brush and paint, 
 
 Though head and hands were weary, 
 And she so weak and faint. 
 
69 
 
 The work was done at last, 
 
 Exquisitely and rare, 
 But toil and anxiety had told 
 
 Upon the artist young and fair. 
 
 And ere a twelve month had fled . 
 
 They laid her neath the weeping willow, 
 And her fair young head 
 
 The coffin did thus early pillow. 
 
 And far away in the land of gold, 
 
 Close by a little lake, 
 Some strangers made another grave 
 
 And laid poor Harry Blake. 
 
 The gossip read the circumstances, 
 
 And owned, alas ! too late, 
 I m sorry I said a word, 
 
 Twas all a great mistake. 
 
 Our account to God must be the same 
 
 For every heart we break, 
 Whether it be through malice done, 
 
 Or only by mistake. 
 
70 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 To-day we will banish all care, 
 And from our hearts all sorrow, 
 
 To-day we will rest and be gay, 
 And pay for it all to-morrow. 
 
 To morrow is to-day s advocate, 
 And he proves a faithful one, 
 
 For much is deferred till to-morrow, 
 That should to-day be done. 
 
 Think not of it to-day, 
 
 Why useless trouble borrow ? 
 
 There s time enough to do it in, 
 We ll think of it to-morrow. 
 
 And the advocate still pleads, 
 
 And on he lures his victims thus, 
 
 Till we find alas " too late," 
 That to-morrow has ruined us. 
 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 We may love to read the brilliant novel, 
 Or of fashions the last display, 
 
 Or some grand and thrilling historic work 
 Of an ancient far off day. 
 
 But after the toil of the day is over, 
 
 We love the Bible best, 
 For, as we turn its sacred pages, 
 
 We find within them rest. 
 
71 
 
 The novel Avill lose its clmrms, 
 
 Because it is not true, 
 The fashions Avill grow dull, 
 
 When they re no longer new. 
 
 Of the historic work we soon may tire, 
 But the Bible we know is true, 
 
 And ever, within its hallowed pages, 
 We find something new. 
 
 IS IT ANY THIXG TO ME ? 
 
 Is it any thing to me if Sally Hawkins 
 Has been sent -to boarding school, 
 
 Or because Jim KimbalFs son 
 Has been called a fool ? 
 
 Is it any thing to me if Mrs. - - has gone 
 
 To spend the summer season ? 
 Is it any thing to me, I say, 
 
 If I don t know the reason ? 
 
 Is it any thing to me if Jacky Janes 
 
 Is sent to school all day, 
 And when he comes home at night 
 
 His mother lets him play ? 
 
 Is it any thing to me if somebody 
 Has been dissipated from his youth ? 
 
 Is it any thing for me to tell 
 Even if it should be the truth ? 
 
Is it any thing to me, if the widow Graham s 
 Is always reading a book ? [daughter 
 
 Is it any thing to me, I want to know, 
 If she don t know how to cook ? 
 
 Is it any thing to me if Molly Lee 
 
 Draw r s and paints from morning until night ? 
 Is it my business to go and tell her 
 
 That she isn t doing right ? 
 
 This world is large and wide, 
 
 And this I know is true : 
 If I mind my own affairs, 
 
 I can find enough to do. 
 
 THE LOST BASKET. 
 
 I was wandering through the field, 
 In the lovely month of October ; 
 
 It was a strawberry field, 
 
 But strawberry time was over. 
 
 I walked slowly, sadly and tearfully, 
 
 No longer happy and free, 
 For when I was there before, 
 
 My little sister was with me. 
 
 The sun was sinking in the west, 
 I had turned my steps toward home, 
 
 And was thinking how I 
 
 Henceforth must come alone. 
 
73 
 
 When I saw partially hidden by grass, 
 Not a rich laden jewel casket, 
 
 But something far dearer to me, 
 Her lost little basket. 
 
 I kissed it, I hugged it, 
 
 I wet it with tears, 
 And cherished it warmly, 
 
 For a great many years. 
 
 JUDGE NOT. 
 
 However hard a person looks, 
 Hard may have been his lot ; 
 
 Tis not for yon nor me to tell, 
 So we will jndge. him not. 
 
 He may be ragged and forlorn, 
 Stern poverty may be his lot, 
 
 And still he may be worthy, 
 So we will judge him not. 
 
 We may soon be neglected and alone, 
 
 Hard may be our lot, 
 Then we should like a smile, 
 
 So we will jndge him not. 
 
 Let s go and speak a kindly word 
 
 To cheer his weary lot, 
 That will be by far ttte best, 
 
 For God has said, " Jndge not." 
 
A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 The work of the clay is clone, 
 
 And we sit down in the cool of the day 
 To think and rest, 
 
 And watch the sun s last golden ray. 
 
 And some large bird with his beak, 
 Reminds us of a little drummer. 
 
 And every thing seems so cheerful 
 On a beautiful evening in summer. 
 
 READING A NEWSPAPER. 
 Mr. A., the thriving merchant, 
 
 Looks it quickly o er, 
 To find the list of articles, 
 
 He keeps in his store. 
 
 Mr. R, the prosperous lawyer, 
 
 Searches it hast ly through, 
 To see what prospective suits 
 
 Are now in view. 
 
 Miss. , the no longer youthful maiden, 
 
 Smiles with glad surprise, 
 As she reads the charming toilet articles, 
 
 For cheeks, lips and eyes. 
 
 Mrs, , the lady of fashion, 
 
 Cons it languidly o er, 
 To see what fashionable amusement, 
 
 Is now in store. 
 
The gay and dashing belles 
 At the fashion column glance, 
 
 Ere they to their rendezvous, 
 With merry sayings prance. 
 
 The pious, godly old man, 
 
 With solemn, conscientious views, 
 Looks it through expressly, 
 
 To find the religious news. 
 
 The political man reads Ms columns, 
 
 To see if he can get a clue 
 As to who the next President will be, 
 
 If they have one in view. 
 
 And so ea<?h one reads the article 
 
 He or she likes best ; 
 Not caring, perhaps, a farthing 
 
 For any of the rest. 
 
 It is read and cast aside, 
 
 Perhaps in the waste basket put, 
 Or for the pantry shelves, 
 
 Or into patterns cut. 
 
 Suppose you keep it carefully. 
 
 Through sunshine and through tears, 
 Keep it as clean as possible 
 
 For ten or twenty years, 
 
 Then take it out and peruse 
 Its time worn pages once more ; 
 
 It will take you back to the time 
 When you read it in days of yore. 
 
76 
 
 THE POTATO. 
 
 What on this wide earth 
 
 That is made, or does by nature grow, 
 Is more homely, yet more beautiful. 
 
 Than the useful Potato ? 
 
 What would this world full of people do, 
 Rich and poor, high and low, 
 
 Were it not for this little- thought of 
 But very necessary Potato ? 
 
 True tis homely to look on, 
 Nothing pretty in even its blow, 
 
 But it will bear acquaintance, 
 This useful Potato. 
 
 For when it is cooked and opened, 
 
 It s so white and mellow, 
 You forget it ever was homely, 
 
 This useful Potato. 
 
 On the whole it is a very plain plant, 
 Makes no conspicuous show, 
 
 But the internal appearance is lovely, 
 Of the unostentatious Potato. 
 
 The useful and the beautiful 
 
 Are not far apart we know. 
 And thus the beautiful are glad to have, 
 
 The homelv looking Potato. 
 
77 
 
 On the land, or on the sea, 
 
 Wherever we may go, 
 We are always glad to welcome 
 
 The homely Potato. 
 
 A practical and moral lesson 
 
 This may plainly show, 
 That though homely, our heart can be 
 
 Like that of the homely Potato. 
 
 THEN AND NOW. 
 
 Then women were contented with their rights. 
 
 And did n t strive for rights of men, 
 But that time has long since passed, 
 
 This is now, and that was then. 
 
 Then it was scarcely thought 
 
 A woman could nourish the author s pen, 
 But minds have changed long since, 
 
 This is now, and that was then. 
 
 Things have greatly changed, 
 
 Even in years so few as ten ; 
 I wonder if we appreciate 
 
 That this is now, and that was then. 
 
78 
 
 NO. 
 
 It is a diminutive little word; 
 
 But two letters can it show, 
 Yet who knows when and how, 
 
 To answer No ? 
 
 It has a deepness in its import, 
 
 That it does not show, 
 And who knows when and how, 
 
 To use this little No ? 
 
 A life may perhaps depend 
 
 On the utterance of this little word ; 
 Ah ! how many a heart has fallen, 
 
 As it has been heard. 
 
 Though it is but a little word, 
 And can but two letters show, 
 
 It needs study to know when and how, 
 To use this little No. 
 
79 
 
 AN OLD MIRROR. 
 
 It is old and time-worn, cracked and broken, 
 You would call it a worthless mass, 
 
 But it is to me a very dear token, 
 That old looking glass. 
 
 It is old and worthless now, I know, 
 
 And for its value I do not save, 
 But for the faces it reflected years ago. 
 
 That now are in the grave. 
 
 Baby faces, with curly hair 
 
 And a rounded form, 
 Have been reflected there, 
 
 In that glass so time-worn. 
 
 And maidens young and fair, 
 
 With cheeks and eyes aglow, 
 Have been reflected there, 
 
 Long, long years ago. 
 
 The form of haughtiness and pride, 
 
 That glass has oft reflected, 
 And the form of many a bride 
 
 It has not neglected. 
 
 I ll keep it for the sake of those 
 Who sleep beneath the wavy grass. 
 
 Yes, until my life shall close, 
 
 I ll keep that time-worn looking glass. 
 
80 
 
 WANTED. 
 
 A person not absorbed in fashion, 
 
 Who cares not for false show, 
 Who, with honesty and integrity, 
 
 Through this world will try to go. 
 
 One who for no one can be hired, 
 
 To act or tell a falsehood, 
 Will act alike toward rich and poor, 
 
 And be upright, just and good. 
 
 One who cares more for principle 
 
 Than fashionable display, 
 One who will be gentle, loving, kind 
 
 And good tempered every day. 
 
 One who will, on the weary beggar, 
 
 Smile his heart to cheer, 
 Will to the widow be a friend, 
 
 And kiss away the orphan s tear. 
 
 One who will not pass the fatherless 
 Or motherless coldly on the street, 
 
 But will have a kindlv look or word, 
 With which, them all, to greet. 
 
 One who will lend a helping hand 
 
 To any who are in trouble, 
 Will try the cares and troubles of the poor, 
 
 To halve, instead of double. 
 
81 
 
 One who loves Our Heavenly Father, 
 And will his kind precepts obey, 
 
 Will daily read the Holy Bible, 
 And also love to pray. 
 
 Wanted one of that description, 
 To reach the heavenly goal, 
 
 And the name to be recorded 
 On God s sacred roll. 
 
 WATCHING A CANDLE BURN. 
 
 Shorter and shorter it grows ; 
 
 Now it flitters in the stick ; 
 It s all gone at last ; 
 
 There s nothing left but wick. 
 
 Our life is flittering, too, 
 Like the candle in the stick, 
 
 But let us leave some good behind, 
 Not simply a worthless wick. 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 BY MOTHER S CHAIR. 
 
 You may be old and feeble now 
 
 With silver colored hair, 
 And yet you remember well, 
 
 Of kneeling by mother s chair. 
 
 You may be a business man. 
 
 With anxieties and care, 
 But do you not remember 
 
 Kneeling by mother s chair ? 
 
 You remember the kindly look, 
 As she heard your little prayer ; 
 
 Ah ! it was a happy time, 
 Kneeling by mother s chair. 
 
 So young and happy then, 
 No thought of future care, 
 
 But you wished the time to come 
 To kneel by mother s chair. 
 
 You may have battled with the world, 
 Been hardened by toil and care, 
 
 But recall again the time 
 When you knelt by mother s chair. 
 
 Eecall her gentle tones, 
 
 As she taught the little prayer, 
 And the smile she gave, 
 
 As von. knelt bv mother s chair. 
 
83 
 
 Eecall the face serene and mild, 
 
 The slightly silvered hair, 
 Eecall again the happy time, 
 
 Kneeling by mother s chair. 
 
 That mother is in Heaven now, 
 
 And she awaits yon there, 
 With a smile as sweet 
 
 As when yon knelt by mother s chair. 
 
 And will yon not try to meet her 9 
 In those realms so bright and fair? 
 
 Eemember what w r as taught yon 
 When von knelt by mother s chair. 
 
 A CHILD S DIARY. 
 
 I have a diary that I keep with care, 
 And, every night I write there, 
 Whether through the day, good or bad 
 I ve been, 
 
 What I ve done, and what I ve seen ; 
 At the close of the week, I read it o er, 
 And resolve that I ll do bad no more. 
 But then I do the same as before. 
 
NOT TOO FAB. 
 
 Yes, give an innocent joke, 
 If mirthful and gay you are ; 
 
 An innocent joke will do no harm 
 If it be not carried too far. 
 
 But let us be sure our little joke 
 
 On another will not jar. 
 And let us always be sure, my friend, 
 
 We do not carry the joke too far. 
 
 A jest or joke will do no harm, 
 For it can neither make nor mar, 
 
 But always beware, my friend, 
 Lest you carry the joke too far. 
 
 THY WILL BE DONE. 
 
 It may seem hard to say sometimes, 
 When trials and troubles come, 
 
 But then is it not a consolation, to say, 
 " Father, thy will be done ? " 
 
 Even when affliction comes 
 
 And He takes away some loved one, 
 Is it not a comfort, to say, 
 
 "Thy will 0, God, be done ?" 
 
85 
 
 Though the clouds are dark around us, 
 And our pathway drear and lone, 
 
 Oh ! is it not sweet to say 
 
 " Father in Heaven, thy will be done ? " 
 
 When joy, pleasure and happiness, 
 
 Profusely to us come. 
 We are not slow to say. 
 
 " Father, thy will be done." 
 
 Still it is the same kind Father, 
 
 That sends of joy some, of sorrow some, 
 And ought we not always say, 
 
 " Father, thy will be done ? " 
 
 THE FLOWER GARDEN. 
 
 Ah ! hers was a bright and cheery place, 
 A quiet, secluded little spot, 
 
 Where, with her little flock around her, 
 She had a cheerful, happy lot. 
 
 Each one of her little flock 
 Bore the name of some flower ; 
 
 And training her tender plants, 
 She spent many a happy hour. 
 
 There was Rose, and her name 
 
 Was appropriately her own, 
 For scarlet cheeks and lips 
 
 Were like roses fully blown. 
 
86 
 
 And Daisy, with her drooping form 
 
 And eyes of violet blue, 
 And her long and heavy curls, 
 
 Of a lovely golden hue. 
 
 And Lily, with her petite figure 
 
 And eyes of limpid brown, 
 And a face so fair and sweet, 
 
 That seldom, if ever, was known to frown, 
 
 And Blossom, with her childish face 
 
 And merry winning smile. 
 And her innocent little ways, 
 
 With never a thought of guile. 
 
 And then there was a boy 
 
 And his name was Pink, 
 He was the youngest of them all, 
 
 At least, so I think. 
 
 But the garden grew thinner and thinnei, 
 
 The flowers all dropped away, 
 And the spot where the garden was, 
 
 Is a lonesome place tq-day. 
 
87 
 
 IF YOU HAVE A 
 
 Do not give up my friend, 
 
 If fortune frown on you to-day, 
 
 But be this known, if you haye a will 
 You ll surely find a way. 
 
 The prospects may look dark, 
 
 But this I ll dare to say, 
 That if you have a will 
 
 You ll surely find a way. 
 
 Our life cannot always be as bright 
 As the beautiful month of May, 
 
 But where there is a will, 
 There ll surely be a way. 
 
 If you become discouraged 
 
 At fortune s slow delay, 
 Remember, if you have a will, 
 
 You ll surely find a way. 
 
 From your duty, let nothing 
 
 Ever make you stay, 
 And know, that if you have a will 
 
 You ll surely find a way. 
 
88 
 
 GATHERING. 
 We move among the autumn leaves, 
 
 In little corners and juts : 
 Ah ! there is a great deal of fun 
 
 In gathering the little brown nuts. 
 
 Have you ever been nut gathering ? 
 
 If you have n t, you don t know the fun 
 There is in lifting the leaves, 
 
 To find each hidden one. 
 
 Gently blows the autumnal breeze, 
 
 And fans our heated brow ; 
 How delightful and refreshing ! 
 
 We can gather them better now. 
 
 But we are tired and heated now ; 
 
 We ll sit us down beneath the trees, 
 And watch the dark-brown nuts 
 
 As they fall among the leaves. 
 
 The sun is about to set we see, [ting, 
 
 Around us, the night will soon be shut- 
 
 And now we will return, 
 
 And come some other time a-nutting. 
 
89 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 The time has passed, it will do no good, 
 Alas ! why mourn our fate ? 
 
 There is nothing left for us, 
 
 But the awful thought, " Too Late/ 
 
 Nothing will make the matter better. 
 
 However long we wait, 
 And what has caused it all ? 
 
 Tis plainly to be seen, " Too Late." 
 
 How many a wretched being, 
 
 Confined by iron grate, 
 Mourns, if I were but free again, 
 
 But alas it is too late, too late. 
 
 A passenger train was rushing on, 
 There was only a slight mistake, 
 
 A crash, a thousand lives were lost 
 By being a little too late. 
 
 Oh ! may there be none 
 
 Standing at Heaven s gate, 
 Bearing upon their shield 
 
 The fetal words : " Too Late." 
 
THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Dressed in white, at the altar she stood, 
 
 With a soft blush on her cheek, 
 And vowed to be a wife, faithful and good. 
 
 In accents gentle and meek ; 
 The room was so quiet and still, 
 
 And every one gazed at the bride, [will," 
 As she answered the questions, with a clear " I 
 
 And a beautiful degree of pride. 
 
 The bridal was over at last, 
 
 And friends hurried the first kiss to claim, 
 And crowded around her fast, 
 
 To greet her by her pretty new name ; 
 The bridal it now was over, 
 
 And she no longer answered the call 
 Of little Kittie Clover, 
 
 But dignified Mrs. Hall. 
 
 All wished the pretty bride joy, 
 
 And hoped nothing might ever take place 
 To worry, trouble or annoy 
 
 That pure girlish face ; 
 Father and mother then bade her good bye, 
 
 And resigned her to a stranger s care, 
 Though it was with many a tear and sigh, 
 
 They parted with their Rosebud fair. 
 
91 
 
 She had left a kind father s care, 
 A mother s watchful eye, 
 
 Where all her days had been so fail- 
 Without a tear or sigh ; 
 
 The wiseacres murmured and said, 
 She ll repent it all too late, 
 
 But she wisely shook her head, 
 Saying, I know the step I take. 
 
 Ere two short years had fled, 
 
 Before the altar they sat once more, 
 But in the coffin she lay dead 
 
 Who was a bride before ; 
 Father and mother bitterly wept, 
 
 For their only child, 
 Who in death now slept, 
 
 But their grief was not wild. 
 
 But the grief of him whose heart she won 
 
 Was by far too wild and deep, 
 To be soothed or quieted by any one 
 
 But God who giveth sleep; 
 And ere a year its course had run, 
 
 He joined her in the world above, 
 And the twain again were one, 
 
 United by perfect love. 
 
THE CLOSE OF DAT. 
 
 I hear the chirp of the cricket, the drowsy hum of 
 
 the bee, 
 
 And the low murmuring sound of the busy flea, 
 And around me fall the shadows gray, 
 I know it is near the close of another day; 
 And what will be recorded for me, 
 In the ocean of eternity ? 
 Another da y is passed and gone, 
 And in it what have I done ? 
 If I have n t done wrong in any great measure. 
 Have I laid up any new treasure ? 
 Have I cheered a heart that was nearly broken ? 
 Or to some poor soul a kind word spoken ? 
 Have I tried the weary invalid to beguile ? 
 Have I given a kind look, word or smile 
 To some suffering mortal in distress ? 
 Have I cheered for a moment the fatherless ? 
 Have I been to the widow a friend, 
 Or tried the orphan s woes to mend ? 
 If I have, there is a treasure for me, 
 Laid up in the vast eternity ; 
 " For inasmuch as ye do it unto the most wee," 
 Jesus hath said, " ye do it unto me ; " 
 But if I have n t, I must wait 
 Until another day ; it s now too late ; 
 For the shadows, so dark and gray, 
 Show that it is the close of dav. 
 
93 
 
 MY FAITH. 
 
 Take away my Faith from me, 
 
 And should n t I miss her though ? 
 
 She s been my true friend 
 
 Through summer s sun and winter s snow. 
 
 What treasure do I possess, 
 
 That I would n t sooner let go, 
 Than my precious Faith who s been with me, 
 
 Through summer s sun and winter s snow. 
 
 She goes with me where e er I go, 
 
 And holds me by the hand; 
 She is a precious treasure, 
 
 More lovable than grand. 
 
 If any time I feel drooping, 
 
 Faith whispers a promise new, 
 And so she cheers me on, 
 
 Whether or not it be true. 
 
 My precious Faith, I love her so, 
 
 With her I would not part ; 
 Darling treasure, stay with me, 
 
 And ever cheer my heart. 
 
94- 
 
 A VISIT TO THE CEMETERY. 
 
 I move among the marble slabs, 
 
 With a feeling of solemnity, but not of dread ; 
 I read the names on the snowy marble, 
 
 Above the buried dead ; 
 This grave is very small, 
 
 But ah ! it was a little babe, 
 Though it was their all, 
 
 That 7 neat,h this slab is laid ; 
 But what lo\ ely inscription is this ? 
 
 May we meet baby in Heaven, 
 Tho thee we so sadly miss, 
 
 Thou was lent, not given. 
 
 Ah ! babe thine is a happy lot, 
 
 Thine a quiet resting place, 
 With a tiny marble to mark the spot 
 
 Where sleeps thy baby face ; 
 Thou didst not live to tight with the world s ways, 
 
 To struggle with turmoil and strife, 
 Short and happy were thy days, 
 
 And thine a sinless life ; 
 Fond parents now mourn their babe, 
 
 But thou art happier than they, 
 Thy little peace is made, 
 
 For a long, an endless day. 
 
 I was going to pass this one by, 
 
 It is so much in the shade, 
 Aged, five years, Willie Guy, 
 
 The grave is tastefully made, 
 
But only a block smooth and plain, 
 
 (For it is done with care,) 
 Bears upon it the name 
 
 Of the one lying there. 
 Rest, gentle sleeper, rest 
 
 With thy Father so loving and mild ; 
 Now thou art as truly blest, 
 
 As is the rich man s child. 
 
 I move on toward a more fashionable spot, 
 
 That is n t so much in the shade, 
 And where blooms in profusion the forget-me-not, 
 
 Over the grave so beautifully made ; 
 I guess by the monument so great and grand 
 
 Some person very much renowned ; 
 May be a Missionary from a foreign land, 
 
 Sleeps neath that spot of ground ; 
 But as I draw near I see tis small of size, 
 
 And what is this I read ? 
 I can scarce believe my eyes, 
 
 Aged, five years, three months, Herby 0. Mead. 
 
 Eest to thee, sweet sleeper, 
 
 Thou art gone to thy sweet rest, 
 Though it is none the sweeter, 
 
 Xor art thou more blest ; 
 With thy Father so loving and mild, 
 
 In whose arms thou dost now repose, 
 Than the poor widow s child, 
 
 Who did his eyes in poverty, close. 
 
96 
 
 I leave the little sleepers and go to another quarter; 
 
 This one is sunken and low, 
 Sacred to the memory of Kittle, only daughter. 
 
 Died, yes long ago, 
 And here by her side, 
 
 Is a longer grave the grave of another ; 
 May fifth, 18 died, 
 
 Mary, beloved wife and mother. 
 
 Here mother and daughter sleep, 
 
 Side by side they lie ; 
 Side by side may they ever keep, 
 
 In their beautiful home on High. 
 
 Two tiny graves side by side, 
 
 What is the name upon the stone ? Bristers 
 After a short illness, died, 
 
 Susy and Minnie little twin sisters. 
 Happily you lived together, 
 
 And the chain which bound you, 
 Will now be broken never, 
 
 But be united anew. 
 
 This lovely grave with a myrtle wreath, 
 
 And picture on the stone sublime, 
 Shows that she who sleeps beneath, 
 
 Died before her time; 
 And the inscription that is between, 
 
 Died by accident, August fourth, 18 Rosa May, 
 Aged just eighteen, 
 
 Eldest daughter of Allen Fay. 
 
97 
 
 If them didst die before thy time, 
 
 Thou didst die young and fair; 
 Peace and happiness are thine 
 
 And thou art free from care ; 
 If thou hadst lived, we cannot tell, 
 
 What might have been thy lot ; 
 So perhaps it s just as well 
 
 To sleep in this lovely spot. 
 
 After a short and painful illness, died, 
 
 January tenth, 18, Alline M. Grey, 
 Beloved and betrothed bride, 
 
 Of Alexander Da} . 
 Thou hast past from this changeful world of ours 
 
 To one ever bright and fair, 
 Where bloom perennial flowers 
 
 Beautiful and rare. 
 
 The future that opened before thee, 
 
 The prospects so fair and so bright, 
 Thou didst not stay to see, 
 
 But went where all is light. 
 Sacred to the memory of Ivy Granger, 
 
 That was all it said ; 
 It did not tell how she was a stranger, 
 
 Far from her kindred dead. 
 
 Sleep, gentle stranger, in thy quiet place; 
 
 If thine was a short, unhappy life, 
 A fearful struggling race, 
 
 Now thou art free from strife ; 
 7 
 
98 
 
 Sleep, gentle stranger ; tis not for us to chide, 
 
 Thine was not a happy lot, 
 Tho by thy example we would not abide, 
 
 Fair stranger, we judge thee not. 
 
 Ah ! here is neither stone nor stave 
 
 To bear the sleeper s name ; 
 Alas ! it is a pauper s grave, 
 
 So very poor and plain. 
 
 Rich or poor, beggar or king, it matters not, 
 
 If thy spirit be with God, 
 Though no stone marks the spot 
 
 Where thy form lies neath the sod : 
 Peacefully, peacefully mayst thou rest, 
 
 Peacefully, peacefully slumber ; 
 May the blessings of the blest 
 
 Fall round thee without number ; 
 Thou hast seen many an angry frown, 
 
 Heard many words harsh and cold, 
 From people of distinction and renown, 
 
 To whom thy tale thou st told. 
 
 Died March fifth, 18, 
 
 After a long illness, aged twenty-one, 
 Leland L. Frank, 
 
 Of Abel Frank, only son. 
 
 Thy race was short and quickly run, 
 But thy time was well improved, 
 
 And of the good thou hast done, 
 Talk parents and friends who loved ; 
 
99 
 
 Ought they not cherish long and well 
 
 The good that thou hast done ? 
 None but those who ve lost can tell, 
 
 What it is to lose an only son. 
 
 Sacred to the memory of Amanda Koyce, 
 Aged ninety years, ten months and five days ; 
 
 Hushed now is thy sweet silvery voice, 
 Gone thy smile like the sunbeam s rays. 
 
 Sleep gently now aged one, 
 
 Thou hast spent a long and useful life, 
 But thy work at last is done ; 
 
 Thou hast been a fond mother, a devoted wife, 
 To the week and erring, a faithful guide ; 
 
 Thou hast cheered the heart that was nearly 
 Given counsel to the youthful bride, [broken, 
 
 To the fallen ones, a kind word spoken ; 
 We leave thee, peaceful be thy rest ; 
 
 We know that thou art happy now, 
 And dwelling among the blest, 
 
 The crown of victory on thy brow. 
 
 I know well when this was made, 
 
 And feel like hurrying by, 
 For it is a drunkard s grave 
 
 That is now before my eye, 
 
 His was a tall and manly form 
 
 With many a winning grace, 
 Till he became forsaken and forlorn, 
 
 And shame depicted on his face ; 
 
100 
 
 For friends and fortune he did not lack, 
 
 But neither could keep him secure 
 From that fatal track 
 
 Which toward the grave did lure ; 
 Father, we plead for him in tears 
 
 Before the great white throne. 
 He was so young in years, 
 
 Forgive the wrong he s done. 
 
 This one with a cypress wreath, 
 
 And a pictured form beside a shield, 
 
 Shows that he who lies beneath 
 Died on a battle field. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, ye noble brave, 
 
 Thou, for our country, thy life didst yield; 
 Thine is an honored grave, 
 
 Thyself, from danger, thou didst not shield, 
 Thou didst not live till set of sun, 
 
 Thou didst not live to know 
 The victory thou st won, 
 
 But tho thy victory thou didst not learn below. 
 In that world where thou hast gone, 
 
 Mayst thou the welcome message hear, 
 Faithful servant, well done, 
 
 Calm every doubt and fear. 
 
 I pause again this time, a cross 
 
 Deep in the marble made, 
 Shows the world s loss, 
 
 Tis a martyr s grave; 
 
101 
 
 A martyr who, in a foreign land, 
 
 For the blessed Saviour s sake, 
 Went to teach a heathen band, 
 
 And lost his life at the stake. 
 
 For Jesus thou wert slain, 
 
 Regardless of friend or brother, 
 Thou shalt find thy life again, 
 
 Not in this world, but surely in the other; 
 Thou art with thy Father now, 
 
 In the land above, 
 With victory on thy brow, 
 
 And round thee perfect love. 
 
 My visit to the cemetery is o er, 
 
 But ere I leave it quite behind, 
 I turn and look once more 
 
 On the graves of every kind ; 
 Here side by side lie rich and poor, 
 
 The man whose money gathered rust, 
 And he who begged a crust at his door, 
 
 Both are sleeping in the dust. 
 Here the martyr and the soldier lie, 
 
 Here lies the mother, here the babe, 
 And he who a death of shame did die; 
 
 Graves of every kind are made, 
 Of different length and size ; 
 
 We ll hope all who in them are laid, 
 Are in Mansions be von d the skies. 
 
102 
 
 A FASHIONABLE PRAYER. 
 
 Father in Heaven, Oh ! keep rny face, 
 
 Free, free from aught that will deface, 
 
 please to keep my hair 
 
 Glossy dark and fair, 
 
 And my eyes so unfading and bright, 
 
 That I can see plainly, even, by twilight; 
 
 May my feet not so large grow, 
 
 That I can t get on a number two shoe, 
 
 let my hands be white and small, 
 
 And my cheeks as round as an apple or ball ; 
 
 May my teeth be even and white, 
 
 And my eyes as bright as stars at night ; 
 
 May I have, of tan and freckles instead, 
 
 A complexion clear white and red ; 
 
 Father in Heaven, Oh ! hear my prayer, 
 
 And make me truly lovely and fair. 
 
 WHAT SHALL WE MAKE OF HIM. 
 
 Either in a trade or on the farm, 
 
 We can make the boys all useful, but Jim ; 
 I ve thought it over and over. 
 
 What shall we do with him 9 
 
 Xo liking for work or study 
 
 Does he ever seem to take, 
 And it puzzles me sorely, 
 
 How we can him useful make. 
 
1C3 
 
 ]S"ow mother why need you worry ? 
 
 I ve got a plan for him, 
 A good one too you ll say, 
 
 I ll make an editor of Jim. 
 
 Surely that s just the thing, 
 For he cann t learn books or trade. 
 
 If we d thought of it before, 
 He would have now been made. 
 
 To the editor next clay he went, 
 
 And took along his Jim, 
 Said he, he is n t very bright, 
 
 And I want an editor of him. 
 
 He questioned Jim a little, 
 
 Who stood before him like a tool ; 
 
 I ll tell you what Mr. said he, 
 And editor cann t be a fool. 
 
 SUNDAY. 
 
 Sweet day of rest, we welcome thee, 
 
 God s own sacred day ; 
 It is a blessed time 
 
 To think and pray. 
 
 The week s work is over, 
 
 And care and work we put away, 
 And hail with joy 
 
 The holy Sabbath day. 
 
lOi 
 
 The bells are sweetly chiming, 
 And people are hastening now 
 
 To the house of worship, 
 
 In prayer and submission to bow. 
 
 Sweet day of rest to all, 
 
 The merchant relaxes his brow, 
 The lawyer rests his brain, 
 
 The farmer drops his plough. . 
 
 From the king upon his throne, 
 To the prisoner in his cell, 
 
 Sweet day, thou bringest rest, 
 Indeed we love thee well. 
 
 Dear, delightful day of rest, 
 God s own hallowed day ; 
 
 Aside we put all work and care, 
 And hail the Sabbath day. 
 
 ROBBIE. 
 
 He has cheeks that are rosy and fair, 
 And pretty locks of tawny hair ; 
 He has eyes of a darkish brown, 
 And face that rarely has a frown ; 
 Little Robbie, he s but a child, 
 But very loving, gentle and mild, 
 With such a sober, solemn way, 
 Tis though he ll be a minister some day. 
 
105 
 
 "MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME." 
 
 As we journey far away, 
 And o er the land do roam, 
 
 "Tis a pleasant sound to hear, 
 " Pray, make yourself at home." 
 
 But vain as it is useless, 
 
 For whether it be cot or throne, 
 On this wide, wide earth, 
 
 There is no place like home. 
 
 Our host and hostess may be kind, 
 And many a comfort loan, 
 
 But the words are vain as useless, 
 " Pray, make yourself at home." 
 
 Though we affect content, 
 The heart will cry and moan, 
 
 And vain as useless are the words, 
 " Do make yourself at home." 
 
106 
 
 PARTING WORDS. 
 
 Ah ! did you ever stand, 
 
 With tears stealing into your eye, 
 And sadly reach your hand, 
 
 And utter the word good bye ? 
 
 Then you remember a sad face, 
 
 "With a tear-dimmed eye, 
 Trying the tears to erase, 
 
 And respond to your good bye. 
 
 Did you ever stand by brook or gate, 
 With feelings you could n t tell, 
 
 While you did so badly hate, 
 To speak the word farewell ? 
 
 Or, if not by gate or brook, 
 
 Did you ever stand in grove or dell, 
 
 With one whose friendly look. 
 Made it hard to say farewell ? 
 
 Have you stood at the door of stage or car v 
 With a much lov d friend beside you, 
 
 Who was going away very far, 
 And dreaded to say adieu ? 
 
 Next time you re about to part, 
 
 Utter au revoir, with a pleasant smile, 
 
 And if you like this art, 
 Then use it all the while. 
 
OF THK 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 107 
 
 THE FIRST GLASS. 
 
 On a couch, in a hovel, a man was lying, 
 And his wild eyes and rigid face, 
 Showed that he was dying ; 
 By his rum tainted breath, 
 It was a drunkard s death ; 
 By him watched a woman pale, 
 And though worn by care, 
 Traces of beauty lingered there. 
 
 Come with me to Welton Hall, 
 
 Tis the birthday party of Irma Ball ; 
 
 From the merry group she is standing apart, 
 
 With her bosom friend Rosina Hart. 
 
 Yes every thing is lovely and bright, 
 
 But don t trifle with wine to night ; 
 
 Oh ! Rosy don t say so, 
 
 I must have wine you know. 
 
 She sees fair Irma the tiny salver pass, 
 And hears her say, Drink it for my sake ; 
 Dear cousin it is my first glass, 
 But it for you I ll take. 
 
 Need I tell you reader, dear, 
 
 That she who is by the death couch near. 
 
 Is the Rosina of Welton Hall, 
 
 Once the friend of Irma Ball, 
 
 That he who on the couch is lying, 
 
 He who a drunkard s death is dying, 
 
108 
 
 Is lie, to whom fair Inna, on thai fatal night, 
 
 Did the tiny salver pass. 
 
 And urged him to drink his first glass. 
 
 My youthful readers, gay and fair, 
 I would say to you beware! beware! 
 How you the tiny salver pass, 
 And how you urge the fatal glass. 
 
 THE BLUE GAUZE VEIL. 
 
 Oh ! it was such a lovely day, 
 Just right for a delightful sail, 
 
 But as my skiff moved away, 
 
 I had no thought of a blue ga~uze veil. 
 
 I reached the shaded wood, 
 
 My little skiff I moored, 
 Then for a moment stood, 
 
 Ere I the thicket explored. 
 
 When I returned twas nearly dark, 
 I had stayed a number of hours, 
 
 The flight of time I did not mark, 
 So busily had I gathered flowers. 
 
 My skiff I hastened to untie, 
 
 And was about setting sail, 
 When what should meet my eye, 
 
 But a blue gauze veil. 
 
109 
 
 Well, I kept it first for fun, 
 
 And, but not to prolong my tale, 
 
 I think I soon shall wed the one 
 Who owned the blue gauze veil. 
 
 ONE STEP AT A TIME. 
 If a long and toilsome ladder 
 
 You were trying to climb, 
 You would not reach the top at once, 
 
 But by one step at a time. 
 
 Doubtless all of you are trying, 
 Different ladders to climb, 
 
 But be sure you only take 
 One step at a time. 
 
 One step and take it surely, 
 
 Not like a conceited fop, 
 And soon you ll find my friend. 
 
 That you have reached the top. 
 
 LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 
 My friend, mong strangers now 
 I soon shall dwell, 
 But thus it is to be, 
 And ere I bid thee a last farewell, 
 Promise to think of me ; 
 Think of me as one who whatever 
 Befall thee, 
 
 Will ever be true to thee as now, 
 When friends are around thee, 
 And joys illume thy brow. 
 
110 
 
 THE OLD FASHIONED STAGE. 
 
 Up in the morning before day break, 
 
 If the stage you were going to take ; 
 
 Breakfast in a hurry they would prepare, 
 
 Potatoes half cooked eggs very rare, 
 
 And the coffee could n t be made to steep, 
 
 And some one a close vigil would keep, 
 
 While in the confusion and heat, 
 
 You endeavored a few mouthsful to eat, 
 
 (Which did you no good in the worry and stew,) 
 
 Lest the stage should chance to leave you ; 
 
 The first egg you could n t eat, the second on your 
 
 plate, 
 
 When the stage is coming, you ll be too late ; 
 With a deathly faintness you could n t stop to tell, 
 Away you hurried with a hasty farewell, 
 And were just in time for the old rumbling stage, 
 But lo ! in the hurry you had forgotten an import 
 ant package ; 
 
 And then the air was so stifling and hot, 
 But to the driver it mattered not, 
 On he jogged with as much relief, 
 As if the passengers could get breath : 
 You might have raised the window and got a 
 
 breeze, 
 
 But the mother was afraid her child would sneeze ; 
 So twenty or thirty miles, you must ride, 
 Without getting a breath of air from outside, 
 Cramped up by fleshy old ladies and babies crying, 
 You felt as if you were almost dying ; 
 
Ill 
 
 But did n t you hurry out fast, 
 
 When the stage halted at last ? 
 
 Thanks for the modern improvements of the age, 
 
 That have put out of use the old fashioned stage. 
 
 "MAY DAY." 
 
 For one or two brief hours, 
 
 I laid all work away, 
 And went to gather flowers, 
 
 This first day of May. 
 
 I went into the bright green wood, 
 
 Where the acorns scattered lay, 
 But tearfully I stood, 
 
 Thinking of last " May Day." 
 
 The friends that were with me, 
 
 Alas ! where are they ? 
 The friends that joined me, 
 
 On last " May Day." 
 
 I stooped in various places, 
 
 To pick up acorns where they lay, 
 
 But I missed the faces, 
 
 That were with me last " May Day." 
 
 I gathered flowers and acorns, single and double, 
 But both had lost their brightness, 
 
 In my heart seemed a trouble. 
 
 And it could n t regain its lightness. 
 
112 
 
 There have been lovely showers, 
 To bring forth bright flowers, 
 
 And I ve had a chance, 
 
 To enjoy woodland romance 
 
 Much rustic beauty have I seen, 
 Yet on the whole, I must say, 
 
 That for me it has n t been 
 A very happy " May Day." 
 
 TO THE READERS OF MY VOLUME. 
 
 Dear readers, my little volume is ended, 
 
 With it my warmest wishes are blended, 
 
 That it may please you each and all, 
 
 Old and young, great and small ; 
 
 How well I have succeeded, I leave for you to tell, 
 
 And with thanks for your kind attention, 
 
 Bid you all farewell ; 
 
 And where e er you are, what e er your lot, 
 
 Dear readers, one and all, forget me not. 
 
 A QUESTION. 
 
 Dear friends, all who ve been kind enough, 
 This little volume, to peruse with care, 
 
 Tell me candidly, do you think it 
 Another castle in the air ? 
 
 OF THE 
 
 / tTNIVERSITY 
 
YA 0194 
 
 U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 DOX EY