THE OLD COBBLER 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 By 
 
 ERASTUS JOHNSON
 
 & 
 
 K* 
 
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 f
 
 THE 
 
 OLD COBBLER 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 "THE ROCK THAT IS HIGHER THAN I 
 
 BY 
 
 ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 That thf reading of these simple rhymes may do somebody 
 some good, is the author s humble prayer. He is now, at 
 this writing (1907,) in his eighty-second year, and will 
 soon pass the summit of the great divide. 
 
 WALTHAM, MASS. 
 
 1907
 
 TO MY NEPHEW 
 ALBA B. JOHNSON 
 
 who has taken a deep interest 
 in its publication, this little 
 volume is dedicated.
 
 Preface 
 
 "From one to two pages of autobiographical 
 material " saith the publisher. Now how to condense 
 eighty-one years of a changeful life, into the limit of 
 five hundred words, that is the problem before me. 
 
 Birth in a logging camp on the west bank of the 
 Penobscot, about sixty miles above Bangor, where my 
 father was getting out pine timber for a firm in Boston. 
 
 Entry in his diary, "April 20, 1826, Junking. 
 Hayes went after lumber. " That was my first birth 
 day, but he made no mention of the momentous event. 
 Yet I entertain against him no hard feelings, because it 
 was no departure from his uniform practice. My father 
 for several reasons, was accounted somewhat eccentric 
 and extremely radical. He championed total absti 
 nence, the Jewish race, and the anti-slavery cause, 
 carrying Frederick Douglas around in his rig, to his 
 lectures, and entertaining "that nigger" at his home 
 These were reasons enough, in those early days, for 
 that accounting. For my mother s quiet, unassuming 
 amiability, I have no words. I never saw her show 
 impatience. 
 
 1 will divide my life into periods as follows: Four 
 years at my first home taking lessons in logging. (See 
 " Recollections of Childhood, " Chapter III.) Four years 
 at my second home, about four miles from Lincoln, Me., 
 taking lessons in the rudiments of the three "R s," in 
 a school house with only six panes of glass, (sometimes 
 less) and a huge stone chimney, for smoke and more 
 light. Also lessons in experience in God s care for His 
 ravens when they cry. (See ibid., Chapter IV.) Three 
 years at my third home, the old homestead in Jackson, 
 taking lessons in silk worm raising, and hop raising, 
 both of which were soon abandoned by my father, the
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 first for lack of profit, the last on principle; also taking 
 first prize for best scholarship in Grammar. Seven 
 years at my fourth home, the log house in Jackson, 
 scraping the cello, as an accompaniment to my brother 
 William s violin, a half interest in said "bass viol" we 
 called it, being owned by my chum brother, Samuel, 
 (nick names were never allowed in our home) who with 
 myself burned charcoal to pay for it, working by moon 
 light and starlight, and rainy days, instead of going 
 fishing; and how many nerves were unstrung by our 
 string instruments, we never knew, which brings me to 
 the age of seventeen, when I taught my first school at 
 Machias, and walked home eighty-five miles to save 
 stage fare. 
 
 It was about this time, too, that I made my maiden 
 attempts, and began to wonder if I wasn t a poet. But 
 let me say right now and here, that I do not suppose 
 there is a single line of my writings, that by the Bliss 
 Carman standard of modern, higher criticism, would 
 stand the test. I put down eight years for the new 
 house, where the last of Wordsworth s "trailing clouds 
 of glory " came to us, from the cloud land, and shut the 
 door behind her; my fifth home for occasional bivouac, 
 till I took my departure in the bark Gold Hunter, 
 around Cape Horn for California, in 52, at the age of 
 twenty-six. I pause here to make a few remarks, con 
 cerning our family, which being completed, it is fitting 
 to make. Ours was the proverbial unlucky number; 
 and though our experience may have proved the old 
 superstition to be true in the temporal, I do not believe 
 it will be found so in the eternal issues. Two of these 
 thirteen went "out of the body to God " some years ago 
 between the ages of sixty and seventy, and are waiting 
 the resurrection glory. Eleven are still plodding on, 
 some of us in much weariness of the flesh, with an 
 average of seventy-five at this writing, 1907. The 
 thirteen with their descendants have a sum total of 
 about 3500 years.
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Of the seven who were in California, not one ever 
 took a glass of intoxicating drink, nor used tobacco, 
 nor got rich, nor used a profane word; and the same is 
 true of all the family. After navigating the bark from 
 Chili to San Francisco, as a necessity, California became 
 my sixth home for about eight years, occupation ranch 
 ing and teaching, marrying one of Maine s two best 
 girls (the other afterward in Pittsburg). I pass over 
 the sadness, "God tempers to the lamb that s shorn, 
 His chilly winds that blow. " Two were left to me, a 
 daughter and a son. 
 
 En route across, via the Isthmus, in 60, I had the 
 pleasure of eating for a month at the same table with 
 four of the ablest champions on the two sides of the 
 slavery question, the country could produce, viz. : 
 Judah P. Benjamin and Reverdy Johnson of the south 
 ern Confederacy, and Benjamin F. Butler and Colonel 
 Baker the golden-mouthed orator who had been stump 
 ing California for Lincoln, just elected, and the latter 
 of whom gave his life for his country in his first battle. 
 Th^ir battle of words on shipboard was something 
 never to be forgotten. In Pittsburg twenty-four years 
 my seventh home, in the oil business; two refineries 
 built, consecutively, both went up in smoke, and down 
 in ashes, no insurance; traveled twenty years intro 
 ducing the products of petroleum, far enough to en 
 circle the earth thirteen times, got my second ranching 
 fever, "boxed the compass" back to our old home, 
 Jackson, bought my eighth home, to be mine for six 
 years. Went to the State of Washington where I 
 "held down" a quarter section of land eleven years, 
 my ninth home. My tenth is in Waltham, Mass., 
 where I have been for six years, making eighty-one 
 years for the rolling stone, now 
 
 Only waiting till the shadows 
 Are a little longer grown. " 
 
 ERASTUS JOHNSON
 
 The Old Cobbler* 
 
 OT far from where it pleased 
 
 the Lord to cast 
 My pleasant lines of child 
 hood, long since past, 
 There lived a cobbler. He 
 
 was farmer too, 
 Besides being sexton, and 
 
 withal, he knew 
 Far more of science and 
 
 philosophy, 
 Although self taught, than 
 
 many an LL.D. 
 He was postmaster, mended guns and locks, 
 He mended watches and made wooden clocks. 
 What he could not do, it were hard to tell, 
 And yet what e er he did, he did it well. 
 Though old, when first I knew him, long ago, 
 No older did he ever seem to grow; 
 For he was young of heart and kindly too, 
 And had some word of cheer for all he knew. 
 How oft we found a moment there to stop, 
 To watch the cobbler in his dingy shop, 
 Where he, upon his long-worn leathern seat, 
 Was ever toiling, yet ne er failed to greet, 
 With many a joke, the boys; while on his nose, 
 Balanced midway from root to point, repose 
 
 * See Notes, page 97.
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 His ancient glasses, as he drives the pegs, 
 
 In some old shoe tight-strapped across his legs. 
 
 In the old window sundry watches hung, 
 
 And on the dingy wall lazily swung 
 
 Sundry long pendulums, as downward run 
 
 The ponderous weights, descending with the sun. 
 
 Awaking with the dawn, betimes he rose, 
 
 Nor rested all the day. And at its close, 
 
 With flint and tinder struck his evening light, 
 
 And worked or studied in the silent night. 
 
 Twas not that he was poor. Of earthly good, 
 He had enough for clothing and for food; 
 Enough for earthly comfort, even though 
 His well-worn hammer ne er should strike a blow. 
 But, born and bred to labor, he had come 
 To love it so, twas his elysium. 
 He to this land in early years had come, 
 And in the forest hewed him out a home, 
 Where swarthy Indians stalked, or darkly crept, 
 To scalp their helpless victims while they slept. 
 Where storied bears from out the dismal swamps, 
 Lay wait for wanderers from the forest camps. 
 And oft, with eager ears, we heard them tell, 
 Of how the wolves made hideous with their yell, 
 The silent night, as round the close-chinked cot, 
 Standing alone amid the small, cleared lot, 
 New clearing in the forest, came a pack 
 Of night-marauders, leaving many a track, 
 E en to the door, in the fresh-fallen snow. 
 Such were the stories of the long auo.
 
 THE OLD COBBLER 
 
 On wintry Sunday morns, he built the fire 
 
 In the old church. Its heavenward-pointing spire 
 
 Was not more sure of being in its place, 
 
 Than he in his, with his good-natured face. 
 
 In cold or w r et or wintry blast he came, 
 
 With slow and limping gait, tor he was lame, 
 
 Swept yesterday with care, he wiped the dust, 
 
 Then limped around each window to adiust; 
 
 Stirred up the fire, then, on his generous nose, 
 
 He placed his glasses. If perchance arose 
 
 Higher than sixty-six his Fahrenheit, 
 
 He hied him straight to set the matter right. 
 
 For service to the church he took no fee, 
 
 Servant of servants, service ever free. 
 
 Esteeming self as being all unfit, 
 
 Within the church s holy pale to sit, 
 
 Yet reverently he listened to the word, 
 
 And we believed, sincerelv served the Lord. 
 
 He was of ancient, Puritanic stock. 
 
 Stern men, that loved of God s decrees to talk, 
 
 .More than of Jesus love, and thought perchance, 
 
 That God, His sovereign glory to enhance, 
 
 May have decreed it, in his high behest, 
 
 That they might never reach heaven s longed-for 
 
 rest. 
 
 Of sterling worth, but not to them was given, 
 To win by love, immortal souls to heaven. 
 
 *See Notes, page 97. 
 
 II
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 In the far west and o er the Rocky Chain, 
 Twelve years away, at length returned again, 
 I homeward haste, but at the corner stop, 
 And turn my footsteps to the old man s shop. 
 But he was gone. A year ago he died. 
 There was his bench, his ancient desk beside, 
 His hammer, pegs and lap-stone just the same, 
 As when he left them, when the angel came. 
 There on the wall, but ticking now no more, 
 With lengthened lines, weights resting on the floor, 
 The clocks were hanging in their wonted place, 
 But spiders webs thick veiled each sorrowing face. 
 
 E en on his bench Death touched him with his 
 
 wand, 
 
 A thread, half drawn, still wound around his hand ; 
 His candle to its iron socket burned, 
 With vacant stare, and glassy eyes upturned, 
 Against the wall he leaned his weary head, 
 And when the morning came they found him dead ! 
 
 Thus ends my tale, sad ending to relate. 
 And yet, for him, no doubt, the heavenly gate 
 By angel hands was opened just as wide, 
 As though in state the aged man had died. 
 Howe er it be, content were he to wait, 
 A lowly servant at the Master s gate.
 
 OUR DOVE 
 
 Our Dove 
 
 From the Great, the Merciful, 
 
 Through the ether sea, 
 Came there down a wandering dove 
 
 To my wife and me. 
 Fluttering at the window pane, 
 
 Weary with its flight, 
 Asking that we let it in, 
 
 Came the dove one night. 
 
 By what earthward wind it came, 
 
 Through the vast unknown, 
 Why outside the pearly gates, 
 
 Wandering, it had flown, 
 How it ever found its way 
 
 Through the azure blue, 
 Through among the starry host, 
 
 No one ever knew. 
 
 This we know, it came to us, 
 
 Know it didn t stay. 
 Know how sad our hearts all were, 
 
 When it went away. 
 Just a few short fleeting days 
 
 Tarried here our dove, 
 Then it spread its wings again 
 
 For its home above.
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Why it didn t longer stay, 
 
 We could never tell. 
 Guess, that though we wanted it, 
 
 So did God as well. 
 What its humble mission was 
 
 To our low estate, 
 Doth not yet appear to us. 
 
 But it will, we wait. 
 
 The Rock that is Higher than I 
 
 Oh! sometimes the shadows are deep, 
 And rough seems the path to the goal. 
 
 And sorrows, sometimes how they sweep, 
 Like tempests down over the soul. 
 
 REFRAIN 
 
 O then to the Rock let me fly, 
 To the Rock that is higher than I. 
 
 Oh! sometimes how long seems the day! 
 
 And sometimes how weary my feet! 
 But toiling in life s dusty way, 
 
 The Rock s blessed shadow, how sweet! 
 
 Then near to the rock let me keep, 
 Or blessings or sorrows prevail, 
 
 Or climbing the mountain-way steep, 
 Or walking the shadowy vale. 
 
 See Notes, page 98. 
 
 14
 
 RAIN IN THE COUNTRY 
 
 Rain in the Country 
 
 It rains! It rains! Thank God for rain! 
 I hear it pattering down again 
 
 Upon the roof! 
 
 He who the blessing does not feel, 
 Must have a heart encased in steel, 
 
 Of mercy proof. 
 
 E en Jack frisks up and down the walk. 
 And tries in homely, doggish talk, 
 
 To speak his thanks. 
 Snuffs upward at the darkening clouds, 
 That hang in folds like inky shrouds, 
 
 Then cuts new pranks. 
 
 The thankful geese the torrents greet, 
 Go forth to find a watery sheet, 
 
 And gaily float, 
 
 More graceful on some tiny lake, 
 Filled up anew round bush and brake, 
 
 Than emperor s boat. 
 
 The sheltered hens, a social band, 
 Talk of the blessing as they stand 
 
 Upon one foot. 
 
 The cock gives thanks with might and main, 
 Then brushes carefully the rain 
 
 From his surtout. 
 
 See Notes, page 100. 
 
 15
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 The plowboys, who not often yield 
 To wind or rain, tilt from field 
 
 With rattling chains, 
 Tie up the horses in the barn, 
 Stretch on the hay to spin a yarn, 
 
 Glad that it rains. 
 
 The longing, parched and thirsty sod 
 Sends steaming incense up to God, 
 
 With hearty thanks. 
 Down from the yellow, dried-up hills, 
 Joyfully leap the laughing rills 
 
 Along their banks. 
 
 Early the night comes, dark and deep. 
 The steaming cattle, colts and sheep 
 
 Are housed again. 
 Around the crackling, cheerful fire, 
 Are gathered children, mother, sire, 
 
 As falls the rain. 
 
 16
 
 OUR ANNIVERSARY 
 
 Our Anniversary 
 
 Say, did you never stand and watch 
 The shadows that from clouds do fall? 
 
 And did you never try to catch 
 Those shadows on the wall? 
 
 As swiftly as such shadows fly, 
 
 My happy days have o er me flown, 
 
 E er since that day when from on high, 
 God spoke your heart my own. 
 
 The love then sealed upon your brow, 
 (You well remember how and when,) 
 
 Though years have passed twixt then and now, 
 Is stronger now than then. 
 
 A gentle stream neath mossy banks, 
 Has been our life s sweet onward flow; 
 
 Begun with prayer and closed with thanks, 
 Our glad years come and go. 
 
 MORAL 
 
 He lives not half a life who lives 
 Himself his god and end in life. 
 
 He lives a threefold life who gives 
 Himself to God and wife.
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 May Day on Red Wing Bluff, Minnesota 
 
 Along the hill side steep, 
 
 Tender grass shoots eagerly nipping, 
 Climb the lean cattle and sheep; 
 
 While in the sweet sunshine skipping, 
 The lambs like the children a holiday keep. 
 
 Meekly from under the sod, 
 
 With tearful eyes the tulips peep, 
 And open their petals in thanks to God, 
 Who life out of death can bring, 
 And out of the winter the glorious spring; 
 "For so He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Here nature confirms thy word, 
 As I read its lesson this morning. 
 
 It comes to my soul, O Lord, 
 
 As written with beams of light, 
 
 That the sleep of the grave is but for a night, 
 Awaiting only a new life s dawning. 
 
 And as from its sleep so sweet 
 
 Awaketh with glad surprise, 
 The flower that springeth beneath my feet ; 
 So waking from darkness and death, 
 This body revived by His life-giving breath, 
 
 Shall in my Savior s image arise. 
 
 18
 
 REUNION AT WILLIAM JOHNSON S 
 Family Reunion at William Johnson s 
 
 Philadelphia, 1876 
 
 Adown through the shadowy vista of years, 
 Come memories thronging. Back! Back ! Oh, ye 
 
 tears ! 
 
 Back into your places of hiding I pray; 
 For tears have no welcome nor sadness today. 
 
 Full twenty-five years of shadow and light, 
 Have passed, and for aye, since the songs of that 
 
 night 
 
 Were hushed into silence, as hushed was the earth ; 
 And raked were the embers once more on the 
 
 hearth. 
 
 Ah! little we thought it, but never as then, 
 We all should encircle that hearth-stone again. 
 Only one fleeting night, never more on the earth, 
 Only one fleeting night round the homestead 
 hearth. 
 
 But lightly we thought then of pleasures of home: 
 And bright were our hopes then of years yet to 
 
 come. 
 
 Out into the toiling and into the strife, 
 Out into the turmoil and battle of life.
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 We are met once again, but not as of yore. 
 The songs that we sung then we sing nevermore. 
 The freshness of youth has been stolen away; 
 Time stole it, and sprinkled these locks with his 
 gray. 
 
 We complain not of thee, restless Time, Oh! no. 
 We wish not the tread of thy years more slow. 
 Nor yet of thy dealings, Oh! merciless Death; 
 Though one was laid low by thy withering breath. 
 
 The past that is buried we leave to its rest. 
 The future is Thine, Lord, give Thou what is best. 
 The past all forgiven by mercy so free; 
 Ours only the present to live, Lord, for Thee. 
 
 To the mother still with us with presence so sweet, 
 Who guided in childhood our oft-erring feet, 
 A tribute of tender affection we bring. 
 Lord cover her path with Thy sheltering wing. 
 
 Once more to the toiling, once more to the strife; 
 Once more to the turmoil and battle of life. 
 The future we know not, whatever it be, 
 Our days all be given, Lord Jesus, to Thee. 
 
 20
 
 REUNION AT MRS. MARY J. ROOT S 
 Reunion at Mrs. Mary Johnson Root s 
 
 Amherst, Mass., l88o 
 
 We look today, with dimming sight, 
 Adown the vale of vanished years; 
 
 A changeful scene with varied light, 
 With sunlit peaks, and vales of tears. 
 
 And outlined in the purple haze, 
 The farthest seem the golden days. 
 
 REFRAIN 
 
 Oh ! memories of the vanished years, 
 We call not back today your tears: 
 Forgotten all the toil and pain, 
 We live today your joys again. 
 
 Ye workers in the field of God, 
 
 Whose locks with toil and age are gray; 
 Whose feet so many years have trod, 
 
 In varied paths your toilsome way, 
 W r e clasp your hands once more, and fain 
 
 W^ould hear of olden days again. 
 
 In bivouac here with kindred souls, 
 Tis sweet to leave the battle s din; 
 
 But even now the drumbeat rolls, 
 To call us to the field again. 
 
 On battle-field or rampart wall, 
 Who first shall in the conflict fall?
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 A Glimpse of Day 
 
 When but a glimpse of heavenly day 
 Bursts on the soul, how sweet the view. 
 
 As when, amid the storm, a ray 
 
 Breaks through the clouds that hide the blue 
 
 And if our feeble sight behold, 
 
 Through the rift clouds, such glories now, 
 O how, when in those streets of gold, 
 
 We walk with eyes unsealed? Oh! how? 
 
 Lord give me grace to wait the while, 
 Till from these eyes the veil be riven, 
 
 When I shall see His face, whose smile, 
 The light and glory is of heaven. 
 
 Till in His likeness shall awake, 
 
 These powers of soul, now dwarfed by sin; 
 Till from these ears the clod shall break, 
 
 And let the songs of heaven in. 
 
 22
 
 YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ME 
 
 Ye Have Done It Unto Me 
 
 When we hear sweet voices calling, 
 
 From the regions of the air; 
 And the twilight shadows falling, 
 
 Tell us we are almost there; 
 Shall we mourn that we have hearkened 
 
 To the call of the distressed? 
 That the hearth by sorrow darkened, 
 
 Oft our willing feet have pressed? 
 
 When shall close the silent portal, 
 
 Shutting out the world from sight; 
 And the dawning day immortal, 
 
 Shows us things in other light; 
 Will it be no cause of gladness, 
 
 Seen then in that clearer ray, 
 That we led poor souls in sadness, 
 
 Out of darkness into day? 
 
 If to us the sweet evangel, 
 
 "Ye have done it unto me," 
 Shall be spoken, and the angel, 
 
 Write it there for me and thee; 
 Twill not be that we were gifted 
 
 With all lore, or mental worth; 
 Rather that we stooped and lifted 
 
 Erring mortals from the earth.
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Not that we His name have spoken; 
 
 Not that we were called divine; 
 But that into hearts all broken, 
 
 We have poured the oil and wine. 
 Stooping with the cup of healing, 
 
 Thirst of famished souls to slake; 
 Truth to hungry souls revealing; 
 
 Doing all for Jesus sake. 
 
 Rest, the boon of God the giver, 
 
 After labor O how sweet ! 
 On the banks of yonder river, 
 
 Soon shall rest our weary feet. 
 And, as roll the years of heaven, 
 
 Sweet the thought will ever be, 
 Unto these as ye have given, 
 
 Ye have done it unto me.
 
 THE BEATITUDES 
 
 The Beatitudes 
 
 On the mount of blessing keeping 
 Solemn vigils, pleading, weeping, 
 Wet his locks with dews of night, 
 Jesus prays till morning light. 
 
 Morning dawns. Along the mountain, 
 Thirsty crowds, to Christ the fountain, 
 Gather from the shore and sea, 
 Far-famed, lovely Galilee. 
 
 Left are nets spread out for drying; 
 Left the boats that now are lying 
 Anchored by the pebbly shore; 
 Furled the sail, unshipped the oar. 
 
 Left the distaff and the grinding; 
 Left the reaping and the binding; 
 Left are flocks on hill and plain; 
 Left the fields of ripened grain. 
 
 Dying souls their sore need feeling, 
 Gather to the fount of healing ; 
 Drinking in the precious word, 
 From the lips of Christ the Lord. 
 
 Some rejecting, some believing; 
 Blessed truths of life receiving. 
 Joy of all on earth most sweet, 
 Learning at the Master s feet. 
 
 25
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Oh! what words of love and blessing, 
 Words a heavenly power possessing, 
 From the Savior s lips do fall ; 
 Yet how many spurn them all. 
 
 Words that come down through the ages, 
 
 Better than all lore of sages. 
 
 Help us, Jesus, to receive 
 
 These Thy words, and by them live. 
 
 We shall see Him as He is 
 
 At last! at last! Thou art come at last! 
 
 My Savior and my friend. 
 To hear that voice and trumpet blast, 
 
 I ve waited to the end: 
 
 To be with Thee to see, to reach, 
 Thy side, Thy hands, Thy feet! 
 
 Eight scars and one, and telling, each, 
 Its tale of love so sweet. 
 
 O wondrous prints of nail and spear, 
 Those cruel wounds that gave! 
 
 O precious marks of price so dear, 
 Of cost my soul to save! 
 
 A crown henceforth laid up for me? 
 
 I ll cast it at Thy feet. 
 To be forever more with Thee, 
 
 My joy were full, complete. 
 
 26
 
 PRAY WITHOUT CEASING 
 
 Pray Without Ceasing 
 
 The morning dawns. Adown the slope 
 Of rugged hills, the day-beams grope, 
 
 From golden clouds and gray; 
 And soon the slumbering vales below, 
 Are flooded with the morning glow. 
 
 Befitting hour to pray. 
 
 What paths my feet this day may tread, 
 I know not. By the spirit led, 
 
 They need not, will not stray. 
 How thick temptations lie along 
 The path of life! Its duties throng. 
 
 What need to watch and pray. 
 
 The solemn hills deep shadows cast 
 In solemn vales. The day is past, 
 
 Its record laid away. 
 The curtain falls, dim grows the light, 
 And twilight deepens into night. 
 
 What better hour to pray? 
 
 What errors may^against me stand, 
 Recorded by the angel s hand, 
 
 As closes now the day ; 
 What thanklessness for mercies given ; 
 For present joys and hope of heaven ; 
 
 Forgive, O Lord, I pray. 
 
 27
 
 When, wafted by propitious gales, 
 
 My freighted bark, with outspread sails, 
 
 Is speeding on its way; 
 When all things seem combined to bless 
 Each plan of life, Oh! then, no less 
 
 Have I the need to pray. 
 
 The room is still, the curtains drawn; 
 From eyes we loved the light is gone, 
 
 All pulseless lies the clay; 
 And hearts that yesterday were glad, 
 With life s sweet hopes, today are sad. 
 
 We bow, and weep, and pray. 
 
 At morn, at eve, at noon, at night, 
 
 Or clouds hang dark, or hopes are bright. 
 
 Where er I go or stay; 
 Until the work of life is done, 
 Until its victory is won, 
 
 May I not cease to pray. 
 
 28
 
 FOR ME 
 
 For Me 
 
 See Him in the garden shaken, 
 
 Like a reed beneath the storm. 
 By His trusted ones forsaken, 
 
 Bending low His sacred form. 
 That sorrow, Oh how great! 
 
 How deep the agony! 
 That watered with its bloody sweat 
 
 Gethsemane! 
 
 See Him now at judgment seated, 
 
 For offences not His own ; 
 Save the cross, His work completed, 
 
 His reward the thorny crown. 
 How dark the dreadful stain 
 On all my soul must be, 
 That my dear Lord, such grief and pain, 
 
 Must bear for me. 
 
 See the crimson river flowing 
 
 From His hands, His feet, His side. 
 O what love for sinners showing! 
 
 Life for death, Christ crucified! 
 The earth s foundations deep 
 
 Felt the expiring groan, 
 And heaven, before unused to weep, 
 
 Wept round the throne. 
 
 29
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Risen, ascended, Lord of glory, 
 
 Now my advocate above, 
 Can I hear unmoved, the story 
 
 Of thine everlasting love? 
 Such love as this unfelt? 
 
 Such love can I disown? 
 Then nought in earth or heaven could melt 
 
 This heart of stone. 
 
 Home Missionary Hymn 
 
 Help us for Thee to bear the cross, 
 
 For Thee despise the shame, 
 Jesus, for Thee count all but loss, 
 
 To spread Thy glorious name. 
 
 Help us on plain, or mountain slope, 
 
 In depths of towering pine. 
 Wherever souls in darkness grope, 
 
 Proclaim the love divine. 
 
 While o er the land from state to state, 
 
 Deep calleth unto deep ; 
 With suffering cry of souls that wait, 
 
 Shall we in Zion sleep ? 
 
 To fields all white send reapers forth, 
 
 We pray, O God of grace , 
 Till East and West, and South and North, 
 
 Resound with Jesus praise.
 
 FOUR MEDITATIONS 
 
 Four Meditations 
 
 MORNING 
 
 At dawning light I lay 
 
 On Thee, dear Lord, my care; 
 For well I know through all the day 
 
 Thou wilt rnv burden share. 
 
 NOONTIME 
 
 How sweet ! how passing sweet ! 
 
 The boon Thou givest me! 
 To rest, at noon, at Thy dear feet! 
 
 So near, my Lord, to Thee! 
 
 EVENING 
 
 Night falls with shadows deep. 
 
 With Thee I sweetly rest. 
 Thou givest Thy beloved sleep, 
 
 Close nestled on Thv breast. 
 
 SORROW S HOUR 
 
 Though clouds of sorrow fall, 
 
 I still can rest in Thee, 
 For Thou dost heed the raven s call, 
 
 And Thou dost care for me. 
 
 3 1
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 My Refuge 
 
 Numbers Jj", 6 
 
 When clouds and darkness o er me roll, 
 
 By sin and sorrow driven, 
 Is there no refuge for my soul, 
 
 In God s great mercy given? 
 
 O yes. What boundless love, it waits 
 
 To shelter even me. 
 Its blessed walls and open gates, 
 
 E en now, by faith I see. 
 
 O refuge of the riven side, 
 
 And wounded hands and feet, 
 
 And wounded heart. In Thee to hide, 
 How sweet ! how passing sweet ! 
 
 And, till the storms of life are past, 
 
 Here shall my refuge be. 
 Then at His feet my crown I ll cast, 
 
 If there s a crown for me.
 
 HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP 
 For so He giveth His beloved Sleep 
 
 Psalm 127, 2 
 
 Meekly from under the sod, 
 
 With tearful eyes, the tulips peep, 
 
 And open their petals in thanks to God, 
 Who life out of death can bring, 
 And out of winter the glorious spring. 
 For so He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 The weary day hath its close. 
 
 The rivers find rest in the mighty deep. 
 The death of winter is nature s repose, 
 
 Its hope and not its doom. 
 
 So all things tend restward, and life to the 
 tomb. 
 
 For so He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 What though, beneath the cold sward, 
 Thy loved ones may slumber in death so 
 
 deep? 
 
 Be patient. The joyful trump of the Lord 
 Shall wake them again on the morrow. 
 Then trust Him, O grieving one in thy 
 
 sorrow. 
 Tis so He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 33
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 Blind Bartimeus 
 
 Mark 10 
 
 Hark! He is coming. Tis David s son. 
 Yes, tis Jesus, the wonderful one. 
 But I am friendless, and poor, and blind. 
 Do you think such as I could mercy find? 
 
 O yes, O yes, tis true, tis true, 
 
 For yesterday I was blind like you, 
 
 And they told me that Jesus was passing tha 
 
 w T ay, 
 And I cried, "Son of David, have mercy I pray 
 
 He stopped as He traveled the road along, 
 And hushed with His word the voice of the 
 
 throng, 
 
 And He bade me come with a voice so sweet, 
 That I hasted and groped my way to His feet. 
 
 "What wilt thou?" sweet words from the lips oi 
 the Lord. 
 
 "I come my sight to receive by Thy word. " 
 He spake, and into the darkness of night, 
 There came the glory, there dawned the light. 
 
 34
 
 BEHOLD 1 STAND AT THE DOOR 
 Behold I Stand at the Door and Knock 
 
 Rev. J, 20 
 
 Hark! tis the Savior. He stands at the door. 
 List ! He is knocking, has knocked oft before. 
 Open the door to Him. Open it wide. 
 Let Him come into Thy heart to abide. 
 
 Sprinkled His locks with the dews of the night, 
 Oft has He knocked till the dawning of light, 
 Saying, "if thou wilt but open the door, 
 I will come in to abide evermore. " 
 
 Art thou now saying "stay, Lord, not yet; 
 
 I for Thy presence am wholly unfit?" 
 
 Wait not. Thou never canst cleanse thee from 
 
 sin. 
 Only the Savior. So let Him come in. 
 
 What though the feelings of youth may have 
 
 flown? 
 
 What though the fastenings all rusty have grown ? 
 Cry, as thou hearest Him knocking once more, 
 " Mighty one help me break open the door. " 
 
 REFRAIN 
 
 Hasten to open it, open the door. 
 Let Him come in, to abide evermore. 
 
 35
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Alone 
 
 Lowly cradled in a manger, 
 
 By a lowly few adored, 
 Higher birthplace for the stranger 
 
 Sinful earth could not afford. 
 He came unto His own, 
 
 His own received Him not. 
 He trod Earth s pathway all alone, 
 
 Cast out, forgot. 
 
 God my Savior, way-worn, weary, 
 
 With the humble made His bed ; 
 Or in deserts lone and dreary, 
 
 Had not where to lay His head. 
 What love for sinners shown ! 
 
 Beyond all human ken ! 
 He walked life s valleys all alone, 
 
 Despised of men. 
 
 All alone His pathway wending 
 
 To the cross, He dies for me. 
 Heavens darkened! mountains rending! 
 
 All amazed such love to see! 
 Twas love before unknown, 
 
 None greater e er could be. 
 He trod the wine press all alone, 
 
 To ransom me.
 
 NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP 
 
 Now I lay me down to Sleep 
 
 Falls the night with shadows deep. 
 
 Round the mother s lap all kneeling ; 
 
 Sleep almost their eyelids sealing ; 
 Laid aside the weary play ; 
 Lisp the darlings " Now I lay 
 Me down to sleep. " 
 
 When the wintry tempests sweep, 
 O how sweet to wanderers weary, 
 Night shades falling dark and dreary, 
 Neath some sheltering roof to say, 
 As in childhood, "Now I lay 
 Me down to sleep." 
 
 Far away upon the deep, 
 
 W T hen the head sinks to its pillow, 
 Rocked by storm winds on the billow, 
 Who would then forget to pray 
 That prayer so simple, " Now I lay 
 Me down to sleep ? 
 
 When one only wakes to weep, 
 By the storms of sorrow driven, 
 Vanished every hope but heaven, 
 Sweet the prayer at close of day, 
 Blessed Jesus, Now I lay 
 Me down to sleep." 
 
 37
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Me, dear Savior, wilt Thou keep 
 Ever near Thee, waking, sleeping, 
 Till, Thy faithful promise keeping, 
 Thou shalt bring the longed-for day, 
 When I need no more to lay 
 Me down to sleep. 
 
 Lura Marinda 
 
 In Memonam 
 
 Only a moment of suffering, 
 
 Only a transient night, 
 Then there were angels all hovering 
 
 Round thee. And then it was light! 
 
 Wonderful! Glorious! Infinite! 
 
 Spirit at home with God ! 
 Nought that is earthy now left in it ! 
 
 Trammeled no more by the clod! 
 
 Bury it. Let it be purified. 
 
 Weep for it? Yes, we must. 
 But He will bring it all glorified, 
 
 By and by, from the dust. 
 
 What though decay may dismember it ; 
 
 What though mementoes may fade ; 
 He who redeemed will remember it 
 
 Ever, and where it was laid.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 Recollections of Childhood 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 (My birthplace in the logging camp on the Penobscot)^ 
 
 Rising in grandeur to the azure dim, 
 Skirted with clouds, and frowning bold and grim, 
 On whose cold top not e en the lichen grows, 
 See old Katahdin, with eternal snows. 
 And this the Indians deem the dread domain 
 Of old Pomola. Snow storms, wind and rain, 
 Wait but his nod, and forest glades below, 
 Shake with the tempest, or are laid in snow. 
 In deep defiles around its cavernous base, 
 The bear and wolf find shelter from the chase ; 
 Or sally forth from caverns dark and deep, 
 To wake the tired woodsman from his sleep. 
 
 The simple Indians, on their sacred days, 
 In humble reverence, chanting solemn lays, 
 Bring here their offerings, skins of wolf and bear, 
 In simple love and trust, to lay them where 
 God best can find them. Using for a shrine, 
 Some table rock, above the towering pine; 
 
 *See Notes, page 100. 
 
 39
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Thinking that Heaven s King, Father of Lights, 
 As coming oft to these inclement heights, 
 Had need, as they, of robes and vestments warm, 
 To shield Him from the wintry blast and storm. 
 
 Near to its base Penobscot rolls its tide, 
 
 Down from the Northern lands. On yonder side, 
 
 The ruins still are seen, that mark the spot, 
 
 Where we first had our being. Of the rude cot, 
 
 There s only left a monument of stone, 
 
 Rank weeds around it, and almost o ergrown 
 
 With clambering vines. And there, in silence 
 
 deep, 
 
 It stands a sentinel, sad watch to keep, 
 O er the old hearthstone. Many years have 
 
 passed, 
 
 And o er that scene of busy life is cast, 
 The pall of silence. While the clank of oar 
 Wakes naught but echo on the silent shore. 
 And the sharp sound of woodman s ax that 
 
 stirred 
 
 The busy forest depths, no more is heard ; 
 And forest trees of all their beauty shorn, 
 Lift up their leafless, blackened arms to mourn 
 The utter desolation; while the blast 
 Howls a wild requiem for the glory past. 
 
 Around that hearth all heaped with ruins now, 
 A happy group did once in reverence bow ; 
 Or read God s holy word, or sang His praise, 
 In stately psalm, or simple roundelays; 
 
 40
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 With heart and voice poured out a glad oblation, 
 Majestic Truro or Old Coronation, 
 Or raised in song "The youthful hart or roe," 
 And chased them "O er the hills where spices 
 grow. " 
 
 One picture on my memory engraven, 
 Of this first home, is of a little haven, 
 A little nook down at the river shore, 
 With graceful willow branches hanging o er, 
 To kiss the waters. There we used to go, 
 At summer eve. Moored there was our bateau. 
 How graceful was its form, in every turn! 
 With what a rakish look of stem and stern ! 
 How like a sprite it glides away from shore, 
 And cleaves the glassy wave with sweeping oar! 
 While o er the waters merry laughter rings, 
 And then, returning, folds abaft its wings, 
 As, through the bushy entrance gliding in, 
 It comes to moorings neath the bank again.
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 (Our Worship Day) 
 
 In meeting clothes the happy children dressed, 
 
 The father shaved, the mother in her best, 
 
 And all are ready. Many miles away, 
 
 The people meet to worship God today. 
 
 Draw close the curtains, lock the cleated doors. 
 
 Bring from the mooring place bateau and oars. 
 
 The mother aft and babes, boys forward stowed, 
 
 (For boats well-trimmed more easily are rowed,) 
 
 The stalwart father pushes from the shore, 
 
 And happier far than prince with coach and four. 
 
 Meanwhile the sun climbs o er the highest pine, 
 And shining kindly down speaks love divine. 
 Yea all things speak it; sky, and earth, and air; 
 Who love God s worship hear it everywhere. 
 And Heaven draws near the waiting soul to bless, 
 With sweet Sabbatic rest and happiness. 
 With leisure stroke too soon we near the shore, 
 And all too soon unship the dripping oar. 
 In bushy cove the father moors his boat, 
 And churchward strides with shouldered babe 
 and coat. 
 
 The boys, now forward, now perchance in rear, 
 Make glad the forest with their happy cheer. 
 The church is reached still early in the day. 
 The country folk still wind their various way; 
 
 42
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 In twos and threes, and larger groups, they plod 
 Towards what they wrongly call the house of God. 
 Dear to my memory is that humble place, 
 Where first the gentle dews of gospel grace, 
 Distilled upon me. 
 
 But the hour is come 
 
 For public worship. Hushed the bus) hum 
 Of Sunday School. The books are laid away, 
 To wait another welcome worship day. 
 The preacher comes, the groups about the door 
 Now gather in, and silence reigns once more. 
 We feel God s gentle breath, the summer breeze, 
 Through open windows, hear it in the trees. 
 All fragrant odors from the flowers distil. 
 What better incense could the temple till? 
 Ye toiling ones, forget your toils today. 
 Ye careful souls, send all your cares away. 
 Ye troubled souls, by storms of sorrow driven, 
 In rest and worship find a type of heaven. 
 
 How short! How sweet! On God the preacher 
 
 waits, 
 
 In fervent prayer. Almost the pearly gates 
 We think we hear, as earthward now they swing, 
 And catch almost the songs the ransomed sing. 
 Sweet is the word, and sweet the hymn that s read, 
 And by precentor s voice some tune is led. 
 Those dear old tunes! which we with chorus 
 
 grand, 
 And harps of gold, shall sing in Beulah land. 
 
 43
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 But Oh! the second prayer! From shore to shore, 
 
 It roams away, and prays creation o er. 
 
 The rounded periods, sublimely grand, 
 
 Roll on from theme to theme, while still we stand. 
 
 The charm of worship, at the first so sweet, 
 
 Has all been lost in weariness of feet. 
 
 The sermon now begins with well-laid plan, 
 And runs far back, before the world began. 
 Takes up foreordination, Adam s fall, 
 God s sovereignty, and the effectual call. 
 The arguments are solid, doctrines sound. 
 No depth of ocean could be more profound. 
 In marshaled columns on and on they move, 
 A wealth of logic, but a dearth of love. 
 
 Upright we sit. Legs weary hang below. 
 Backs ache, heads droop. Oh! depth of 
 
 children s woe! 
 
 How wearily our eyes their vigils keep ! 
 O, for some quiet nook to lie and sleep. 
 Hunger comes next with its temptation sore, 
 And how we long for yonder basket s store. 
 
 The "lastly" past, the "finally" we hear : 
 We rub our eyes, the happy end draws near; 
 Tis come ! a short, sweet prayer is prayed : 
 
 They sing ; 
 
 And with " Doxology " the rafters ring; 
 There s silence deep, the benediction said, 
 We gather now to eat the earthly bread. 
 
 44
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 The children scarce restrain their wayward feet 
 The men of cattle talk, and corn and wheat. 
 Women of all things, nor do they forget 
 The invitation, and the times are set 
 For week-day visiting. Yet there are some 
 Whose words and thoughts turn towards a 
 heavenly home. 
 
 As was the morn so is the afternoon. 
 
 The service past, they all are hasting soon, 
 
 To reach if may be, ere the close of day, 
 
 Their scattered homes, some near, some faraway. 
 
 The evening shadows gather in the glen 
 
 Before we reach the river shore again. 
 
 With sturdy stroke now swings the clanking oar, 
 And soon we glide beneath the homestead shore. 
 The welcome supper eaten, chapter read, 
 We kneel and sleep; are waked, and sent to bed. 
 Night, dark and deep, lets down its sable pall, 
 And hushes earth to sleep; so sleep we all. 
 "Our Worship Day" is done. 
 
 45
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 (Logging) 
 
 Summer days have passed and Autumn changes. 
 Flowers, all weary with their blooming, hang their 
 
 heads, 
 
 And dame Autumn in the forest ranges, 
 Lays them to their winter sleep in leafy beds. 
 Winter, at the door of Autumn standing, 
 Entrance to her hearth and home demanding, 
 Makes the casements rattle as he rudely knocks, 
 Shaking out the snow-flakes from his bushy locks. 
 
 Vanished happy days of summer rowing; 
 The bateau we turn upon the frozen shore, 
 In the loft the oars and boat-hook stowing, 
 Till the springtime rowing days return once more. 
 Now there comes the busy time of logging, 
 And the teamsters by their ox-teams jogging, 
 Through the winding log roads, whistle as they go, 
 While the air is filled with flakes of falling snow. 
 
 And the hemlock, spruce and pine tree branches, 
 Lowly bending with the snow s incumbent weight, 
 From the heights send down cold avalanches, 
 Showering many a woodman s closely muffled 
 
 pate. 
 
 Ax-men bush the roads, the teamsters follow, 
 Through the snow, haunch deep, the slow teams 
 
 follow, 
 
 And the off-spring of the centuries, at length, 
 To the woodmen yields its glory and its strength, 
 
 46
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 On the ox-sled the huge pine tree loaded, 
 
 One side barked full length to slide upon the snow, 
 
 And the team to utmost strength is goaded, 
 
 Every ox thrice doomed to endless woe. 
 
 Now to rightward, now to leftward shifting, 
 
 While with hornbeam handspikes men are lifting, 
 
 Round the tree twice wrapped, the heavy logging 
 
 chain, 
 In the bark is deeply buried with the strain. 
 
 Victory is won, the giant moving, 
 Loath to leave its homestead in the forest glen. 
 Toward the river bank its pathway grooving, 
 In the world what mission hath it ? Who may 
 
 ken? 
 
 Through the snow it slides with merry singing, 
 Through the wood the teamster s loud voice ringing, 
 Ox-sled creaking with the pine tree s heavy strain, 
 Till it rests upon the river s snowy plain. 
 
 Shorn of all their pristine forest glory, 
 
 Side by side the heroes lie like fallen braves, 
 
 Who, upon the field of battle gory, 
 
 Sleep beneath the winter snows in heroes graves; 
 
 Waiting for the spring rains and the thawing, 
 
 When, the trees long span in short lengths sawing, 
 
 Woodmen mark each log with some uncouth 
 
 device, 
 And await the breaking of the heavy ice. 
 
 47
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Early comes the night, and shadows falling, 
 Camp ward turn the woodmen, each with 
 
 shouldered ax; 
 
 And the oxen, hungry from the hauling, 
 Eager pull the hay from well-filled hovel racks. 
 In the camp the greasy cook arranges 
 Beans and pork, with sundry minor changes. 
 And the pine limbs piled on logs of hard wood, 
 
 raise, 
 Through the spacious chimney, rolling smoke and 
 
 blaze. 
 
 Supper eaten, each his clay pipe lighting, 
 Soon the cabin reeks with the tobacco fumes. 
 Songs are sung in chorus all uniting, 
 And each story teller some old saw exhumes. 
 Whiskered men the greasy cards are dealing, 
 To all powers, both high and low, appealing, 
 While the firelight through the open chimney 
 
 shines, 
 Lighting up the branches of o erhanging pines. 
 
 Soon to boughs of hemlock they are turning, 
 One by one, as weariness and sleep beguile; 
 And the camp fire all the night long burning, 
 O er the snoring sleepers keeps its watch the while. 
 Now there comes the wondrous life of dreaming, 
 And the teamster thinks that he is teaming : 
 To the lazy ox with lusty voice he calls, 
 And in dreams the heavy pine again he hauls.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 What a mystery is this thing of dreaming! 
 When the things unreal all so real seem, 
 That he scorns to think tis naught but seeming 
 And in sleep declares the dream is not a dream. 
 And the waking which he half remembers, 
 Like dim shadow seems from flickering embers. 
 From this blessed dream life shrouded round 
 
 with sleep, 
 Ah ! how many wake, to wait, and watch and 
 
 weep ! 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Humble is the cottage, 
 Built of boards and battens, 
 Where the lonely mother, 
 Anxiously doth wait; 
 With its broad, stone fireplace, 
 Chimney built of cattens,* 
 Often seen in frontier cottage, 
 Of that early date. 
 Now she stops her knitting, 
 Turns her head to listen. 
 Neath her drooping eyelids, 
 Truant tear-drops glisten, 
 As the deeper darkness 
 Lets adown its pall, 
 And the wild, storm dirges 
 Round the lonely cottage fall. 
 
 *Se Notes, page zoa. 
 
 49
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Here with hearts undaunted, 
 To the lone wild howling, 
 Came they in the early days, 
 To seek a home and farm. 
 Naught of Indians fearing, 
 Naught of wild beasts prowling, 
 Forest felling, thicket clearing, 
 Heroes bold, with sturdy arm. 
 Late in spring the planting, 
 Late the spring wheat sowing, 
 Early frosts, alas! alas! 
 Nip corn and wheat in growing. 
 Fondest hopes are blasted, 
 Bright clouds turned to black, 
 Frosts of Autumn scatter 
 Sorrows, in their direful track. 
 
 As she waits the footstep, 
 Watching, she remembers 
 All those happy home scenes, 
 In the far-off land; 
 And upon the fading, 
 Fading, flickering embers, 
 Absently, she places 
 Each charred and truant brand. 
 What if roving Indians 
 Come to sack and pillage, 
 With the father waiting, 
 In the distant village ? 
 Waiting for the grinding,
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 With the water low, 
 While the storm is driving, 
 Piling high the drifting snow. 
 
 Done at length the grinding, 
 
 Bag upon his shoulder, 
 
 One end filled with corn meal, 
 
 One with precious flour of wheat, 
 
 Homeward turns the father. 
 
 Colder yet and colder, 
 
 Blow the dismal night winds ; 
 
 In the snow deep sink his weary feet. 
 
 Lofty, creaking tree tops, 
 
 With the wind are bending, 
 
 Dow r n around his pathway, 
 
 Leafless branches sending. 
 
 Tramps he slowly homeward, 
 
 Bearing on one arm, 
 
 Faithful, huge-bore musket, 
 
 Loaded, ever ready for alarm. 
 
 Is it strange that sadness 
 
 Lowers darkly o er her? 
 
 By the power of hunger, 
 
 Stoutest hearts have quailed. 
 
 Strange that dark forebodings 
 
 Cloud the path before her? 
 
 Whence the food for hungry dear ones, 
 
 When the crops have failed? 
 
 Sitting there in silence, 
 
 By the fading embers,
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 She, the faithful promise 
 
 Of the Lord remembers. 
 
 See, she now is kneeling 
 
 On the flagstone hearth, 
 
 And the angels bring her 
 
 Bread, but not the bread of earth. 
 
 Rising from her kneeling, 
 She is sad no longer. 
 Truant tears, by unseen hands, 
 Have all been wiped away. 
 By the bread of Heaven, 
 Now her soul is stronger; 
 Such as God the Giver, 
 Gives to all who pray. 
 From replenished fuel, 
 Now the flames are leaping. 
 For the frugal supper, 
 Soon the tea is steeping, 
 Sparkling firelight lighting 
 Studded wall and floor, 
 Now there falls the welcome 
 Footstep at the cottage door. 
 
 Fasting since the breakfast 
 At the early dawn was eaten, 
 Hungry, foot-sore, weary, 
 Sets he down the heavy bag. 
 Of the golden corn meal, 
 Soon a cake is beaten, 
 Placed anon for baking, 
 Neath the fore stick on the flag. 
 
 52
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 Hastes the youthful housewife, 
 
 Cheerful at her toiling, 
 
 Beaten steak of wild-meat, 
 
 On the live coals broiling. 
 
 On the wall the musket, 
 
 In its place is hung, 
 
 And, as waits the supper, 
 
 Hymns of grateful praise are sung. 
 
 Cheerful aye of spirit, 
 
 Hoping, trusting ever, 
 
 O er his soul no sorrow, 
 
 Hung its heavy pall. 
 
 On God s faithful promise, 
 
 Firm hold losing never, 
 
 Though in deepest valleys, 
 
 Often did his pathway fall. 
 
 Supper o er and worship, 
 
 Sweet their peaceful sleeping, 
 
 For God s angel o er them, 
 
 Watchful guard is keeping ; 
 
 While, from raked-up embers, 
 
 Issue fitful gleams, 
 
 All the night long dancing, 
 
 On the floor, and wall, and beams. 
 
 53
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Hastes the happy springtime. 
 
 Less and less the slanting 
 
 Of the noon beams. 
 
 Dingy snow drifts melt away. 
 
 Comes apace the joyful, 
 
 Busy time of planting, 
 
 Speeding from the sunny southland, 
 
 With the lengthening of the day. 
 
 Through the want of winter, 
 
 God in mercy fed us ; 
 
 Through the desert dreary, 
 
 With His right hand led us ; 
 
 As, the ravens bringing 
 
 Needful daily bread, 
 
 In the olden time, the prophet, 
 
 Bv the desert stream was fed. 
 
 Oft the farmer huntsman, 
 
 In the winter, placing 
 
 Snow shoes on his feet, 
 
 Through the trackless forest glades, 
 
 Elk and deer swift-footed, 
 
 Through the deep snow chasing, 
 
 Brought them down with aim unerring, 
 
 In the distant forest shades: 
 
 Bringing home at night-fall, 
 
 Precious freight of venison ; 
 
 At the evening worship, 
 
 Thanking God, all kneeling, 
 
 54
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 For the timely benison, 
 
 For His loving grace, 
 
 Who, the needy huntsman giveth 
 
 Certain victory in the chase. 
 
 Pass the spring and summer: 
 
 Conies the time of roasting 
 
 Of the luscious green corn; 
 
 Now smiles plenty at our door. 
 Ah! but!" saith the father, 
 Let there be no boasting, 
 
 Till the wheat and corn shall ripen, 
 
 And the harvesting be o er." 
 
 So we watch the "frost-moon," 
 
 In its dreaded fulling, 
 
 Daily in the corn field, 
 
 Green corn freely pulling; 
 
 Father of all mercies, 
 
 Breathe Thou on the frost; 
 
 Shall Thy children s hope of harvest, 
 
 By such direful scourge be lost? 
 
 God in mercy answered, 
 
 And we heard the breathing 
 
 Of the blessed night-winds, 
 
 Gently waving wheat and corn. 
 
 And the thankful mother, 
 
 Tender wild meat seething, 
 
 With the corn, arose thank offerings, 
 
 As returned night, noon, and morn. 
 
 And the watchful father, 
 
 55
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 On the corn field borders, 
 
 Standing faithful sentry, 
 
 For the corn marauders, 
 
 Kept long, weary vigils, 
 
 By the moon s pale light, 
 
 While the stars made solemn marches 
 
 Through the silent hours of night. 
 
 Now at length the question 
 
 Of the frost, unravels, 
 
 With the joyful ripening 
 
 Of the wheat and corn. 
 
 Now the toiling reaper 
 
 Lays the golden gavels; 
 
 From the heavy, bearded wheat heads, 
 
 Shaking out the dews of morn : 
 
 Clipping, clipping, clipping, 
 
 O er his sickle leaning, 
 
 Broad-brimmed hat of palm leaf, 
 
 Autumn sun rays screening, 
 
 Straight-rowed gavels laying, 
 
 Of the precious wheat, 
 
 While the boys the wheat heads gather, 
 
 Falling at the reaper s feet. 
 
 Warm the Autumn sunbeams, 
 Sweat drops freely trickle, 
 Down his sun-burnt visage; 
 Now the reaper stops; 
 O er his stalwart shoulder,
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 Hangs his gleaming sickle, 
 
 Wiping with his well-worn kerchief, 
 
 From his brow the falling drops. 
 
 Since the hour of breakfast, 
 
 At the dawning, fasting, 
 
 Upward, toward the zenith, 
 
 Wistful glances casting, 
 
 Of the heavy wheat heads, 
 
 Gathers he a bunch, 
 
 In his hands the kernels shelling, 
 
 For his simple forenoon s lunch. 
 
 Past the joys of dinner, 
 
 Gavels from the stubble, 
 
 By the boys are gathered, 
 
 By the father bound; 
 
 Some are bound in single, 
 
 Some in bands tied double, 
 
 And like battle heroes fallen, 
 
 Sheaves of wheat lie scattered round: 
 
 Just before the night-fall, 
 
 Built in stooks for drying. 
 
 Capped with striding wheat sheaves, 
 
 Autumn storms defying. 
 
 Homeward now the reaper 
 
 Turns with willing feet, 
 
 Humming, in his thankful gladness, 
 
 Psalms among the stooks of wheat. 
 
 Sets the sun. The early, 
 Evening dews, are falling; 
 
 57
 
 POEMS BY ERAvSTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Golden clouds of promise 
 
 Deck the glowing west. 
 
 Twilight shadows gather, 
 
 Weary reapers calling, 
 
 From the toils of harvest labor, 
 
 To the sweets of home and rest. 
 
 On the stew of partridge, 
 
 Careful thought bestowing, 
 
 Stoops the busy mother, 
 
 By the fireplace glowing. 
 
 Gather round the table; 
 
 Ye are doubly blest, 
 
 Who for simple food have hunger, 
 
 And have toil to sweeten rest. 
 
 Wanes apace the Autumn. 
 
 Nightly frosts are singeing 
 
 Everglade and forest, 
 
 And the corn fields late so green; 
 
 With the hues of rainbow, 
 
 All the landscape tinging. 
 
 And the mornings, frost-clad, sunlit, 
 
 Sparkle as with silvery sheen. 
 
 Now are heard the corn-hooks, 
 
 Rustling corn stalks slashing ; 
 
 In the rude floor yonder, 
 
 There s a sound of thrashing, 
 
 Thud of tireless beating, 
 
 With the heavy flails ; 
 
 And the wheat from chaff is winnowed, 
 
 In propitious Autumn gales. 
 
 58
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 Gavels of the cut corn, 
 
 Now are brought together 
 
 By the boys. The father 
 
 Closely binds them into shocks; 
 
 And for safe protection, 
 
 Mindful of the weather, 
 
 Ties a band of corn-stalks, twisted, 
 
 Round their down-turned, shaggy locks; 
 
 Musket ever near him, 
 
 To the deadly peril 
 
 Of the wild marauders, 
 
 Bird or chattering squirrel ; 
 
 Thankful solos singing, 
 
 Mong the rustling stalks : 
 
 At the nightfall homeward turning, 
 
 As he counts the serried shocks. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Cutting corn all finished, 
 Finished all the shocking, 
 Comes the time of hauling, 
 All replete with joys; 
 And the creaking ox-cart 
 Slowly homeward rocking, 
 Loaded with the heavy corn shocks, 
 Now is crowned with happy boys; 
 While each heavy lurching, 
 Times the cart-rack s creaking; 
 Wheels on wooden axles, 
 Time eternal squeaking; 
 
 59
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 And the lawless oxen, 
 Stretching neck and tongue, 
 Reach to lick up scattered suckers, 
 Stumps and hills of corn among. 
 
 Comes the time for husking. 
 Old and young invited, 
 From the distant clearings, 
 Come at fall of night; 
 With their torches lighted, 
 Pitchy knots of pine tree, 
 Trunks of forest trees all glowing, 
 With the ever-changing light. 
 Now they all are gathered, 
 Round the log pile blazing; 
 Merry songs all singing, 
 Peals of laughter raising; 
 On one heap all throwing, 
 Golden ears of corn; 
 Till the elder hours of evening, 
 Wake the younger hours of morn. 
 
 In the cottage fireplace, 
 Now so brightly gleaming, 
 From the logs and split wood, 
 Leap the glowing flames. 
 While above, the bubbling, 
 Well-filled pots are steaming, 
 And around the room are moving, 
 Sundry white-capped, aproned dames. 
 
 60
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 One, with hand uplifted 
 To the fire, is dipping 
 Precious crimson juices, 
 That are freely dripping; 
 Basting down the bear meat, 
 Ten-pound loin or leg, 
 Slowly roasting, gently turning, 
 Hanging from a spike or peg. 
 
 And the loaf called "Indian," 
 
 Ah! let none despise it, 
 
 Baking in the ashes, 
 
 Since the hour of noon. 
 
 Now and then the mother 
 
 Lifts the lid and tries it; 
 
 Tis the housewife s pride of cooking, 
 
 And all hail it as a boon. 
 
 Now at length tis lifted, 
 
 From its bed of ashes; 
 
 On the hearth stone waiting, 
 
 Are the dished-up mashes; 
 
 Turnip and potato, 
 
 Tea of double strength, 
 
 All soon steaming on the table, 
 
 Stretching now its three-fold length. 
 
 Brown loaf, bear meat, mashes, 
 Ready now and waiting. 
 Come, ye husking lasses, 
 And admiring boys, 
 
 61
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Two and two as fancy 
 
 Prompts a ready mating; 
 
 Hungry from your midnight husking, 
 
 Come ye all to well-earned joys. 
 
 Now there falls a silence, 
 
 As, Heaven s throne addressing, 
 
 Reverently the father 
 
 Asks the wonted blessing. 
 
 Wit with thought more sober, 
 
 Round the table blends, 
 
 And with generous pie of pumpkin, 
 
 Soon the midnight supper ends. 
 
 Low the moon declining, 
 
 All now homeward turning, 
 
 Through the forest darkness, 
 
 Take their various ways. 
 
 Borne aloft the pine knots, 
 
 That are brightly burning; 
 
 Some their devious pathway tracing, 
 
 By the dim-seen hatchet blaze. 
 
 Naught will e er be told us 
 
 Of full many a token, 
 
 In those paths of forest, 
 
 And the sweet words spoken. 
 
 Swains cut short your wooing, 
 
 Swiftly wanes the night. 
 
 Sleep, for love-dreams must be broken, 
 
 At the breaking, so unwelcome. 
 
 Of the morrow s morning light. 
 
 62
 
 SHERIFF S SALE 
 Sheriff s Sale 
 
 (A Story from Life) 
 
 Going! to satisfy the law! 
 
 Going! to fill old Mammon s maw! 
 
 Twas an aged widow s cot, 
 
 That in early years they bought, 
 
 She and James so long ago. 
 
 Then twas springtime, then twas gladness, 
 
 Now the autumn tempests blow; 
 
 Scattering down the leaves of sadness, 
 
 On the frozen earth below. 
 
 He a smith with arm so brawny, 
 
 And a face so tanned and tawny, 
 
 And a heart as free as air, 
 
 Having served his full indenture, 
 
 Skilled in working iron and steel ; 
 
 Leaving all for woe or weal, 
 
 Dear Old England s happy shore, 
 
 Hearth and home forevermore ; 
 
 With his Mary, true and brave, 
 
 Boldly pushed in life s great venture, 
 
 For a home across the wave. 
 
 In the western land they found it. 
 And as passed the fleeting years, 
 Holy memories gathered round it, 
 Memories bedewed with tears. 
 As the dewdrops, pure and pearly, 
 Glistening on the flowers at dawn, 
 Seem those scenes of memory early, 
 Soon like morning dewdrops gone. 
 
 63
 
 POEMvS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Many a year beneath the willow, 
 
 In their verdure-covered graves, 
 
 All those loved ones have been sleeping. 
 
 Once again the storm is sweeping, 
 
 Breaking at her feet the waves: 
 
 Gone beyond the rolling tide, 
 
 Hearts she hoped to rest upon : 
 
 Now alas! her home beside, 
 
 Just a going! going!! gone !!! 
 
 Home of love s sweet transient years; 
 Home she loved so purely, dearly; 
 Though of tears and sorrows rife, 
 No less dear for sighs and tears. 
 Blessed spot where almost yearly, 
 Dear ones struggled into life, 
 Just a little here to wait, 
 On their way to heaven s gate. 
 
 As the dove or swift- winged pigeon, 
 Traveling to some distant region, 
 Tarries for a day or night, 
 Resting on some mountain height. 
 
 From this direful storm of sorrow, 
 From the scathing blasts that blow, 
 Where for shelter shall she go? 
 Whither on the dreadful morrow, 
 Turn her weary footsteps thence? 
 Leans the widow on the paling, 
 Of the dear old garden fence, 
 
 64
 
 SHERIFF S SALE 
 
 All her bitter lot bewailing; 
 Sighing with a plaintive moan, 
 Weeping, weeping all alone: 
 Like a bird whose nest the mower 
 Sweeps away, his scythe before. 
 
 Oh! that love had wealth of Croesus, 
 
 To relieve the suffering poor; 
 
 Or that wealth had love of Jesus, 
 
 Want to drive from famine s door. 
 
 God of Sabbaoth the sighing 
 
 Of the widow in distress, 
 
 Dost Thou hear it, and the crying 
 
 Of the poor and fatherless? 
 
 Dost Thou see the hearts that bleed, 
 
 Crushed to earth by Mammon s greed? 
 
 In the crowd a man unknown, 
 Lately from the golden land, 
 Buys the cottage for his own, 
 Pays the price in golden sand. 
 
 Mother! mother! Oh! my son! 
 
 Tis, it is the long-lost one: 
 
 Crowned with wealth returned once more, 
 
 From the distant golden shore. 
 
 Twas the youngest fondly cherished, 
 
 Of the loved ones, loved the best, 
 
 One she thought had long since perished 
 
 By the Indians in the West. 
 
 65
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Crape 
 
 The black and the white! 
 
 Short sermon and eloquent, dead! 
 Sing a psalm. Let a chapter be read ! 
 And a few words of prayer be said! 
 
 Cut short the sad rite! 
 
 And the world, as before, 
 
 Moves onward with swift- winged feet, 
 And with hearts light and merry, we greet, 
 With good morrows, our friends on the street ; 
 
 But him nevermore. 
 
 Fold his hands on his breast; 
 
 Sad event! be it blest to us all, 
 
 Saith the preacher. The strong man must fall. 
 
 So we bear him, with sad crape and pall, 
 Away to his rest : 
 And return, as before, 
 
 To set forth the corn and the wheat, 
 
 And hear the glad sounds on the street, 
 
 Happy voices and music of feet; 
 But his nevermore. 
 
 Unto him, nevermore, 
 
 The glad days of autumn shall bring 
 Ripened fruits, nor flowers the spring: 
 And mute shall the lips be that sing, 
 
 Unto him evermore. 
 
 While we, as before, 
 
 March on to life s harmonies sweet, 
 With hollow graves under our feet, 
 And hear not the surges that beat 
 
 On the mist-hidden shore. 
 
 66
 
 ONLY JUST A MINUTE 
 
 What folly our pride! 
 
 Twill be thus with thy life and my own; 
 
 So quickly forgotten, unknown: 
 
 Like the ripple that s made by a stone, 
 
 Dropped into the tide. 
 
 And the world, as before, 
 
 Will move onward with swift-winged feet: 
 
 While others in gladness will greet, 
 
 With good morrows, their friends on the street ; 
 
 But us nevermore. 
 
 Only Just a Minute 
 
 A trifling thing, forsooth it is, 
 
 Tis "only just a minute," 
 But Oh ! what solemn destinies, 
 
 Of souls immortal, in it. 
 
 Just while we speak, tis come, tis gone, 
 
 This fickle, fleeting minute, 
 Yet sixty souls have laid them down, 
 
 To death s deep slumber, in it. 
 
 The columns march with solemn tread, 
 
 Of sixty souls a minute, 
 To bivouac with the silent dead. 
 
 Heed we the lesson in it ? 
 
 The fleeting years. How fast they roll! 
 
 Our life is but a minute. 
 O life above! Life of the soul! 
 
 Help me, my God, to win it! 
 
 67
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 The First Christmas 
 
 All hushed is the bleating of flocks on the plain, 
 All hushed the herds lowing to silence again: 
 Deep silence, save only as murmuring rills, 
 Give thanks for the rainfall on Judean hills. 
 
 The shepherds in converse recline on the sod, 
 Recounting the wanderings of Israel from God : 
 Tears fall as they speak of the glories of old, 
 And the glory, long waiting, by prophets foretold. 
 
 See now they are bowing, and on the night air, 
 Floats tremblingly upward the voice of their 
 
 prayer : 
 
 " Oh! Father, how long in our lowly estate, 
 The Coming One s coming, how long shall we 
 
 wait? " 
 
 But hark! there s a sound like the rustling of 
 
 wings ; 
 
 A voice through the starry vault echoing rings; 
 "To God be the glory, there s good-will to men:" 
 Afar the voice echoes o er hill and through glen. 
 
 To Bethlehem hasten, glad offerings bring, 
 A manger there cradles your Savior and King: 
 The glory long waiting your own eyes shall see: 
 The Coming One cometh, the "I am to be." 
 
 68
 
 THE REDEMPTION OF THE SOUL 
 
 The Redemption of the Soul is Precious 
 and it Ceaseth Forever" 
 
 Psalm 49, 8 
 
 (Given at a Sunday School Convention) 
 Teacher of the precious children, 
 
 Looking in their sparkling eyes, 
 As thou lookest art thou conscious, 
 
 That a soul beneath them lies, 
 Of more worth than mines of Ophir? 
 
 Than all gems beneath the sea? 
 More than all the world s, and measured, 
 
 Only by eternity? 
 Oh ! how fast the moments roll ! 
 
 Working time will soon be o er; 
 The redemption of the soul, 
 
 Priceless, precious, 
 Ceaseth soon forevermore. 
 
 As the quiet, dewy morning, 
 
 Hasteth to the hour of noon, 
 So the tenderness of childhood, 
 
 To the sterner life, how soon! 
 Reach and guide that little tendril; 
 Something it will soon entwine: 
 It is easy now to guide it, 
 
 Not so with the sturdy vine. 
 Oh how fast the moments roll! 
 
 Training time soon passes o er: 
 The redemption of the soul, 
 Priceless, precious, 
 
 Ceaseth soon forevermore. 
 
 69
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Worker art thou oft disheartened? 
 
 Seemeth oft thy work in vain? 
 There is promise of the early, 
 
 Promise of the latter rain. 
 Sow the seed beside all waters. 
 
 Which shall prosper, that or this, 
 May not yet appear: It will though, 
 
 When you reach the realms of bliss. 
 Oh how fast the moments roll! 
 
 Soon the seed-time will be o er; 
 The redemption of the soul, 
 Priceless, precious, 
 
 Ceaseth soon forevermore. 
 
 My Refuge 
 
 Oh! where from self and Sinai s flame, 
 
 For refuge shall I fly? 
 There death, and here my sin and shame; 
 
 Or here, or there, I die. 
 Shall not thy blood my refuge be? 
 O Lamb of God, I fly to Thee. 
 
 My doing is a deadly thing, 
 
 It gives my soul no rest. 
 And good resolves can never bring 
 
 Peace to the troubled breast. 
 Thy blood my only plea shall be: 
 O Lamb of God, I trust in Thee. 
 
 70
 
 THE OUTCAST 
 The Outcast 
 
 (Suggested by an incident) 
 
 Who cares for me? Not one, 
 
 For my poor life, or death, or soul. 
 
 And so I plod life s way alone, 
 To reach its dreaded goal. 
 
 Oh! mournful memories! 
 
 Hopes blasted stand all stark and black, 
 As trunks of scorched and limbless trees, 
 
 Along the fire-fiend s track. 
 
 What, me? Speak louder pray: 
 These ears no more do hear aright. 
 
 For me ? No, no. No dawn of day, 
 Could come of such a night. 
 
 And yet a glimmering beam, 
 
 Seems stealing through the dark abyss, 
 Of my poor soul. Is it a dream? 
 
 Dawns hope on night like this? 
 
 Read me that verse again. 
 
 Could I but know He loves me still, 
 This very weariness and pain, 
 
 Were joy, if by His will. 
 
 Tis so. I feel tis so, 
 
 And lay me prostrate at His feet. 
 For Him I ll toil or wait below. 
 
 For Him e en pain were sweet.
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Jeremiah 12, 5 
 
 Oh what wilt thou do, 
 In the swellings of Jordan ? 
 How canst thou, thus madly, 
 Rush on to thy fate ? 
 Too late then, too late, 
 To sue for thy pardon. 
 And echo shall answer, 
 "Forever too late!" 
 
 There s life for thee now, 
 And thy God is the Giver, 
 Oh ! why turn away 
 From an offer so great? 
 There s peace for thy soul, 
 There s glory forever. 
 Oh! wait not the sentence, 
 " Forever too late ! " 
 
 The Spirit, the Bride, 
 And the Savior are calling. 
 How blest is the hour, 
 And what folly to wait! 
 For soon on thy soul, 
 The dread sentence falling, 
 Shall echo forever, 
 "Forever too late!" 
 
 72
 
 THE OLD TOWN PUMP 
 
 The Old Town Pump 
 
 Read before a gathering of Temperance Workers in 
 Pittsburg, Pa. 
 
 One morning quite early, my breakfast before, 
 Having read in the paper what s worth it and 
 
 more, 
 
 Of lands far away, of trains in the ditches, 
 And all because something was wrong with the 
 
 switches ; 
 
 Of Corbett and Sullivan, Patchen and Dexter, 
 How sl e got divorced just because he had vexed 
 
 her : 
 
 How Barnum the public, poor public! was gulling; 
 Of news from the game fields, of tennis and 
 
 sculling, 
 
 Of news telegraphic of all things that vex us, 
 Of murders and stealings from the " Pine Tree " 
 
 to Texas: 
 
 Having laid the sheet by, with a long-drawn sigh, 
 And a wish that the world were as good as am I ; 
 Having writ in my journal of yesterday s doings, 
 And wait on the boilings and broilings and 
 
 stewings, 
 With my corpus in one chair, and feet in another, 
 
 73
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 I watch on the street for something or other 
 
 To turn up. It doesn t, so I watch the Town 
 
 Pump, 
 
 That faithful old servant with its rattle and thump. 
 Its soul-stirring music awakes us at dawning, 
 Before even "Phoebus the hills is adorning," 
 Nor stops till old Phoebus has sunk in the west, 
 And the last street stroller has gone to his rest. 
 
 But here comes the housewife. She pumps with 
 
 a jerk, 
 
 For her man wants his breakfast to go to his work. 
 There s the kettle to boil and there s coffee to make, 
 There are eggs to be fried, and biscuit to bake, 
 Potatoes to warm up and beef steak to broil ; 
 The good wife (we know her) complains not of toil, 
 Though waking at dawning, before the cockcrows, 
 And working long after the weary day s close. 
 Ah ! once she was pretty, but all that is past ; 
 She looks at you now with a sorrowful cast ; 
 Beneath that old bonnet, but little is left, 
 To tell of the beauty her toils have bereft ; 
 But out of that toiling and sorrow, has grown 
 A sweetness of spirit, though beauty has fiown. 
 Her lot is to toil, and her toils never end, 
 When there s naught else to do, there s something 
 
 to mend. 
 
 Anon she returns with her bucket and tub ; 
 Poor woman when will she have no more to scrub ? 
 A big boy comes with her, no shoes and no hat; 
 His trousers in patches, but what of all that ? 
 
 74
 
 THE OLD TOWN PUMP 
 
 He s a hero at pumping. When he pumps how he 
 
 jumps ! 
 With her elbows akimbo she looks on while he 
 
 pumps. 
 From the spout, gladly gushing, the clear waters 
 
 run, 
 And home with the tub tug the mother and son. 
 
 Next comes an old toper, just going to his shop ; 
 He has called at the tavern to take a " wee drop. " 
 At the Old Town Pump now stops the old bloat, 
 To wash out the poison that sticks in his throat. 
 His children in garments all tattered and torn. 
 The mother? she would, but she cannot, forlorn! 
 Oh! Father how long in such lowly estate, 
 The righteous day waiting, how long must they 
 
 wait ? 
 Oh! away with the bumper! Away with the 
 
 bowl ! 
 
 Away with thy whiskey, Oh! man with a soul! 
 It will bite like a serpent and sting like an adder, 
 And thou lt find thyself soon at the foot of the 
 
 ladder. 
 
 There s health in the waters of the Old Town 
 
 Pump. 
 
 There s soul-stirring nrusic in its rattle and thump. 
 Then away with thy bumper! Away with thy 
 
 bowl ! 
 Away with thy whiskey, Oh! man with a soul! 
 
 75
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Now comes an old woman bent low by the years. 
 She has drunk of earth s sorrows, she knoweth its 
 
 tears, 
 
 She is weary of earth with its toiling and strife, 
 But long has she drunk of the waters of life. 
 How slowly she totters ! her weary limbs shake ; 
 How wearily raises the heavy pump brake! 
 Ah! soon we shall see her no more at the pump. 
 How weary its creaking! how slow is its thump! 
 
 But here are two boys and they both want a drink; 
 So each takes his turn, bending over the sink. 
 One places his mouth at the old mossy spout, 
 And drinks of the stream that the other pumps out. 
 "Pis a business transaction, nothing more, it would 
 
 seem; 
 
 A sort of extempore partnership scheme. 
 Each goes on his way with a whoop and a jump, 
 But long they ll remember the Old Town Pump. 
 
 But hither comes singing, a maid to the pump. 
 As she sings she keeps time to its rattle and 
 
 thump. 
 
 Her life is before her, how bright is its bloom! 
 May clouds never cover her path to the tomb. 
 From the spout green and mossy the bright water 
 
 flows, 
 
 There s beauty, there s gladness wherever she goes. 
 "Come ye to the waters, who thirsts let him 
 
 come." 
 
 76
 
 THE OLD TOWN PUMP 
 
 Thus she sings at her pumping, and sings at her 
 
 home. 
 She is none of your dainties, just the one for a 
 
 wife. 
 There s health in those roses, there s joy in that 
 
 life. 
 
 Thrice happy the swain, his day star is risen 
 When, if he shall ask her, she ll say she is "his n." * 
 
 Here comes an old soldier, with one leg and a 
 
 stump ; 
 With his bucket he hobbles to the Old Town 
 
 Pump. 
 
 The fall of Fort Sumter he heard from afar, 
 And shouldered his gun at the tocsin of war. 
 In battle, on picket, in tent field, in camp, 
 In heat of the Southland, in cold and in damp, 
 The best of his service, his strength and his blood, 
 He gave to his country, he gave to his God. 
 But his battles are fought, all his victories won. 
 His life s work is ended, fast setting his sun. 
 He is wearily waiting the sound of the trump, 
 When his long-lost leg shall return to its stump. 
 His life is a burden not much past its noon. 
 Where weariness comes not, he ll be soon, Oh! 
 
 how soon! 
 And we no more shall see him at the Old Town 
 
 Pump, 
 Where he wearily hobbles with one leg and a 
 
 stump. 
 
 *See Notes, page 102. 
 
 77
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 O servant of servants, thou good Old Town Pump ! 
 There s soul-stirring music in thy rattle and 
 
 thump. 
 
 The people all know thee and love thee as well ; 
 What blessings thou givest none ever can tell. 
 So here s to the health of the old Town Pump 
 A glass of cold water for its rattle and thump ; 
 And one to the woman that pumps with a jerk, 
 And one to her man as he goes to his work. 
 
 A glass for the toper if only he ll stop 
 His going to the tavern to get a "wee drop ; " 
 And two for the boys with the whoop and the jump, 
 Who schemed it to get them a drink from the 
 
 pump. 
 
 A glass to the maiden that sings when she pumps, 
 And one to the swain that she cures of the dumps, 
 And two for the soldier with one leg and a stump. 
 There s enough for us all till the sound of the 
 
 trump 
 Shall call us up higher than the Old Town Pump.
 
 DEAR UNCLE SAM 
 Dear Uncle Sam 
 
 Pittsburg, July !(?, 1867 
 
 A little converse let us hold, 
 
 Of years gone by. 
 For uncle you are growing old, 
 
 And so am I. 
 
 But are we not of heart as young, 
 
 As in those days, 
 When round your hearth we gaily sung, 
 
 Those roundelays? 
 
 Some of those voices on the earth. 
 
 Are heard no more. 
 Gone from the threshold and the hearth, 
 
 To yonder shore. 
 
 A longer lease kind heaven has made, 
 
 You and myself, 
 But long ago your flute was laid, 
 
 Upon the shelf. 
 
 My voice, now but a husky bass, 
 
 Has had its time. 
 But often in life s dusty race, 
 
 In mournful chime, 
 
 79
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Up from the shadows of the past, 
 
 Some old refrain, 
 Almost forgotten, now at last, 
 
 Returns again. 
 
 But from the ground methinks T hear 
 
 Old "Ship ahoy. " 
 
 Saying "Each hour, each day, each year, 
 " Hath its own joy. 
 
 Out from our verdure-covered grave, 
 
 "Oh! call us not. 
 
 Our day is past. One boon we crave, 
 To be forgot. " 
 
 So other songs my hearthstone cheer, 
 
 While others sing, 
 And so of joy, each day, each year, 
 
 Full share doth bring. 
 
 As gray has touched in manhood s prime, 
 
 These heads of ours, 
 So scattered in the swath of time, 
 
 Lie withered flowers. 
 
 But other flowers around us shed 
 
 As sweet perfume, 
 So leave we all those pleasures fled, 
 
 In their own tomb. 
 
 80
 
 THE JUBILEE 
 
 When sinketh towards the glowing west 
 
 Life s evening sun, 
 And lengthening shadows call to rest, 
 
 Our day s work done; 
 
 Then may our thankful hearts, still young, 
 
 Be glad with praise, 
 As when around your hearth we sung, 
 
 Those roundelays. 
 
 The Jubilee 
 
 Coming is the day of glory! 
 
 Year of Jubilee! 
 Glorious day of prophet s story, 
 
 Waits my soul for Thee. 
 
 Jesus speaks, the long sleep breaking, 
 
 Over land and sea, 
 From the dust His loved ones waking, 
 
 To the Jubilee. 
 
 When He comes His banished bringing, 
 
 Home for aye to be, 
 There ll be gladness, there ll be singing, 
 
 In the Jubilee. 
 
 As the watcher waits the morning, 
 
 Waits my soul for Thee. 
 Waiting for the glorious dawning 
 
 Of the Jubilee. 
 
 81
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 To Mary in her Infancy 
 
 Sweetly rest, 
 
 Mary in thy cozy nest. 
 
 In thy babyhood how blest! 
 
 Mother watcheth, never fear, 
 
 And thy guardian angel s near. 
 
 Sweetly rest. 
 
 Calmly sleep. 
 
 Though the storms without may sweep, 
 
 Close thine eyes in slumber deep. 
 
 That smile, I seem to see it now, 
 
 Rippling rosy cheek and brow, 
 
 In thy sleep. 
 
 Oft in dream, 
 
 Over hill and dale and stream, 
 Fancy bears me, and I seem 
 Standing at that cottage door, 
 Listening for thy voice once more, 
 In my dream. 
 
 Happy home! 
 
 As in distant climes I roam, 
 Setting sun and evening gloam, 
 Silent night and evening star, 
 Take my thoughts to thee afar, 
 My happy home. 
 
 82
 
 THE LITTLE QUAKER GIRL S PRAYER 
 
 The Little Quaker Girl s Prayer 
 
 Said a child just waked from sleeping, 
 
 Eyes brim full of morning glow, 
 Eyes the angels had been keeping, 
 
 In sweet sleep, with music low, 
 " Mother, is it Jesus wakes me, 
 
 In the morning with His light? 
 Seems to me as if He takes me, 
 
 Right in His soft arms all night." 
 
 Then with heart of sunny lightness, 
 
 Springing from her little bed, 
 In her robes of snowy whiteness, 
 
 Kneeling, this sweet prayer she said ; 
 While her eyes with love-light glistened, 
 
 As she lisped in Jesus ear ; 
 And the guardian angel listened, 
 
 Pleased such simple prayer to hear. 
 
 "Please, dear Jesus, bless dear mother, 
 
 Cause she is so nice and good; 
 And she makes for me and brother, 
 
 Such nice things, and such nice food. 
 Bless dear father too and kitty, 
 
 Darling puss with three white toes ; 
 And my little bird so pretty, 
 
 Sings so very sweet, Thee knows." 
 
 " Help us to be quiet playing, 
 
 With our little blocks and toys ; 
 And to mind what mother s saying, 
 When she bids us make less noise. 
 
 83
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Cause we always are so sorry, 
 And we know Thee s sorry too, 
 
 When we make dear mother worry, 
 She has got so much to do." 
 
 "Thanks for such a dear good mother, 
 
 And my pretty dolls and things; 
 Thanks for father, puss and brother, 
 
 And my little bird that sings. 
 Now dear Jesus please to make me 
 
 Good as I can be; and then, 
 When Thee wants me, please to take me 
 
 Up to live with Thee. Amen." 
 
 Niagara 
 
 But hark! a sound as of the mighty roar, 
 
 Of ocean billows breaking on the shore. 
 
 Or sound of pines to quiet vales below, 
 
 From mountain top, when winter tempests blow. 
 
 My soul stirred to its very depths, I stand, 
 
 With head uncovered, and uplifted hand, 
 
 And worship, not Thy works, O God, but Thee, 
 
 Whose voice I now do hear ; whose hand I see. 
 
 Nations have risen, lived, and passed away. 
 With age the mountains and the rocks grown gray. 
 Day follows day, the seasons come and go ; 
 In Time s old course the ages onward flow; 
 This grand old torrent ne er has ceased to pour, 
 Nor shall, till God decreeth time no more.
 
 WRITTEN IN A LADY S ALBUM 
 
 Written in a Lady s Album off Cape 
 Horn, in 1852 
 
 We are far away upon the restless sea. 
 While around us 
 There s a boundless, 
 Fathomless monotony. 
 Though ocean waves are swelling, 
 Or rest in sweet repose, 
 There s weariness, 
 There s dreariness, 
 From dawn to evening s close. 
 
 We often think of many a joy at home. 
 While those pleasures, 
 Memory s treasures, 
 Grow dearer as afar we roam. 
 Though mirth may be around us, 
 The giddy crowd among, 
 Our hearts oft yearn, 
 As thoughts oft turn, 
 To another happier throng. 
 
 Ye winds of heaven gaily o er us sweep. 
 Swiftly wing us, 
 Quickly bring us, 
 To our home far o er the deep. 
 The weeks and months are gliding, 
 As we glide o er the sea. 
 Its storms all past, 
 We ll anchor cast, 
 And shout for liberty. 
 
 85
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 "Tis thus we journey o er life s changeful sea. 
 It hath storms oft, 
 It hath calms oft, 
 And many a deep dark mystery. 
 But with truth s unvarying compass, 
 And hope to cheer our way, 
 Its storms all past, 
 We ll anchor cast, 
 In heaven s own peaceful bay. 
 
 The Blood Alone 
 
 The blood, the blood alone; 
 
 Tis Jesus precious blood. 
 This only could for sin atone, 
 
 And bring us nigh to God. 
 
 Then wipe thy weeping eyes. 
 
 Redemption s work is done, 
 Thy God has given the sacrifice, 
 
 His well-beloved Son. 
 
 Think not Thy grief and tears, 
 
 Can e er for sin atone. 
 This only plea the Father hears, 
 
 Tis Jesus blood alone. 
 
 Then let us joyful be. 
 
 Let hallelujahs ring, 
 And through the endless ages, we 
 
 The precious blood will sing. 
 
 86
 
 THE MUSIC OF NATURE 
 The Music of Nature 
 
 ( Written at age of //) 
 
 The rustling leaves of autumn, 
 To some have sorrow s tone, 
 
 And blasting winds that sadly now, 
 Through fading valleys moan. 
 
 But, though they sing in sadness, 
 
 With music they resound, 
 And in their mournful melodies, 
 
 The sweetest lays are found. 
 
 The frost-touched leaves now falling, 
 From yonder withering tree, 
 
 Have sweeter music to my ear 
 Than songs of mirth and glee. 
 
 Call st these anthems mournful, 
 That autumn thus doth sing? 
 
 And wouldst thou hear a gladder song, 
 List to the voice of spring. 
 
 The soul-inspiring chorus, 
 
 From field and forest glen, 
 As now the feathered songsters wake 
 
 Their songs of praise again. 
 
 The streams that burst in gladness 
 From yonder mountain side, 
 
 And onward in their joyous course, 
 Through verdant valleys glide. 
 
 87
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 All, all resound with music, 
 And all their voices join, 
 
 In anthems to their maker, God, 
 And sing his love divine. 
 
 Summer Evening 
 
 ( Written at age of //) 
 
 Softly now the day reposes, 
 
 Decked with glowing clouds the west. 
 One more day its labor closes, 
 
 Now the weary ones may rest. 
 
 Hushed the warbler s merry singing, 
 As she hastens to her brood, 
 
 Now the distant bells low ringing, 
 Softly echo through the wood. 
 
 Winding through the distant valley, 
 Through the wood and o er the plain, 
 
 Grazing herds their forces rally, 
 Hasting to their homes again. 
 
 Sorrowing one forget thy sorrow, 
 Rest thee till the morning light, 
 
 Slumber till another morrow, 
 Comes again in rapid flight. 
 
 88
 
 THE SCENES OF YOUTH 
 
 The Scenes of Youth 
 
 (The following was written under a deep sense of re 
 sponsibility when the writer taught his first school at the age 
 of seventeen) 
 
 The scenes of youth, how soon they pass away! 
 Like morning vapors in advancing day. 
 Rising like bubbles on the rippling stream, 
 Like them they vanish in their brightest gleam. 
 Stern manhood comes. No more that radiant 
 
 brow, 
 That beamed with gladness, beams with gladness 
 
 now. 
 
 Those joys departed cheer the heart no more, 
 Only as memory recounts them o er. 
 But why repine at the decree of fate? 
 Far higher joys, my soul, for thee do wait. 
 These joys at best are fraught with earth s alloy; 
 Let nobler things thy heaven-born powers employ. 
 Begin e en now the everlasting life ; 
 Gird on thine armor for the mortal strife, 
 With pride, with passion, every form of sin. 
 Thou shalt, God helping, glorious victories win. 
 And every victory, even here, shall be, 
 A foretaste sweet of heaven s own joy to thee. 
 
 89
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Sweetest Name 
 
 Sweetest Name! when I awaken, 
 Let it be the first I call. 
 
 Let it be the last name taken, 
 As to sleep I fall. 
 
 Name of Jesus, earth proclaim it ; 
 Friend of sinners, Lord of all. 
 
 Sweetest Name at life s glad dawning, 
 When the skies above are bright ; 
 
 Sweetest Name in brightest morning, 
 Or in darkest night ; 
 
 Sweetest name to mortals given, 
 Sweetest in the realms of light. 
 
 Sweetest Name! Our wisdom never 
 Could have found a name so sweet ; 
 
 And the saved, with joy forever 
 That Dear Name repeat. 
 
 Ransomed sinners, saints in glory, 
 Shout it, falling at His feet. 
 
 90
 
 FALLS OF MINNEHAHA 
 
 Falls of Minnehaha 
 
 (Laughing Waters) 
 On the river of the same name, Minnesota 
 
 Oh, sweet Minnehaha, the laughing, 
 
 Loveliest queen of the dell; 
 I m smitten fair one by thy beauty, 
 
 Bound fast in enchantment s spell. 
 
 Thy voice! Oh where is such music? 
 
 What other on earth is so sweet ! 
 Such form no artist could chisel ; 
 
 And rainbows play at thy feet. 
 
 But why dost thou draw thus around thee 
 That curtain of silvery sheen? 
 
 In vain to cover thy beauty 
 
 Thou wearest that veil, O queen. 
 
 All the day laughing and singing; 
 
 Singing all night while we sleep; 
 I fain w r ould come hither, my fair one, 
 
 And with thee the night vigils keep.
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 At Lincoln s Tomb 
 1*65 
 
 Welcome O earth, the beams of light, 
 That through the darkness break. 
 
 Dawning shall kindle into day, 
 And all the nations wake. 
 
 O nation from the curse redeemed, 
 Remember those who bled. 
 
 Remember him who slumbers here, 
 The greatest of the dead. 
 
 So shall it be. He humbly rests, 
 These peaceful hills among, 
 
 Yet while earth s onward ages roll, 
 His praises shall be sung. 
 
 Q2
 
 Sleep 
 
 O sleep! what a mystery sleep is! 
 
 Of what kind of stuff are these dreams? 
 Of what the mysterious essence, 
 
 That so near to the infinite seems? 
 
 How sluggish is thought in our waking, 
 
 When compared with dream thought in speed; 
 
 I leave the crippled old dray horse, 
 
 And make the swift lightning my steed. 
 
 All space is as nought to my charger, 
 He leaps over mountain and plain, 
 
 Far away from the flesh and the present, 
 I m with all the dear ones again. 
 
 But the gong wakes me up from my slumber, 
 
 To find that my bliss was a dream, 
 That my steed is the self-same old dray horse, 
 
 And sometimes "things are not what they seem."
 
 Notes 
 
 to 
 
 The Old Cobbler and 
 Other Poems
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 Notes to 
 The Old Cobbler and Other Poems 
 
 THE OLD COBBLER PAGE 9. 
 
 The subject of this poem was Mr. Uriah Warren, 
 Senior, cousin to General Joseph Warren of Bunker 
 Hill fame. That he was conscious of his approaching 
 death was evident from the fact that he said to a lady 
 who called for mail in the evening, "Mrs. M - I am 
 dying. " She said, "If you are dying, Mr. Warren, why 
 don t you go into the house and go to bed ? " He replied, 
 I promised to have this pair of shoes ready to-morrow 
 morning; as soon as I finish these I am going." She 
 thought it only a joke, and went home. The shoes were 
 left unfinished. 
 
 THF OLD COBBLER PAGE n. 
 
 Concerning the "heavenward-pointing spire." 
 Near the close of my mother s life, at eighty-five, on 
 her last visit I think to our home, she made the remark, 
 after reading this poem which I had lately written, 
 "I suppose that heavenward- pointing spire is a case 
 of poetic license." "Why, no, Mother," I said: "there 
 is no poetic license about that. The church had a spire 
 when I was a boy, and it got blown down and I remember 
 well the night it was done. " To my surprise she had 
 no recollection of it. But greater was my surprise to 
 find that none of our family remembered it. In 1901, 
 I made a visit to the old home town, and made inquiry 
 of the older members of the church, and found them 
 all afflicted with the same forgetfulness. 
 
 In 1904 I was in Bangor on a visit, and I bethought 
 me to visit an old man, about ten years my senior, an 
 early resident of old Jackson, partly for old acquaintance 
 
 97
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 sake, and partly to hear what he had to say on the spire 
 question. "Why, yes," he said, "there was a spire 
 on the meeting-house, of course there was, and it got 
 blowed off. " 
 
 At last I had found what I had been so long search 
 ing for, corroborative evidence that I had not been in 
 dulging in "poetic license." 
 
 There was a little incident connected with it that 
 served to fix it in my memory, which I will relate. 
 When nine years old I went to work for my board 
 through the winter with "Old Parson Warren," as he 
 was called, cousin to the subject of this poem, and first 
 pastor of this church. One morning after a severe 
 storm, the frost being thick on the windows, I scraped 
 off a spot to look out, and discovered that the spire was 
 gone from the "meeting house, " and called the attention 
 of the family to the fact. In the Parson s household 
 was a young lady, whom I thought very beautiful, who 
 came, and putting her beautiful face very close to my 
 cheek, looked through the same hole, and the extatic 
 thrill of such close contact fixed the fact which occa 
 sioned it in my memory forever. 
 
 Those other poor souls had not been blessed with 
 such experience, as an aid to memory, and so in the 
 passing of the years, sixty or more, for them it had 
 drifted into oblivion. 
 
 THE ROCK THAT is HIGHER THAN I PAGE 14. 
 
 At a convention of the Y.M.C.A. in 1873, at Carlisle, 
 Pa., which I attended as delegate from Pittsburg, John 
 Wanamaker, was president. About the close of the 
 first session a telegram came from Philadelphia announc 
 ing the failure of Jay Cook, in whose bank Wanamaker 
 had $70,000, which to him at that time was a serious 
 matter, and the loss of which might result in his finan 
 cial undoing. Soon followed reports of other failures 
 throughout the country, indicating a general panic, 
 
 98
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 and of course throwing a pall of gloom over the con 
 vention. 
 
 As an expression of the common feeling I wrote this 
 hymn. 
 
 Mr. William Fisher, the composer, was at the con 
 vention, who with my brother William, (since Reverend) 
 led the singing. Mr. Fisher set the hymn to music and 
 it immediately became popular in the convention, being 
 called for several times. 
 
 In 1 88 1, I was in Atlanta on business, and Sunday 
 morning entered a church where they were just opening 
 Sunday School, and was invited into a bible class. They 
 sang this for their opening hymn. After they were 
 through I had the vanity to say to the leader of the class, 
 "That is my hymn." "It is mine too," he replied, 
 "Hike that hymn. " I then said, " I wrote it. " "Well" 
 he replied, "It is worth writing, I have often thought I 
 would write it myself in my scrap book. " I gave it up. 
 
 In 1890 I was for a time confined in a hospital in 
 Whatcom, Washington, having an operation per 
 formed, and in an adjoining room was a young lady 
 who had received severe injuries from a fall from a 
 high bridge, caused by a fractious horse. She was a good 
 singer, accompanying her songs with a guitar, to the 
 gratification of many listeners who spoke many a word 
 of appreciation, though unable to see the singer. Among 
 other things, chiefly gospel songs, she often sung "The 
 Rock That is Higher Than I. " At length getting so 
 that I could walk on crutches, I got permission of the 
 matron, and made her a visit, thanking her for the en 
 joyment she had given us, and making known to her 
 the authorship of the hymn mentioned, to her great 
 surprise. 
 
 Another testimony of appreciation that gave me 
 great satisfaction was a letter I received from a lady, 
 and how she got hold of my address to write to me was 
 a mystery. She wrote that it was the dying request of 
 her father, that she should find out my address, and 
 
 99
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 write, thanking me for the comfort the words of that 
 hymn had afforded him. Another young lady whose 
 home was more than three thousand miles from mine 
 wrote to tell me that she was brought to the determin 
 ation to be a Christian by hearing that song. 
 
 It has found a place in at least four Church Hymnals 
 but with much regret I find they have changed its name 
 in the new Methodist Hymnal. 
 
 One of my nephews (who got part of his education 
 at the Agricultural College of the State of Washington, 
 and who being a good cornetist led the singing at the 
 daily devotional services, led by the president) told me 
 that the hymn oftenest used was this. A preacher also, 
 who was an intimate friend of Moody, told me that it 
 was one of Moody s favorite hymns. 
 
 RAIN IN THE COUNTRY PAGE 15. 
 
 There was an amusing incident connected with this. 
 I sent it to "The Advance" in Chicago. They published 
 and sent pay for it, and with it a note from Dr. Patton, 
 the editor, saying that he would like to be informed 
 as to my gender, whether I was a man or a woman. 
 I had made several contributions to "The Advance" 
 signing them " E. Johnson. " I returned answer to him, 
 saying that he could get reliable information on that 
 important point, by writing to my mother, giving him 
 her address. He wrote and she answered and added 
 that if the information was worth it, he might send her 
 his paper for one year. He sent it not for one year only, 
 but for some twenty years, I think, till her death. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD PAGE 39. 
 
 Place about four miles from Lincoln, Maine, and 
 about ten, probably, from my birthplace, across the 
 Penobscot in a logging camp. Date, 1830, at the age 
 of four. 
 
 loo
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 That first year in our new home, was, of all the 
 years, our year of trial. The buying of the hundred 
 acres of land, and such things as were absolutely neces 
 sary, and building a cheap frame house, had absorbed 
 all there was left of past earnings. Ten acres of forest 
 had been felled and burned the year before; corn, beans, 
 and potatoes were planted among the logs, according 
 to the usual custom, grew luxuriantly and promised an 
 abundant harvest. But alas! the terrible destruction 
 by frost that year, in all that part of the state, sent, as 
 some argued, as a judgment for the people s wickedness, 
 fell alike on saint and sinner. A few bushels of corn 
 saved by drying the ripest of the roasting ears, and a 
 few bushels of unripened potatoes made up the visible 
 supply for the coming year, seven of us, all told. As to 
 work, there was none to be had, for all were in the same 
 condition. We boys talked about it among ourselves, 
 and our oracle, the oldest, decided that as father was 
 well acquainted with God, he would certainly speak to 
 Him about it, and get Him to attend to our case. 
 
 But listen! what sound is that? It sounds like 
 a teamster talking to his team. Yes, it is; we see him 
 now, and the team pulls as though having a heavy load 
 on, and he is turning in here. He drives to our door. 
 " Does Mr. Johnson live here? " "Yes; that is my name. " 
 "Well I have got a load of provisions here for you." 
 "There must be some mistake about it, they can t be 
 for me." "Isn t your name Cyrus Johnson?" "Yes." 
 "Then they are for you. Mr. of Bangor sent them, 
 knowing you had lost your crop, and I tell you I have 
 had a hard time of it getting here. " " God sent it. Before 
 taking care of your team, let us go into the house and 
 thank Him for it. " And all kneeling, there went up 
 heart-felt thanksgiving and praise to the Giver of every 
 good and perfect gift. 
 
 And so it was that He used a man who knew Him 
 not, to feed His ravens when they cried, and furnish a 
 lesson to us all never to be forgotten. 
 
 101
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD PAGE 49. 
 
 "Cattens" is a name given to split laths used on 
 the frontier for building chimneys, after getting above 
 any danger of fire. The inside is plastered with clay. 
 
 THE OLD TOWN PUMP PAGE 77. 
 
 A word used very often in the West among the 
 lower classes. 
 
 IO2
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Page 
 The Old Cobbler 9 
 
 Our Dove ......... 13 
 
 The Rock that is Higher than I . . . .14 
 
 Rain in the Country . . . . . . 15 
 
 Our Anniversary 17 
 
 May Day on Red Wing Bluff 18 
 
 Family Reunion at William Johnson s . . . 19 
 Reunion at Mrs. Mary Johnson Root s . . 21 
 
 A Glimpse of Day 22 
 
 Ye Have Done It Unto Me ..... 23 
 
 The Beatitudes 25 
 
 We shall see Him as He is . . . .26 
 
 Pray Without Ceasing 27 
 
 For Me 29 
 
 Home Missionary Hymn . . . . . .30 
 
 Four Meditations 31 
 
 My Refuge . . . . . . . .32 
 
 For so He giveth His beloved Sleep . . . 33 
 Blind Bartimeus ........ 34 
 
 Behold I Stand at the Door and Knock . . 35 
 
 Alone 36 
 
 Now I lay me down to Sleep . . . -37 
 
 Lura Marinda . . . . . . . -38 
 
 Recollections of Childhood 39 
 
 Sheriff s Sale 63 
 
 Crape ......... 66 
 
 Only Just a Minute 67 
 
 103
 
 POEMS BY ERASTUS JOHNSON 
 
 INDEX Continued 
 
 Page 
 The First Christmas 68 
 
 The Redemption of the Soul is Precious . . .69 
 
 My Refuge ........ 70 
 
 The Outcast . . . . . . . .71 
 
 Jeremiah 12,5 . . . . . . . 72 
 
 The Old Town Pump . . . . . . -73 
 
 Dear Uncle Sam . . ..... 79 
 
 The Jubilee 81 
 
 To Mary in her Infancy 82 
 
 The Little Quaker Girl s Prayer . . . .83 
 
 Niagara 84 
 
 Written in a Lady s Album off Cape Horn . -85 
 
 The Blood Alone 86 
 
 The Music of Nature 87 
 
 Summer Evening ....... 88 
 
 The Scenes of Youth . . . . . . .89 
 
 Sweetest Name ....... 
 
 Falls of Minnehaha ...... 
 
 At Lincoln s Tomb ....... 
 
 Sleep ......... 
 
 Notes to The Old Cobbler and Other Poems 
 
 104
 
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