Ernest Neal, Georgia's second poet laureate, 1938

ERNEST NEAL
Georgia's Second Poet Laureate
"God bless the barefoot country boyThe home-spanked, prayed-for kind-
That catches bird notes in his heart And sunbeams in his mind."
GEORGIA STATE DEPARTI\IENT OF EDUCATIO ATLANTA
M. D. COLLINS, State Superintendent of Education 1938

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FREE SCHOOL BOOK RECORD

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E. D. RIVERS,

M. D. COLLI S,

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State Superintendent of Schools

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ER EST EAL
GEORGIA'S SECO D POET LAUREATE
This publication is one of a series designed to furnish more complete information on topics of special interest to teachers and pupils in Georgia schools.
Prepared and Issued by DIVISION OF I FORMATIO A D PUBLICATIO S
STATE DEPARTMEl T OF EDUCATIO
ATLANTA
1938

ERNEST NEAL
Poet Laureate of Georgia
ov 9 '46

CONTENTS

Introduction

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Page 5

A Close-Up of Ernest Neal. by Lulie Pitts

6

Ernest Nealon Poetry

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10

Grateful (Poem)

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11

Author's Preface to Second Book of Verse

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Editor James A. Hall's Foreword James A. Holloman's Review

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..

._ _ 15

A Scholar (F. L. Littlefield) Speaks

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An Apprecia tion, by Jessie Wells- \-Vatts

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An Apprecia tion, by Ernest Dillard_____ _

20

Sonnet to Ernest Neal, by Edith Foster

Appreciation, by Lela Foster- .___ _

Stanton and Neal

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.

Ernest Neal as a Teacher-

21 21 . . 22 23

Poems:

My Heritage

24

Georgia

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25

Georgia Scenes __ .

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Nacoochee _ __

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28

Cohutta Town _ _

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.3 0

Cohutta (A Perfect Night)

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.31

Yonah

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The Land of the Cherokees

.3 5

The Call of the South

.3 6

August in Georgia _

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_37

October in Georgia Novem ber

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.3 8

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Home of My Childhood Time __ __

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39

The Sweetest Song

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My Pi ney-Woodsy GirL _

A1

The Heart of a Rock A Glory Departed

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43

To Our Boys

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Ma ck ---_ ---

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To Our Missing Birds

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Ki1dee -----------------.

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A Frog's a Frog-

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Love's Exchange

48

Within the Shadow

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A Man's a Man

49

The Poet's SouL

49

Beside Life's Lowl y Gate

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Sorrow

51

T ruth _

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51

Reflections

53

Nightfa11 __

53

ewspaper Columnist:

Bubbles

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._ 53

.-Black Ma mmy' ,

54

Young Teachers __ _ ..

55

My Castle _ _

56

Betty Hobgood _.

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58

"Pigs is Pigs" __ _ _

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Poetry and Prose

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To Elsanne _ _

.________________________________________ _

61

To Mary Jeter Starr.

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A Light from the Skies

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In the Harbor

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Additional Tributes:

By Margaret F. DanielL_________________________________________________ __ 63

By Mrs. W. Frank Wells

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Seventy-Ninth Birthday

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4

INTRODUCTION
Eleven years ago, when the General Assembly of Georgia commissioned Ernest Neal. a public school teacher, to be Poet Laureate of the State, a deserved honor was conferred upon an individual and upon the profession which he represents.

Our first Poet Laureate. the nationally known Frank L. Stanton, was, like his successor, an optimist and a lover of the simple things of life; and when Mr. Neal assumed the office, he showed his fitness for it by declaring, "I feel unworthy to wear the mantle of the author of 'Mighty Lak a Rose,' 'Just A-Wearyin' for You,' and hundreds of other poems that rank with the best in America.
In the following pages we present the story of the life of a man, who, in various rural and urban schools, has prepared thoQsands of boys and girls for life-and some of them for college. Expressions of appreciation of Ernest Neal, as friend, teacher, and poet are also given. The poems selected represent a wide variety of themes and portray the skill of the author as narrative poet and lyrist.
Mr. NeaL now in his eighty-first year, looks- back upon a life well spent-serving the school children of his native state.
L. L. PERRY, Director, Division of Information and Publications:
October, 1938.
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135191t

A CLOSE-UP OF ERNEST NEAL, POET LAUREATE OF GEORGIA
By
Lulie Pitts, Author of History of Gordon County. Georgia (Official)
Ernest Neal, who was commis ioned Poet Laureate of Georgia by the General Assembly of 1927, is the only native Georgian upon whom the title has been bestowed, and the Empire State of the South has never cradled a more loyal. devoted son. (Frank Lebby Stanton, his predecessor. was born in South Carolina.)
Many times Mr. Neal's magic pen has turned the spotlight on Georgia's red old hills, embalmed in song and story; her wonderland of mountain and valley, of waterfall and crystal stream: her fertile acres, brilliant-hued flora, rainbow sunsets, matchless climate, and these myriad attractions have been sO convincingly portrayed tbat the poet's concept has become a common heritage.
Mr.. Neal was born on a plantation just outside tbe city limit 0f Sparta, Georgia, September 6. 1858. tbe ninth child-there were eleven children in all--of George Varner eal and Lavonia (Blackburn) Neal. His father was a successful lawyer and a large landholder; an owner of numerous slaves, thoroughbred borses, and hunting dogs: a lover of sports, bospitable, living the life of a typical pre-war Southern gentleman.
His mother, descendent of a prominent Meriwether County, Georgia, family, was a true daughter of the Old South-beautiful, cultured, religious. of a poetical and literary trend of mind-in fact, her poet-san's vocabulary of laudatory adjectives is limitless when he attempts to describe this lovely mother through whom was transmitted to him the talent that has so enriched his life and whose devotion and understanding have been memory's most cherished highlights.
At an early age the future poet laureate evinced a keen interest in literature. preferably the classics. and he browsed among the fine collections in the extensive library of the family mansion with an avidity that foretokened clearly the leading role that letters would play in the drama of his life.
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Shortly after the War Between the Stateshad devastated the South, the ten-year-old genius wrote his first poem - "Ode to Poverty"-disclosing his reaction on learning of the family's financial reverses, his resignation to the inevitable, and even glimpsing a silver lining with philosophical insight amazing in one so young.
At fourteen, he was infatuated with the ornate style of Thomas Moore, whose "Lalla Rookh," by repeated readings, was stamped so indelibly upon his receptive mind that even now he can recite without effort whole pages of this poetic romance.
The poems of Burns, Byron, Keats, Shelley, Swinburne, Tennyson, and many others intrigued the serious-minded lad, who, as he reveled in the thoughts of these leading lights in the literary world. felt always the inner urge to self-expression.
Mr. Neal received his elementary education in Warrenton Academy, Warrenton, Georgia, and finished at North Georgia Agricultural College, Dahlonega, Ga.
When a very young student at Warrenton, he won first place in a declamation contest, giving such a marvelous exhibition of the Demosthenian art that he was hailed as an oratorical prodigy. The selection used was Father Ryan's "The Conquered Banner," and the ambitious little declaimer was tutored in the correct rendition by no less a personage than the beloved poet-priest himself, who, at tht time. was serving a parish in Augusta, Georgia.
Ernest Neal's talent for public speaking. developed through the years, has proved a most valuable asset, whether employed in the class room, on the hustlings. in religious gatherings, or on many platforms before assemblies of sundry aims and creeds. He speaks.. for the mo.st part, extemporaneously, a feat made possible by his wide range of thought, his retentive memory. and ready wit.
Professor Neal's greatest activity has been in the field of education. During his more than a half century in the schoolroom. he has held positions in every district of Georgia. and thousands of former pupils owe their entrance into a more abundant life to his wise guidance.
In 1920. Ernest Neal issued a r.ompilation of his verse in book form under the title, "Yonah, and Other Poems." This was so well received that "A Stcond Book of Verse" followed in 1928. Tht poems feature a variety of themes, including patriotism. love of

birds and of nature. thoughts of the past, death. the Cherokees. October in Georgia, Georgia scenes. love lyrics. Some of the author's preferences among his compositions are: "My Castle," "In the Harbor," "Afterglow of a Happy Day," "My Soul."
The author has resided in Calhoun. Georgia, for many years. the little city that inspired one of the best known and most widely quoted of his lyrics-"Calhoun."
CALHOUN
(By Ernest Neal)
estling 'mong mountains, Sparkling with fountains,
Beautiful city. Calhoun. My heart ever beats For thy pleasing retreats
Where sun-light is gentle at noon: For trees never made A lovelier shade
Than falls on thy bo om in June.
Thy beautiful river Flows onward forever-
In rhythms flows on to the sea; And the farther he flows The sadder he grows,
For he passes no city like thee. And he mingles his groan With the ocean's wild moan
While his spirit flows backward with mt.
My soul, like that river. Time cannot dissever;
'Tho the stream of my life trends away. It touches thee still, Thy shock and thy thrill
Are with me fortver and aye. Recollections are flowers In memory's bowers.
And they bloom 'in Dtcember and May.
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f
The Poet Laureate delights in walking, preferably through quiet country bypaths leading to a favorite retreat on the summit of Mt. Alto, part of his estate, where "the scenes below, like some rare old painting, enwrap his soul with bliss," and to which he has dedicated some of his most exquisite lines.
REFLECTIONS
(By Ernest Neal)
Down in the village, sleeping still As some old painting rare,
I gaze from off my favorite hill Through autumn's hazy air;
And here, in retrospective mood, I cannot choose but link
The chain of hours that thus I've stood To gaze and dream and think.
'Twas many and many a year ago, On a morning fair as this,
When first yon smiling scene below Enwrapped my soul with bliss.
How oft that smiling scene, since then, My inmost soul hath charmed;
And now I'm old, I feel again My spirit strangely warmed.
For all this wealth in simple fee Men struggle with a will;
Yet all the town belongs to me In the landscape from my hill.
'Tis sweet to think in life's decay That joys of heart and mind
May light the path to heavenly day And leave a glow behind.
In 1913-1914, Mr. Neal represented Gordon County in the Gcner.al Assembly of Georgia. He has an interesting family composed of his gifted wife. the former Miss Mamie Lou Gallaher. at' direct
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Irish descent; two sons, and several grandchildren. Since childhood he has been a devoted member of the Methodist church.
During his eleven-year service as Poet Laureate, Mr. eal has received many tributes of esteem, both from the press and from individuals, scores oJ invitations to be honor guest at schools, clubs, and organizations throughout the state, some of which have observes pecial "Ernest Neal Days," and the love of hosts of appreciative Georgians who sincerely hope that the best of his life is yet to come.
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ERNEST NEAL ON POETRY
Ernest ea!, Georgia's second Poet Laureate, and the first native Georgian to be so designated, published his first book. "Yonah and Other Poems," in 1920, and in the Preface to this book i to be found a brief but interesting discussion of poetry and poets.
"We all have within us," says Laureate Nea!, "that indefinable omething called poetry; that sheet-lightning of Truth; those half-awake recollections of the soul: that perpetual endeavor to expre the spirit of things. Not all, however, are poets.
" 'Few can touch tbe magic string, And noisy fame is proud to WIn them:
Alas, for those who never sing, But die with all their music in them.'
"The poet is sometimes presented to us as the harp through which passion breathes in melody. Is he not, rather, the master musician, suggested in the above quotation, who plays upon the instrument of a thousand strings and sends floating through the soul the melody of its own music? Or the sculptor who takes cold marble from the quarry' of the heart and fashions it into radiant beauty? Or the painter who touches up the clouds in life's dark sky, turns them into chariots of living light, and sets the world a-singing:
" 'It isn't raining rain to me, It's raining daffodils'?
. "With this high conception of the poet's mISSIon, I may mcur
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the charge of presumption in presenting to the public eye this volume of verses which falls so far short of poetry's true aim and attainment. My only defem:e is that, in yielding to solicitations from friends who insist that these products of my muse are worthy to be bound together in a book, I follow the impulse of an honest heart.
"Disclaiming any expectation of honor, fame or glory, I do cherish a hope that midst all the physical beauty of thili little book its readers may find the magic window through which may come the visions of a poet's dreams."
Sincerely yours, ERNEST EAL.
THE LEAVES OF THE TREES WHISPER OF GOD
Nature and literature-through either we may hear the muffled heart-throbs of Him whose vestments they are. Indeed, the world of letters is itself a forest whose magnitude we may not measure, but in whose depths the monarch trees and the sweet-scented undergrowth cast their fGlliage at our feet; and the rustl-ing of the leaves is the whispering of God. -ERNEST NEAL (From Foreword of oOJnspiration"-unpublished.)
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GRATEFUL
(An appreCIatIOn of the honor conferred on the author by legislative enactment naming him as poet laureate of Georgia to succeed the late Frank L. Stanton.)
LIKE A flower that blooms in tbe depth of the ocean Beneath billows that never can break on the beach.
My soul is awake 'neath a pell of emotion Too silent and still to float into speech.
My gratitude's deep, but it can not be written: A song's in my heart, but it can not. be song:
My harp is too weak, my memory smitten By the echoing chimes that Stanton has rung.
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His mllse bids me rest on his bosom and listen, While Georgia bids mine to rise on the wing.
Is it strange that I linger where love's tears glisten. Till I feel, in his place, I am worthy to sing?
AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO HIS SECO D BOOK OF VERSE
Though seldom knowing the why of my own obscure but insistent motivities, I submit a reason for this. my second book of verse.
Having been named, by legislative enactment, Poet Laureate of Georgia, a title glorified by the genius of Frank L. Stanton, I feel that my state will not tolerate a mute song-bird.
I have gratefully sung, in a minor key, these new songs, which, combined with those already published. I hope may catch the ears and reach the hearts of approving readers.
You rs sincerely,
ERNEST NEAL.
Calhoun, Ga., November 15, 1928.
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EDITOR JAMES A. HALL'S FOREWORD TO ERNEST NEAL S SECOND BOOK OF VERSE
The publication of "A Second Book of Verse" by Ernest Neal. Georgia's widely known and popular poet laureate, is of outstanding interest to all lovers of southern literature, and especially to the people of Georgia, Mr. eal's native state.
Poets, like flowers which sweeten the landscape. grow out of the soil: and northwest Georgia, the region in which Mr. Neal has spent most of his life, has cradled a number of gifted writers. It is a region of smiling valleys. purple mountains, and musical streams. It is natural that the charm of the landscape should have woven itself into the dreams and moods of one so responsive as Ernest Neal, and, as might be expected, we find the breath of the hills and the song of the streams illusively intrudin~ themselves into his poems.
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Ernest cal was born at Sparta. Georgia. September 6. 1858. His father. George V. Neal. was an able and prominent lawyer and. before the Civil War. was an extensive planter. From childhood. the poet lived in an atmosphere of culture and refinement. His mother. Lavonia Holmes Blackburn Neal, was a woman of rare intelligence and a lover of literature and art. He is a descendant of Captain David Neal. a soldier of the Revolution. and one of the earlier settlers of Warren County. On both sides of the house his lineage can be traced to colonial ancestry.
****
As a child Ernest Neal attended school in Warrenton. receiving at the Warrenton Academy such preparation for college as was required at that time. He entered the North Georgia Agricultural College. at Dahlonega. where he boarded in the home of David W. Lewis. president of the school. Colonel Lewis had been a member of the Confederate Congress. and afterward. president of the Georgia State Agricultural Soci~ty. For years an outstanding figure in Georgia. he never rendered better service to the state than while president of this school, for he was by taste and education pre-eminently fitted for the position. Association with him and his cultured Christian household made a deep impression upon the mind of the young student.
When Ernest Neal left the Dahlonega institution in 1881 he was elected principal of the Warrenton Academy and entered upon his long career of teaching. which he has made his life work. It was during his first year as a teacher at Warrenton that he married Miss Mamie Gallager. a daughter of Nicholas Gallager. who had moved from Ireland and was then a merchant at Warrenton.
Mr. Gallaher was at that time a leading merchant and a member of the Board of Education. Mrs. Gallaher was the daughter of Marion Cody. an outstanding citizen of the county and a niece of Jep and Jim Cody. for many years engaged in merchandising and prominent in Warrenton in business and social life.
Mrs. Neal was educated at Tilden Seminary. West Lebanon. New Hampshire.
More than thirty years ago Mr. Neal moved to northwest Georgia. making his home at Calhoun. where he was for many years
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at the head of the city schools. It is as a teacher that he is best known and loved; for to him boys and girls are more than song.
His poetic career began when he was a mere boy. While a student at Dahlonega he wrote " acoochee." which is one of his most widely known poems. It was published at the time in an Atlanta newspaper. Mr. Neal has. all his life. been a contributor of verse to local newspaper. It is as a contributor to the Atlanta Constitution. however. that Mr. eal has bl!come most widely known. He has never tried to gain entry into the magazines. A few years ago he issued his first book of verse. Only one thousand copies were printed, and the type distributed. The book mer with most favorable reviews. and the edition was soon exhausted.
Nurtured in a home filled with the works of the English poets and later becoming the companion of the mountains and the hills, Ernest Neal could not escape be.ing a poet. Poetry was in the air he breathed and in the woodland pathways along which his footsteps led.
In the present volume and the preceding one Mr. 1 eal's poems are characterized by deep sincerity and marked by especial beauty and sweetness.
To that class of readers who enjoy well-considered and ably executed verse, and who feel a patriotic and 10.Yal impulse to preserve in their libraries the best of Georgia literature I commend this book by Georgia's gifted poet laureate.
I know of no more fitting close for this brief sket<:h than to quote the words of an eminent Georgia editor and critic who said:
"There is no sweeter. gentler man in Georgia, than Ernest eal -very modest, very retirin.g. He has contributed much to the current literature of the day. and has attracted well-de erved ancntion throughout the South."
- JAME A. HALL.
Decatur, Ga., October 8, 1928.
NOTE.-Mr. Hall, himself a poet, as well as naturalist and historian, has devoted his life to newspaper work, first in Calhoun and later in Decatur. The editor-critic he quotes ii James B. euen.

HOLLOMA 'S REVIEW OF EAL'S FIRST BOOK OF VERSE
Prof. Ernest eat's book, "Yonah and Other Poems," is a compilation of unusual appeal, for, while "Yonah" is alone worth the price-and I don't e en know what the price is-his ode to the land of the Cherokee entitled "1\ Long as His Rivers Flow into the Sea," is a contribution of equal merit, and is indeed the most brilliant poetical play upon the various rivers of North Georgia that bear the aboriginal names that ha ever been reduced to the printed page by any author.
In June, 1922, when it was my privilege to conduct a large party of government officials through the mountains of northeastern Georgia, we heard this latter poem recited at various functions, first at a luncheon in Gainesville. Its appeal to the visitors-and Georgians as well-was a gripping one. And so was "Yonah," as it, too, was delivered on several occasions.
During the week these two poems were published in The Atlanta Constitution. and then we began to get inquiries about the author and about his other poems. Even now there is sC<lrcely a week that we do not receive in The Constitution offices some inquiry about Ernest eal or request for a copy of one or the otber of these just!y celebrated productions.
Scanning the pages of his book, I find that he has swung through all of the sentiments that enrich the soul and quicken the heart, for while nature in all of it rhythmic beauty, as glimpsed from the peaks of his beloved hill land, has inspired the muse of this genius of the schoolroom, the finer emotions of the fireside and the sublimer passions of the spiritual have directed his pen to heights even more lofty than the crest of the majestic mountains from whence came his inspiration.
-JAMES A. HOLLOMAN in The Atlanta Constitu,ion.
*** * A SCHOLAR SPEAKS
F. L. Littlefield, who received literary training in Columbia University. wrote the "Foreword" to Mr. eal's "Inspiration," a
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book which has not yet been published. The first third of the book. which has been finished, consists of thirty-nine cantos. of nine lines each, and numerous songs and choruses.
From Mr. Littlefield's "Foreword" we take the following extracts: "Poets are born, not made. They possess; innately. the power to be the instrument, to be played upon by some omniscient power. They possess the ability to be impersonal, the ability to dissect emotions and unflinchingly to record their findings. This power to see and feel deeply and yet to record impersonally, gives their work the universality which makes it immortal. The artistic integrity with which they work shuns all attempts at personal gratification. . . . This impersonal quality is possessed by E. A. Robinson and Elinor \Vylie. Robinson is Whitman refined. He has force, tempered by profound understanding and subtle humor. Elinor Wylie is a natural lyricist. She possesses the pure evocation of a mood in 'Velvet Shoes.' These two qualities, controlled force and lyrical mood. are found in Ernest ears poetry. Since the publication of his first book, 'Yonah and Other Poems.' he has gained in power. but has never lost his spontaneous gift of rhyme.
"In tracing the career of Ernest Neal one is impressed by the variety of his attainments. He ventured into many fields and has achieved much recognition. However, he has always returned to his first love, poetry. His sincerety and devotion to his art have impressed me since my early childhood.
"In the face of all opposition. hardships, and ill health. he has clung to his keen insight into human nature and to his sense of humor. Whatever difficulties befall him he can always calmly seat himself. smile and discuss his poetry. He relishes the sound of words. He likes to roll them over on his tongue. He does not think that words are 'a poor medium of expression.' He finds them useful either in quoting Milton or Shelley. or in expressing hi~self. He likes edges, angles, harse sibilants, smooth resonance, words with a firm modeling. It is this feeling and appreciation for words. I believe, which has made him foUo.w the old, rather tban the new. form. Free verse does achieve freedom of expression, but, it loses tbe mellow mixture of rhyme and rhythm which is found in such poems as Mr. Neal's-'As Long As His Rivers Flow Into the Sea.'
"Ernest Neal is a born poet. Poetry is life to him. It is through
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poetry that he obtains release from the chaotic conditions around him. I have heard practical people condemn with impatience such an idealistic conception of art. The truth is that it is an extremely pr.actical idea and il> based on fact. The universe is essentially rhythmical. Agriculture depends upon seasonal sequences and upon orderly succession of blossom and fruit. Trains, automobiles, and the machinery of factories are all constructed upon a pattern of repetitive motion. Objects, which .are in themselves rhythmic. are so combined into larger wholes that the general impression is chaotic. Houses of unrelated architectural design stand next to each other. People crowd the street, each walking with his own particular gait. Sounds of .automobiles, trains and human voices are inextricably mingled. Rhythm, though present, is lost in a larger confusion. This confusion is inevitable, but rhythm is such a potent force in releasing us from discord that we must rely upon those experiences and creations in which its presence can be realized.
"Poetry to Mr. Neal is life because in it he attains a rhythmic order. His innate sense of rhythm is so pronounced that it is just as easy for him to express himself rhythmically as it would be for the average person to hum a tune. This is responsible for the throbbing of his poetry. The basis of this power is the rdation between heightened emotion and rhythm. When we are emotionally stirred our hearts beat more rapidly, we tend to speak in more even cadences, and our movements take on a marked regularity. Even prose. under stress of emotion, assumes a rhythmic power not unlike poetry. Socrates, pausing on the bank of a river outside the wall of Athens, was moved by the be.auty of the scene to voice a spontaneous prayer. Note the rhythmic pattern of his words:
.. 'Beloved Pan, and all ye other Gods who haunt this place, give me beauty in the inward soul and may the inw.ard and outward man be as one.' In the rhythmic voicing of emotion, whether it be in prose or poetry, Mr. Neal achieves a controlled power, which is peace. He has remained unconfused in a world of confusion."
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A APPRECIATION OF ER EST NEAL
By JESSIE WELLS-WATTS
The other day when my sturdy twelve-year-old boy bOUfld.ed in from school breathless, face aglow, eyes shining, nerves tense, enthusiasm oozing from every pore, and shouted excitedly: "Oh! Mother, Prof. Ernest NeaL a reaL live poet, visited the school this morning," I thought the hero war hiping youth could not have chosen a more apt three-word description of Georgia's poet laureate.
Did you ever know an individual who could change a gray day into gold, whose radiant personality could make you hear birds sing and see flowers bloom as he passed along the way? Have you ever known a person with the silver frost of years on his head and eternal youth in his soul; with the wisdom and experience of sated age tempered and made alluring by the kindly, cheerful tolerance, the high enthusiasm and courage that characterize youth? Have you ever seen a poet, sage, and philosopher with the heart of a boy of twenty; a man to whom boys and girls turn as naturally as flowers to the sunshine? If you are fortunate enough to have known such a person, you know Ernest Neal.
A few years before I met Mr. Neal in person, a friend of his said to me: "I don't say Prof. Neal is the greatest teacher I have known, but I do say and know that he has inspired more students to reach for higher ideals than any other person of my acquaintance." Inasmuch as our hope for the future is centered in our boys and girls, this is the supreme talent to be cultivated by youth leaders.
A few hours spent in the genial company of Ernest Neal are like a transfusion of joy into the arteries of the soul. That may seem an exaggeration but it is not. I shall always remember a September day in 1937, one of those "melancholy-saddest-of-theyear" days. A mystic, purple haze lay upon the distant hills, an Indian Summer hush was in the air, soon-to-die insects whirred their muted swan songs in the fading grass, doomed butterflies hovered listlessly over withering flowers, the autumn breezes whispered a solemn dirge over the lost summer time, and life seemed sluggish and sad. My personal perplexities loomed large and darkened my mind like a funeral pall. I glanced outside and 10. coming up the pathway was Ernest Neal bringing his kindly smile
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and friendly hand shake. When he was seated, I insisted on his spending the day and he accepted the hospitality of our humble home as though it were a precious gift. With wide-eyed awe, the children greeted the Poet Laureate of their state and found in him an understanding comrade who "chatted like a regular guy." There was no condescension or "talking down" to the boys. The conversation seemed to drift naturally into subjects of mutual interest. When the noon recess was over the boys returned reluctantly to school, but they talked for days afterward of the wonderful visit.
I shall always regret that I cannot remember in its entirety Mr. Neal's conversation that day. His deep, simple, kindly personality brings a calmness and rest to his listeners. Quite without effort I found myself speaking of the things that had troubled me sorely in the earlier part of the day and Ernest Neal spoke quietly and simply of the wise goodness and care of a God who protects us in spite of our erratic desires. "We long," he said, "to sail the restless deep, but the All Wise One, who knows the frail structure of our crafts, keeps us near the safer shore." He spoke of the soul and of God with the quiet conviction of one who has dwelt long a close neighbor to this great Friend, and, without knowing why, I felt myself lifted to a place where it was possible to see farther along the way and things were not so bad. The lions, if lions there were, would be chained by the way; life seemed hopeful and worth while.
My next door neighbor, seeing I had a guest, came in to bring a basket of grapes and remained to talk. She is a tiny, youthful looking creature, albeit the mother of five stalwart sons and three interesting daughters. Mr. Neal told her with naive candor that his eyesight was somewhat defective, but he would have taken her for a school girl. They talked of schools, music, her sons and daughters. Then, she asked him to read some oJ his poems, a request he granted readily and gave us a delightful hour. As you and I understand our own children best, so does the bard understand the progeny of his brain, and there was magic in the vividness of those poems as the poet's soul sang to the accompaniment of his written and spoken word.
Too soon the hour was gone and the poet rose to take leave with thanks for a glad day uttered with a sincerity that convinced me he had really enjoyed my simple home for awhile. He bade good-by
19

to the children as he passed slowly by them along the goldenrod bordered path; he paused to talk a few moments to my neighbor's grandfather who sat reading his Bible in the late afternoo.n shade, then he sauntered along the dusty country road toward the setting sun and home. Our day with a poet was closed, but the pleasure gained by his companionship is still new. It runs like a golden thread through the pattern of my days, and, like Woodsworth's "Daffodils," it flashes often on my "inward eye" and makes the solitude golden.
I think some day when the poet wends his way beyond the setting sun where Home is waiting, he will find nothing strange or new. Only the veil will be lifted, the portals that separate sordidness from ideal conditions will swing ajar, and he will enter the land whose glories he has embalmed in song so many years.
And so I lay this wreath of flowers at the feet of a poet. Our Poet! A real, live poet! I cannot describe his great gift, but I can tell of the living poetry of his friendly self, how he can lift people higher by his faith in them and by his friendship. This magnetic power is a wonderful mystery to me, one of those simple souls of whom the poet speaks so kindly-"a dweller in a humble Georgia cotton home," the mother of two "barefoot, home-spanked, country boys" whom I hope will be a blessing to the world, and two Georgia lassies destined, I trust, to prove "a perfume rare beside life's lowly gate." I only know that I feel the world is a brighter, happier place because Ernest eal has passed this way.
****
A APPRECIATIO OF POET LAUREATE NEAL
Having been a student under Mr. Neal in my high school days, and in after years having lived in his home town, Calhoun, I wish to add a word of appreciation of this gifted son of Georgia. His work as a teacher alone merits the highest honors we can confer. Hundreds of his former students all over the state think of him today as the one great inspiration that came to them in their efforts to obtain an education. We honor him too as a writer whose poetry we love for its tenderness and beauty. We do credit to our state when we honor this sweet singer, master teacher and inspirer of youth.
-ERNEST DILLARD, Dean, Middle Georgia College.
20

SONNET TO ERNEST NEAL
(Not for plaudits of a busy world he sings his songs; the music in his soul will out. He spreads his wings against the distant voidnow dull, now gray-and soars where paths of beauty lie. Enough to know the voice of ecstasy! One who will listen may recapture dreams once fresh as dawn, and gentle hope, and peace. A worthy Muse!)
Across the holy silence of the night The poet wafts his slender thread of song. The lonely hour like mist is gathered up To spill a single drop of silvered light. The tones, like autumn leaves with color teeming. Fall gently on a vision-hungry heart. The morning prayer and vespers are as oneAn anthem of a poet's golden dreaming.
He knows the secret beauty of the sky, And follows each departing sunbeam's motion; To the battered rose he gives a sweet devotion: It met the passion of the storm without a sigh. Stirred by hidden chords of consecration, The poet echoes beauty's revelation.
-EDITH FOSTER.
BESIDE THE WISHING WELL
Heiny Harrison, Publisher, New York City.
****
APPRECIATION OF ERNEST NEAL
By LELA FOSTER
My first contact with Mr. Neal happened in this way. He was a guest at the old Cecil Hotel, on Luckie Street, where I was at that time Public Stenographer. Mr. Neal was then perhaps in the zenith of his popularity as a poet and his poems were daily features in the Constitution and occasionally in the Journal. I typed for him many of these contributions, and this was no task, for I received many thrills of joy from Mr. Neal's quaint philosophy and
21

characteristic expressions. these one must feel in social contact; they cannot be transmuted thru my pen.
I have seen Mr. Nealon many occasions. in many different circles of friends. and I would mention these characteristics of his personality: he is never irritable or dogmatic. He is rather yielding in an argument, and is always at home anywhere and everywhere, in the seclusion of his own dreams and philosophies of life. He is never conscious of his unusual gifts and acquirements. Perhaps his humility is sometimes to his disadvantage, but none who ever knew him can say that he is a self-exploiter: but his talks on any subject are always interesting and entertaining to the extent the speaker himself is lost sight of.
To enjoy Mr. Neal to the fullest extent one must hear him read his own poems. He gives to them a deeper meaning and fuller interpretation than the reader gets from the printed page. This opinion of his poems is often expressed by those who. are fortunate enough to hear him bring their fu~l meanings tremblingly to life.
I have often thought that he would have been a great success on the stage. His manner, tone and appearance are as unique and artistic as are his euphon.ious phrases and his metaphorical use of words.
I have seen him slip away from the choice 400 to exchange jokes with the common crowd. I think Kipling's line expresses his philosophy in this respect.
"If you can walk with Kings. nor lose the common touch."
I consider myself fortunate in having the privilege of being Mr. Neal's typist, for to really know him you must come in closE' contact with him.
STANTON AND NEAL
The influence of Georgia's first Poet Laureate, Frank L. Stanton. is gracefully ackno.wledged by our second Poet Laureate. Ernest Neal. in the following lines:
22

SORROW
ever trouble trouble Till trouble troubles you." It's not a very human, But a proper thing to do; For I hardl y need to tell youI know you know the sameThe worst of all onr troubles Are the ones that never came.
What we oft mistake for troubles Are those foxes of the mind-
Disdainful Dread and frantic Fear, And Shame that sulks behind
They eat our grapes of happiness And leave us but the skin
With all the juicy sweet pressed out, And bitter pulp left in.
ow wouldn't it be wiser To laugh a fox away? With Faith and Hope a-raggin' him The little beast can't stay. Then let's to work and smiling! This old world's hard to beat: "You get a thorn with every rose, But ain't the roses sweet."
**** ER EST NEAL AS A TEA HER
Recently, when Miss Lulie Pitts, of Calhoun, Georgia, requested Ernest Neal, Georgia's second Poet Laureate, and a lifetime teacher, to give the names of some of his noteworthy pupils, he replied: "My teaching was confined. for the most part, to short terms in rural communities, so my efforts did not run along the line of presidentmaking or stimulating ambitions unduly; but I always took time out to stress the basic virtues of manhood .and womanhood, such as
23

lead to good citizenship-honesty, kindness, industry, the Golden Rule for a theme song and a well-rounded, useful life for the goal. Of all the thousands I have taught, I cannot recall one whose life was a failure: a truly believe-it-or-not record and, naturally, I like to claim some of the credit."
Mr. Neal's career as a teacher began in 1876, at Corbin, twelve miles north of Dahlonega. and ended in 1927, at Oakman, Gordon County, Georgia. As to his most noteworthy former pupils, Mr. Neal, offhand, called the names of more than two-score teachers, doctors, lawyers, manufacturers, industrialists and others-men and women-but insisted that there are hundreds of others of equal worth. He is pardonably proud of the fact that he taught A. E. Lashley who, for fifteen years, was a member of the faculty of Young Harris College, attained front rank among Georgia educators, was State senator, and the father of Georgia's First Lady, Mrs. E. D. Rivers.
****
MY HERITAGE
I love thy red old hills; their rugged reach To low sand dunes where wild waves cry;
The lyric sound of surf upon thy beach; Thy soughing pines on mountains high.
When twilight sifts thru evening shadows gray Thy hills are guardian angels unto me,
And boats agleam in the Georgia bay Are dream-laden ships in a heavenly sea.
I love the silent language of the moon; The sweet still songs of stars at night;
The hush of morn; the glow of moon. And a Georgian sunset's glorious light.
Thy wealth of sky and sea, my Georgia-land, A heritage of 'dreams bestow on me.
Tho vague and half-expressed, these to command No title ever conveyed in simple fee.
24

GEORGIA
Georgia, I love thine every foot of groundNot as a stranger loves, but as a son That feels within his arteries run The blood whose ancient fount in thee is found; Whose tide against the Spaniard surging bound, And, warming to the savage tribes oppressed, Evoked sweet love from Tomochichi's breast.
Georgia, my race thy history has made; Of English blood I ever shall be proudThe blood that knows no death nor shroud. The heart that planted Bonaventure's shade Died not with the hand nor perished with the spade; It thrills the living Anglo-Saxon race In every breath and time and place.
'Twas English blood against a foreign kingResenting selfish tyranny and wrongThat fired thy soul and made thee long For liberty-thy name a hated thing; But nothing in a name could ever swing Georgia to a George whose selfish ends Would crush alike his enemies and friends.
Of the So.uth thou art the Empire State And set 'twixt mountains and the sea. While runs thy course with Right's decree, "Wisdom, Justice, Moderation"-motto great-
"Non sibi sed alliis," blest is thy fate; The blade of war rejoices in its sheath, And peace and plenty smile thy skies beneath.
Amerkan I am; would wars were doneIt's greater still to be a Georgian, too; And as I gaze into her skies of blue, I pray yon peaceful, glorious-shining sun May see in ports of earth no threatening gun; Then, cannons hushed and battle flags all furled, The Dove of Peace shall nest throughout the world.
25

GEORGIA SCENES
Oh, for the gift of Bobby Burns. 1'd write a song in praise
Of Georgia scenes and Georgia homes In simple southern phrase.
'Twould touch and charm the souls of men Like his own Scottish lays.
For sure 'mong Scotia's rugged hills No purer life can be
Than blooms on Georgia's varied slope From her mountains to the sea. or marsh nor cove less charming are Than bight and glen and lea.
Where Oostanaula's flowing tide Makes music to the ear,
And fertile valleys spreading wide Among the hills appear,
You'll find the Georgia cotter's home And all its inmates dear.
Here Saturday night is much the same As on the Ayr or Clyde;
The Holy Book whose "heavenly flame" Lit Scotia's ingleside
This hearthstone shines, and Jesus' name And love and peace abide.
The bairns, or chaps, it matters not Whatever name we give-
Perhaps of these, one little tot May in the White House live,
And for each scolding that he got Ten thousand cheers receive.
God bless the barefoot country boyThe home-spanked, prayed-for kind-

That catches bird notes in his heart And sun-beams in his mind;
His pants uncreased, he'll make a man By Nature's law refined.
In field with flaky cotton white, Or green with graceful waving corn,
In honest toil he finds delight And knows no task to shirk or scorn,
But welcomes rest that comes with night To limbs by faithful labor worn.
****
Sweet, gentle sleep. How soft, how soon Thy mantle falls upon the farm.
When katydids hum their drowsy tune In dewy woodland's sheltering arm,
And the mellow light of full-orbed moon Floods the scene with dreamy charm.
This is the hour when from his tree The mock-bird's varied song is heard;
With sorrrw melts or charms with glee Beyond the reach of poet's word.
What notes. What trills. What ecstacy Floats from the soul of that kingly bird.
The scene must change-the rosy beams Of morning now light up the sky;
Sweet Rose awakes from pleasing dreams. And blue-birds chirp from trees near by,
"We're glad you're up! To us it seems Tlle day comes not 'til you ope your eye!"
Dear playmates of the birds and flowers! My Georgia girl with face so fair,
These friends among thy garden bowers With music fill and fragrance race
Thy tender heart, and heavenly showers Mature truth embedded there.
27

Sweet Rose knows not the far-off town Where fashion queens and show girls reign;
Where Wealth and Want, with iron frown, Alike mete out less joy than pain,
To dupes of pleasure clad in velvet gown, To hungry, half starved slaves of gain.
Yet say not that her life's obscure, It opens to the vaulted sky.
God's out-of-doors her world secure, In Virtue's field her pathways lie
Thru pastures green, by waters pure, And up the mountains reaching high.
****
ACOOCHEE
Long years ago, in the evening shade Of the beautiful mount called Yonah, acoochee dwelt, an Indian maid, In the tent of her sire, Kanonah,
In that woodland wild, when she was a child, one knew her bu t to love her;
For the charms she wore were such as bore The angels watching above her. Bright angels watching above her.
II.
And this maiden loved as few can love The brave young prince, Chattahoochee,
But the Chief had sworn by the lands above None ever should wed Nacoochee, His daughter, the fair Nacoochee.
And this was why the light of her eye Shone on cheeks all ashen and sober,
As the stars at night send a misty light Thru the lonesome sky of October, Through the leaden sky of October.
28

III.
And thus it was the Princess sighed As she left the tent of Kanonah,
To meet her Prince and become his bride On the top of the mountain Y onah, On the grand old summit of Y onah.
Her heart beat high, as nearer the sky, So darkly bright above her,
And now 'tis passed, she's happy at last In the fond embrace of her lover, In the warm embrace of her lover.
IV.
The sun had set, and bright the stars In heaven's vault were shining;
Kanonah, the chief of many scars, In his tent sat sad, repining, In his tent sat lone, repining.
With grief oppressed he smote his breast, And swore by all his power
That naught could save the daring brave Who had robbed him of his flower, acoochee, his wigwam flower.
V.
Uprising then he grasped his bow; And. up the mountain flying,
He reached the lofty summit, 10. He hears acoochee sighing, His lost Nacoochee sighing.
"Why, Maiden, sigh when love is nigh? To thy tender heart no stranger;
The spirit light that puts to flight, All thoughts of care and danger. All dreams of care and danger."
VI.
These soft words her lover spoke, And spake no more forever;
29

Even while his voice the stillness broke, Kanonah grasped the quiver, Kanonah seized the quiver,
Withdrew a dart, aimed at the heart Of the daring Chattahoochee;
The arrows gleam, in the moon's bright beam, Falls on the eye of Nacoochee, The dark, soft eye of Nacoochee.
VII. "Oh, spare his life." the maiden cries.
To her lover's bosom clinging. But the cord is loosed. the arrow flies,
A dirge on the night wind singing, A dirge on the night wind singing. The poison dart pins fast her heart To her lover's bosom core; And, face to face. in Death's embrace They are joined to part no more; In Heaven they'll part no more.
****
COHUTTA TOWN
To Cohutta town. Cohutta town The mountain roads run up and down; Churches, mill, stores and hallTwo dozen homes, but that's not all; A school there is, and to and fro Through mud-red roads the children go.
'Tis true the meadows are as fair Around Resaca-anywhere; And at Varnelles and Tilton, too, September sky's as soft a hue, But at Cohutta to and fro Through dust-gray roads more children go.
At Cohutta town, it can be said, The pa~ is buried with its dead;
30

The present lives--her gold-en light Is shining on each hearthstone bright; The Future smiles when to and fro Through milk-white roads the children go.

*

**

COHUTTA

(A Perfect Night)

Where late the storm-king. blust'ring, snowing, His raging wrath against the mountains hurled.
The north-wind, hushed, has ceased his blowing. And stillness deep enfolds a white-clad world.
The midnight moon in queenly grace and splendor Looks down on calm Cohutta's hoary peak:
The silent stars, her children bright and tender, 'Mong drifting clouds play hide and seek.

The day was cold and dark with sadness; Tonight peace lights with joy the land and sky;
Over Cohutta's brow bright clouds, in gladness, Like ships of Heaven, go floating by.
Just out my window casement lies enchanted A beauteous landscape robed in white:
For sweeter draught no thir ting soul e'er panted Than this I drink from a perfect night.

Footfalls of angels in the silence tinkle, Like frozen music seem the distant spheres:
Light fairy hands upon the snow-sheet sprinkle Shining star-dust of the vanished years.
Undreamlike dreams. too high for man's attaining, Over my visions flit, half-hid, obscure.
Cohutta calls. This turbid. waking life is waning. And night's deep charms my soul allure.

Oh, God. 'Tis sweet to live in thought and feeling! To dream vague truths in things of Thine we see;

31

Fond nature smiles, Thyself but half concealing, And loving her, we love and worship Thee.
Tonight my glad heart looks and linger Where dreams have homes on mountain height;
Cohutta's snowy peaks are Earth's white fingers That point to Thee this perfect night.

*

**

YO AH
I.
o Muse that designed to loos the Pythia's tongue,
Nor scorned the aged hag in Delphic shrine, Where erst a rustic maid in measures sung Appollo's will; vouchsafe this harp of mine One strain from cords attuned by touch divine, And modern bards disdain the Heavenly ine, Thou cans't, 0 Muse of Song, a suppliant guide
Thru paths that lead to heights where Truth and Dream abide.
II.
And thou, 0 potent erse by Spencer wrought. Steed formed and fashioned for the Faery Queen. Thy measured pace hath borne majestic thought 'Mong Alpine peaks and many a glorious scene Where archaic shadows fall the lights between. Thou courser loved by Byron's vagrant Child! My visions grasp thy mane, o'er thy neck to lean. If haply, it shames thee not to be beguiled
From thine accustomed heights to paths obscure and wild.
III.
Beneath the mountaIn s ever beauteous crest, Along old Yonah's slope, the journey lies, Above Nacoochee's vale, hid in a nest Of tree-clad pinnacles that 'round it rise Above the plain, like geni to the skies.

32

Here let us pause awhile to bathe the soul In rapture over the scene that meets the eyes; For nature never did more gorgeous scroll
Than these entrancing charms of land and sky unroll.
IV.
ot Cintra's mount, nor Cashmere's gentle vale; Not Geneva's lake, nor Danube's soft blue tide;
ot Circassian citron grove, where the gale Fans dusky beauty's cheek at eventide;
ot Zambezi's rocks, where the waters glide In torrents that from cliff to jungle leapNot these and all this wonderous world besideOut-charm this unsung, wild, magestic steep
About whose rugged base ten thousand beauties sleep.
V.
Oh, scene transcendent. Magic mystic maze. Kaleidoscope of ever-varying hue. The summer sunset paints with golden blaze, While over the eastern slope, in hazy blue, The rising moon pours forth her soft light, too. The kiss of hastening night and lingering day Commingle in the mellow melting view 'Till the shimmering gold and silver gray
In somber twilight shadows melt and fade away.
VI.
And now 'tis night. and in shimmering sheen Of moon, full orbed, and glorious evening star The Chattahoochee trends his way between Yon banks, whose willows trace but do not mar That silver scroll adown the valley far. Enchantment lingers here. and mystic ties Unite me to the glorious moon-lit sceneThe smiling vale, the peaks that round it rise-
While star-beam nerves connect my spirit with the skies.
33

VII.
Oh, voicdul silence. Broodings over me steal! On thee, my soul. my solemn musings dwell. Thee all things hide; yet, all things thee revealAll that to archangel ever yet befell. Or demon dared to dream in depths of hell. Or man on sin-curst Earth hath wroughtThou spark of God! Thy scintilations tell Of star-lit realms where I may read His thought
Nor cease to be until His wondrous universe IS naught.
VIII. Whence earnest thou, immortal essence? Whence These half-wake recollections of a day Beyond the morn when thou wert ushered hence Within this fragile tenement of clay? Art thou of universal Soul a single ray Caught in environments of Time and Space, Eternal and immortal only in the way That matter ceases not? Tho waves erase,
The ever-crumbling rocks to other forms give place.
IX.
This Earth, about whose crust a soft light glows From all the stars that grace the midnight sky. Doth tell in stone-writ words of nature's throes: Of solar fires and perished forms that die 'Mid earth-quake shock and seething waters high. Thus woven in the soul--deep .woven-run An evidence that ever brighter grows;Instinctive threads of truth, like star-light spun,
Proclaim its origin from God, the central sun.
X.
Between this rugged mount we call Today And yon Tomorrow's bright alluring steep. Somewhere. somewhere, the summons comes to lay This mortal down again with Earth to sleep. But when the stars have ceased their watch to keep

The never-dying soul shall still explore In realm of Dream or Truth the ocean deep Of its own mysteries; tho on this hither shore
Dark clouds arise to thwart, and threatening thunders [-oar.
****
My boatman comes! No frown doth mar his face; No war-like garment wraps his kingly form, But peaceful robe. He rescues me; in his embrace I fall asleep; and sheltered from the storm. My life is wafted from the boistrous shore. No pain; no grief: The heavy shadows over me steal; The night grows dark; and yet, I questions not the
morn. Once in my mother's womb I slept; now-as then-
I feel No fearful horrors. longing to be born
Into a brighter. higher life when this is gone.
****
THE LAND OF THE CHEROKEES
Have you heard of the land of the Cherokees, With its wonderful streams and beautiful trees?
Of its flowers abloom, and the wild perfume That floats like a dream on the evening breeze?
Have you heard of Echota. the capital town. And the brave old chief with feathery crown?
Of the warrior band and the pow-wow grand In the light of the moon when the sun goes down?
Far away in the past this quaint land lies. And around it the mists obscnre arise;
It is only in dreams we may hear the shrill screams Of its eagles afloat in their native skies.
35

But its rivers glide on in rhythmical flow Through fields of today, from the weird long-ago;
The cold Chickamauga, the slow Connesauga, Like their musical names, gurgle soft and low.

From the gold-bearing hills comes the rich Chestatee, Through the mountains to the north breaks the Hiawassee,
And the romping Ellijay joins the bouncing Cartekay To frolic in the rapids of the Coosawattee.

In the laughing of the ripples of the sweet Salacoa, In the falling of the current of the silvery Toccoa,
In the roarings of Tallulah, and the splashing of Yahoola, Are the wild and varied volumes of a never-written lore.

And we listen to the song of the sad Etowah; In his voice is a sob, a refrain from afar.
While the rough Chattahoochee makes love to In the shade of the Vale of The Evening Star.

acoochee

Than the moans of Oostanaula no dirge can sadder be, For he heard the parting groans of the banished Cherokee.
Thus in music shall roll the Indian's proud soul As long as his rivers flow into the sea.

* *. * *
THE CALL OF THE SOUTH
From the sweet sunny South, the realm of romance, A region renowned by story and song,
Where the hues of the rainbow tremblingly dance On flower and fruit all the year long:
From the sweet sunny South where cotton makes white The field once crimson with battle-shed gore,
And the blue-bird nestles with calm delight In the mouth of the cannon, hushed evermore;
36

From the sweet sunny South where mansions arose With Phoenix-like magic from ashes of war.
And time has made friends of brothers, once foes, And healed forever the national scar;
From the sweet sunny South, where factory smokeProud banner of industry-floats on the air
Over cities where once dread war-clouds broke And melted to ruins in battle's red glare:
From the sweet sunny South, God's favored clime, Comes to the world a loud welcome call.
Joy-ringing bells, in musical chime, Are telling of happiness found here for all.
** **
AUGUST I GEORGIA
Softly, sweet with dreamy hours, Comes the summer's wanton queen:
August, robed and wreathed in flowers, Lounges on her couch of green.
June and July, tender smiling, . Joyous shone on fields of toil:
And, with gentle love beguiling, Wooed the gifts of generous soil.
Now their languid sister. glowing In the charm of land and sky,
Heir to rest and things a-growingFruits mature and crops laid by-
Bids us rest, and resting. treasure Blessings in her soothing light:
Dreaming day-dreams. finding pleasure In her voices of the night.
Drowsy August, foot-sore mortals With thee rest in gentle peace:
In thy flower-trellised portals Hearts from sorrow find surcease.
37

Take of me and all the nation Thanks and praises to thee due;
Queen of Summer and vacation, 'Neath thy smile is a dream come true.
****
OCTOBER IN GEORGIA
How gorgeously clad is October! Oh, month of all months of the year!
How queenly, yet pensive and sober, She saddens her smile with a tear!
In psychic communion she binds us; Her spirit commingles with ours,
And lost in her charms, we find us Enwrapped in her soul with the flowers.
Out from the sordid and leaden, Transmuted', we ride with the breeze-
Away from the flesh-pots that deaden, To feast with the hills and the trees.
Our souls on the mountains we pillow; Our couch reaches down to the sea,
And we find in the spray of the billow A glorious drapery.
Enmeshed in a world o'f beauty, We are one with the golden-rod.
Oh, to dream and to love is a duty. And October's a Dream of God.
****
NOVEMBER
November lured me out todayAnd, Oh. what wonder met my eyes.
In field and fen a-hidden lay My youth's lost paradise.

'Mong withered leaves my feet sank deep, And all around was ashen hue
Of goldenrods in death asleep \Vith violets the springtime knew.
o marigolds gleamed in the grassThe grass itself was cold and dead; An icy lake that shone like glass Reflected cloudlets overhead.
In strange contrast with leafy mold, Came visions of the springtime light;
I saw lost youth a page unfoldLike morn in shadow of the night.
Thru clouds a golden sunlight shone And touched my brow with fond caress;
And I alone, seemed not aloneIn gray November's loneliness.
****
HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD TIME
Oh, bursting buds and odors sweet! Oh, woods and fields and skies.
Oh, everything, joy-laden Spring, Charmed by your love-lit eyes.
You bring me dreams of long ago, A sun-lit flowery clime;
A magical maze of gladsome days In the home of my childhood time.
Like a stream from the dwindling snow My sun-warmed spirit creeps
Through melting cares to vanished years Where dreaming Memory sleeps
Lapped in the sweets of spring And smoothed by the tinkling chime
Of music that floats in sweet bird notes In the home of my childhood time.
39

Away with the wisdom of years! I'm young and happy again;
The south wind's mood steals into my blood, My soul into songs of the wren,
And, with all the sweet voices of spring, Is afloat in a sun-lit clime
'Mong flowers to rest and build her nest In the home of my childhood time.
****
THE SWEETEST SO G
The sweetest song that ever was sung, Do you know by whom and when.
It was not from the lips of an artist flung For the praise or the gold of men. ay; not from the opera's gilded stage, or even from the sacred choir,
Has come the song of every age Most potent to inspire.
In a vim-clad cot from the world apar~, Under the star-lit sky,
A mother sings from a mother's heart A mother's lullaby.
The sweetest child in all the land, Do you know whose child and where? ot the poor rich child in a mansion grand, With its pride and worldly ware,
But the rich poor child in that humble cot, Under the star-lit sky,
Who hears that song and forgets it not, A mother's lullaby.
The grandest man under the sun, Shall I tell you whence he came? ot at the top was his life begun,
40

ay; not with a father's fame. But he caught a glimpse of Heaven above,
From the home 'neath a star-lit sky, As he drank with her milk a mother's love
And heard her lullaby.
The queenliest woman Earth ever knew, Did she grace a worldly throne? ay; not so; but a mother true, With God and Heaven her own,
She cradled her babe in a manger bare, Beneath the star-lit sky,
And angels joined in a chorus there To Mary's lullaby.
****
MY PINEY-WOODSY GIRL
Way down in Southern Georgia Where blows the ocean breeze,
And moss, in festoons hanging, Adorns the cypress trees,
Across the Di'xie Highway Bright sandy road lets pass,
With many a little by-way White ribboned through the grass;
Where vines of yellow jasmine And honeysuckle curl,
I found among the the blossoms My piney-woodsy girl.
CHORUS
My piney-woodsy girl. She sets my heart a-whirl.
I'll never forget the day I met My piney-woodsy girl. I loved her eyes, her golden curl; I named her my South-Georgia pearl
I'll ne'er forget the day I met My piney-woodsy girl.
41

She's fairer than the fairest Of all the flowers that grow,
And to me she is the dearest Of God's things here below.
Her hair is like the sun-light, Her brow like marble stone;
And from her eyes a love-light Soft shines for me alone;
Her lips are like two rubies, Her teeth are purest pearl.
With pinks her cheeks are blushing, My piney-woodsy girl.
You may talk about your fairies With light and airy wing;
Of moon-lit isles enchanted Where siren voices sing,
But life in dear old Georgia Down by the rolling sea
In sugar cane and pinder field Is sweet enough for me.
There joys of earth and heaven Like angel wings unfurl
About a nymph in flesh and blood. My piney-woodsy girl.
***
THE HEART OF A ROCK
When war-smitten Georgia in dire desolution Lay trembling and bleeding 'neath the enemy's rod;
And brothers were foes in a then-severed nation, Now united again by the goodness of God;
When the sweet Sunny South in ashes was lying. And pale Pity wept at Folly's rude shock
Stone Mountain looked down on the dead and the dying. And tragedy smote e'en the heart of a rock.
ow History's Muse, a-weeping in sorrow, That hate and perversion e'er blotted her leaves. A memorial seeks that would give tomorrow The truth that the hand of destiny weaves;

Beside her the sculptor's genius is breaking, While demons of danger and disaster mock;
At the touch of his hand naked truth is awaking And leaps in the light from the heart of a rock.
Whatever has been, a nation of brothersLooking back on the past, its right and its wrong-
\Vith the mantle of love the war spirit smothers, But honors war's heroes in sculpture and song. o orth and no South, save in proud recollection, Through ages to come one people shall flock
To the mountain to read, in the light of reflection, The lesson that comes from the heart of a rock.
War's heroes are martyrs, en wreathe them with glory; But war is a hell that never should be. ot with big armies, but heart-throbbing story, Honor peace-loving Grant and home-loving Lec. o envy or hate, no ignoble emotion The pathway of peace ever shall block:
To salute not the flag with love and devotion Would shatter to atoms the heart of a rock.
****
A GLORY DEPARTED
The mountains above the village, With armies of trees sublime;
Titanic oaks and chestnuts, Sentinel monarchs of time.
For centuries had they stood therePlanted by God's own hand,.
But man with his axe has felled them; For greed had need of the land.
Now gone the kingdom of beauty, Where's the wealth can pay
The cost of producing the splendor Torn from the mountains away?
43

I weep in fond recollection Of charms that over me hung;
The trees on the mountains whispering, Each quivering leaf a tongue.
They spoke in tones primeval Secrets no more to be heard;
Only the woods could tell them, They melt at touch of a word.
. ***
TO OUR BOYS
"Idleness, the devil's shop; Ignorance, expensive crop"-
Sayings old and true. Heed them, my boy, today, Profit by them while you may; Listen to your conscience say,
"There's much for boys to do."
Ask the bum with bloated face What his first step to disgrace-
Loafing on the street. Others went to school to learn, Ambition in their souls did burn, To him who dared his books to spurn
Idleness was sweet.
Learn to labor and to wait; Trust in work a.nd not in fate-
No such thing as lucky star. By your acts you rise and fall; Honor, Fame and Glory call; But their portals close to all-
You must push the gate6 ajar.
44

MACK
Think what you may, for man and beast There's nature's social union
Through which a dog, to say the least, With the human holds communion.
Dog Latin's deep, too deep for speechIt never can be spoken-
But greater truth than words can reach It tells by sign and token.
A sniff, a sneeze, a brightening eye, Or bark deep welcome baying;
A paw upheld to shake "goodbye," A parting wish conveying.
Old Mack's a collie-brave and boldWe've romped and played together;
True comrades when the days are cold And friends all sorts of weather.
He smiles and laugh. his pearly teeth Through curling lips a-showing:
Or poses with his paws beneath His chin, with look so knowing,
Then wags his tail in friendly way That never leaves me guessing:
For words themselves could never say One-half that he's expressing.
He loves three children I adore Jule, Rene, and Mary Helen;
And 'tis a joy to watch these four, Their hearts with rapture swelling,
Play hunting games and circus, too Till Grandma's broom is showing.
Then Mack's tail wags, "I wish she knew What dogs and boys are knowing."
"And poets, too," my heart replies, Responsi.ve to the glances
He casts on me from honest eyes As out the door he prances.
****
45

And now the children are in bedPerhaps in dreamland playing-
I write the verses you've just read. While Mack the moon is baying.
***
TO OUR MISSING BIRDS
The redbird will come to my window in spnng, And warble his wild, fresh notes:
The mocking bird even in winter will sing When a dream on the south wind floats;
The thrush and the wren, again and again Will sing ere the snow melts away;
And the fuzzy jaybird is bound to be heard In December as well as in May;
But gone from the land is the little joree. Once the source of my innocent joy.
And where, oh where can the bluebird be, The bird I loved most when a boy?
The sparrow still chirps from peep-o-the-dawn Till shadows of evening fall.
When chuck-wills-widow. all sad and forlorn, Responds to quaint whip-poor-will's cal!.
\1 histling bob-white with cheering delight Still gladdens his lady love,
While floats on the breeze from green woodland trees The sweet plaintive coo of the dove.
But gone from the land is the little joree Once the source of such innocent joy,
And where. oh where <:an the bluebird be, The bluebird I loved when a boy?
****
KILDEE
Over the marshy plain. Swift is thy flight.
Forth and back. again, again. Thru the lonesome night.
Hi

Soft and plaintive is the noteWild, and weird. and free-
Coming from thy little throat, Quaint and sad kildee.
Oh, with what feeling, rare, Floats my soul along
Out in the moonlit air, Captive by thy song!
Where the paim and bullrush grow On the watery lea
With thy song my fancies go, Magical kildee.
Borne on thy dewy wing Thru the darkening gloam,
All my thoughts go wandering With thy song to roam;
And the voices of the dead Seem calling unto me,
In a solemn chorus led By thy sad "Kildee."
Oh, thou minstrel of the night ~ Bird of gloomy age!
Emblem of the spirit's flight From its earthly cage!
When the Shadows hover low. Teach thy notes to me;
Singing through the gloom to go, I would learn of thee.
****
A FROGS A FROG
A Frog in low and marshy ground Where mud and trash in filth abound Did croak and croak in accents harsh
A sad complaint against the marsh.
47

"Ah, me!" said he, "If I could be Exalted to some lofty tree, No feathered songster of the spring, No nightin~ale could me outsing."
The rain poured down, the creek rose high, The frog was lifted to the sky.
The waters fell, the frog had lit Twixt limbs of lofty oak to sit. He tried to sing, but the breezes bore The same harsh croakings as before. Know this truth a frog's a frog, Perched on high or sunk in bog. A bird on the ground with broken wing Can look to the sky and a sweet song sing.
My moral is plain: It's better to be A bird on the ground than a frog in the tree.
****
LOVE'S EXCHANGE
If the wind give breath to the rose, The rose will the wind perfume;
If the sun the lily unclose, It gives to the sun its bloom.
It is Hke this with men: God's flowers and hearts are true;
Give them your best, and then Their best will come back to you.
****
WITHIN THE SHADOW
Within the shadow of the world A realm of splendor lies;
When half our globe through darkness whirls The banner of the night unfurls
And gleams with angel eyes.
48

Oh what is beauty but the glow Of love and truth and light?
Of dreams of heaven caught below In smiles of joy and tears of woe,
Day flowers and stars of night?
****
A MA 'S A MAN
Oh, would you know in this big world Who's really up or really down?
Then look not on the pauper's rags, Nor count too high the monarch's crown.
We measure men too much by thingsThe accidents of rank or birth-
The poor we scorn, yet all are kings That wear the crown of honest worth.
****
THE POETS SOUL
(In Memory of Robert Loveman)
o robin, bluebird, thrush and wren. o sweet fresh morning air!
o soft sunshine that warms like wine!
Was ever day so rare? You wreathe me with a magic spell;
In light and song you bring The soul of one who loved you well
And from you learned to sing.
'Twas in the grove where music thrills The jeweler of song
Caught in his breast the tender trills That to bird-notes belong.
Sing on, sweet birds! In cameos Of verse your notes he set,
And from the cloud the south wind blows He carved a violet.
49

o hazy hilli and towering trees! o bright blue-vaulted sky!
o moon and stars and all that breathes
Of love's infinity! Your heights and depths his genius sought
To find the unique gems Of which with master-hand he wrought
Poetic diadems.
He slipped away to slumber land And tears from baby's eyes
He strung into a pearly strand Of loving lullabies.
"Thus all my days were days of song," He sang, "till life's eclipse."
Then entered that immortal throng With song upon his lips.
0, friend of children, birds and bees, And "brother to the sun!"
Thou sailest now on broader seas Than mortal looks upo.n.
"The gulf below, the stars above; At morn the compass veers."
And Loveman's soul-a soul of loveSings with his angel peers.
****
BESIDE LIFE'S LOWLY GATE
There are lives that reach the heights supreme Where Fame and Glory call,
Their deeds are theme for poet's dream, Their praise is sung by all.
But I sing not a mighty name, Nor one of proud estate-
Just a woman pure who lives obscure Beside Life's lowly gate.
50

In the breath of sgring and its gentle st-ir Into bud and folia~t green
The God of Things revealed to her The beauty of worth unseen.
Hid beneath leaves is the violet fair, And such has been her fate;
But she has breathed a perfume rare Beside Life's lowly gate.
The world sees not the trellis beneath The vines that unto it cling, or cares for the cord that binds the wreath That encircles tbe brow of a king.
But the God of Things-He knoweth all, And oft what men call great,
In the light of His truth, is exceedingly small Besides Life's lowly gate.
God spake to her, and I did not knowIn my sins I could not hear-
But I saw his love in her life-depth glow Like a star in waters clear;
And I who was weary of the dayBlind worshiper of fate-
Thank God for the light that streams my way From out Life's lowly gate.
** **
SORROW
Within the cloud there is a power That brings forth beauty's form,
And pins the rain-bow. like a flower, On the bosom of the storm.
** **
TRUTH
Falsehood has a thousand tongues, Truth has only one;
But falsehood gone, truth moves on Eternal as the sun.
51

REFLECTIO S
Down on the village, sleeping still . As some old painting rare,
I gaze from off my favorite hill Through autumn's hazy air;
And here in retrospective mood I cannot choose but link
The chain of hours that thus I've stood To gaze and dream and think.
'Twas many and many a year ago, On a morning fair as this,
When first yon smiling scene below Enwrapped my soul with bliss.
How oft that smiling scene, since then, My inmost soul hath charmed;
And DOW I'm old, I feel again My spirit strangely warmed.
For all this wealth in simple fee Men struggle with a will;
Yet all the town belongs to me In the landscape from my hill.
'Tis sweet to think in life's decay That joys of heart and mind
May light the path to heavenly day And leave a glow behind.
****
IGHTFALL
Sad winds blow, Soft hues glow, The sky bends low 'Way out on the Western sea.
o setting sun. o day that's done!
You'll never come backever come back to me.
52

Shining far, 'Cross the bar, The evening star Illumes the brow of night. Sqon myriad gems, In diadems, Come a-crowning the darkCrowning the dark with light.
Life's brief day Fades away, And soft lights play Where shadows of death bend low. Hope is that star Across the bar, And soon shall the gemsThe lights of eternity glow.
****
EWSPAPER COLUMNIST
In recent years one of the brightest, happiest features of the Calhoun (Georgia) Times has been the column, "What Bubbles from My Spring," conducted by Ernest eal. Editor Roy McGinty, generously allowing us to re-print items from this column, we have selected the following:
BUBBLES
I'm forever seeing bubbles, Only bubbles from my spring;
By night, by day, they bead their way To burst in the songs I sing.
I'm forever singing trifles, Only bubbles of song I send
To burst somewhere in viewless air, Or else in the heart of a friend.
53

I dare to be a dreamer And life's brief span w~uld give
To write one song to live as long As truth and love and beauty live.
****
"BLACK MAMMY"
How fond recollection delights to recall The old plantation where my childhood was spent:
The stately old mansion. its parlor aFld hall, Where music and mirth so often weu blent;
The high-reaching columns, the long colonade, The myrtles, magnolias and lilacs abloom.
The locust and chinatree's exquisite shade, The mimosa dispelling its matchless perfume;
The pigeons a-cooing at peep 0' the morn, The swallows afloat in the soft evening sky,
The whippoorwill warbling a love song-forlorn And chuck-wills-widow's plaintive reply;
The flowers and birds in depts of the wildwood. The pond in the meadow where bright waters met,
Where scenes that delighted the' days of my childhood. And in fond recollections hang around me yet.
But dearer than these are the faces that gleam In memory's shrine of the living dead;
The time-broken circle's complete in my dream From Mother to "Mammy" who tucked me in bed-
The old Black Mammy, the dear Black Mammy, The blessed old nigger that tucked me in bed.
The last three lin~s of the above poem may be out of tune with the appreciation of young readers whose idea of plantation life in the old South has been gained through such books as "Uncle Tom's Cabin," Whittier poems picturing the horrors of slavery. and works of other prejudiced Northern writers. Even "Gone With the Wind," though a most deservedly popular noveL a masterpiece of story and descriptive writing, in which Margaret Mitchell excel
54

Alexander Dumas in revealing the passions, prowess and power of the merely human heart, does not claim to be a reflection of Southern ideals. It is only the very realistic story of a few individuals who found desolation that swept from the earth the only system of society in which the white man and the negro have ever lived in equal peace and happiness.
The onl y real is the ideal.
If my poetry this week suggests to the reader, as it does to me, snatches of half-forgotten songs, let me say no plagiarism is intended. Having been a teacher thirty-five years, I culled many wise and beautiful expressions from literature for use in the schoolroom.
Now I am 79, and these once fresh and thrilling fragments are in my mind like scraps of silver in a junk pile. In old age we have accumulated so much from others that our memori.es become universal. We may not distinguish original from acquired terms of expression.
****
YOUNG TEACHERS
I've traveled some, and in my round No brighter creatures ever found Than little "chaps" from seven to ten. They don't know much as grown-up men, But they find out where tbe blackbirds nest, Where worms are found and fish bite best, Where water-lilies love to grow And many things that I don't know.
The w.riter of this column knows that his verses fall short of poesy's true aim and attainment. Yet, his bubbles of song do nOl .'waste their sweetness on the desert air." Some of them burst with a thrill in the hearts of appreciativ.e readers. It is a great thing to have a circle of friends whose faces we may never see, but whose hearts we have illuminated with that indefinable something called poetry-the sheet-lighting of truth.
Anthologists and makers of text books for our schools and colleges have been li.beral with tbeir space and favorable comment
55

on selections from my pen. Some have asked me to select for them what I considered my most excellent short poems. This is like asking a mother to pick out her favorite child. These children of my poetic soul are equally precious to me, however discriminating my critics may be.
I know through what crucibles of thought These offsprings of my soul are wrought.
****
"MY CASTLE"
I. I live oli the crest of Cohutta
In a castle no mortal can see, And no tongue of the human can utter
What its height and its depths may be; For it reaches its golden turrets
Far above the eternal stars; Through its dungeon the mystic ferrets
To the hell-gate's horroful bars.
II.
Through the breadth of my castle-extending To the star-dust mist of its walls;
Through its length-in the infinite ending, Where the voice of its Builder calls..
Is the presence of Wisdom and Beauty Who descend from their heavenly height
Bringing visions of Love and of Duty To illumine the shadows of night.
III.
In my castle are millions of fountains; In the light of the sun they play,
But the grim and gloomy mountains Overhang with the clouds of grey.
In my castle are gardens of pleasure, All abloom in the clear, soft light;
There are caves where the cave-bats measure All the length of their da s in night.
56

IV.
Somewhere in my castle's the ocean, With its winds al1-asleep in spray;
Or a-ragiRg with hel1ish commoti.on. In a storm that is blackening the day.
There are creakings of hawsers a-warning And a ship al1 a-quiver in foam;
There are songs of the birds at morning, When the ship's in the harbor at home.
V. I'm a tramp. but am proud of my station
As ambassador to the hil1s, And a vagabond King of creation
When the sunset smiles and spil1s In the hal1s of my castle a treasure
All the vaults of the world cannot holdWhat mil1ions of wealth can measure
I n the coffers the sunset's gold?
VI. Oh. my castle is lit in the gloaming
With the light of the evening star, And wherever my feet go roaming,
And whatever misfortunes are, There's the goodness of God about me,
And he rides in the thunder's roll. God within, is the God without me-
And my castle the range of my soul.
****
The streets and parks of beautiful Calhoun are thronged with men and women from happy homes, their Gordon county farms, enhanced in value each succeeding year by scientific methods, joyous human labor, esthetic taste, religious and educational training afforded by country churches and country schools. Let us not forget that Our schools are the heart, the miRd, the character-the ideals of our teachers and not merely wood and brick reared into forms o.f beauty, however necessary these material advantages may be. Good mothers and good teachers, make good homes and good schools out of which come good men and good women.
57

BETTY HOBGOOD
If the truth must be told. 1'm in my second childhood;
My sweetheart's only six years old. Her name is Betty Hobgood.
Every morning just as I am leaving my dormitory beneath the roof for a cup of coffee and some doughnuts at a downtown cafe, Betty is leaving her home for schoo!' We often meet near the school grounds, always with an exchange of smiles and other little shows of mutual appreciation.
Sometimes she hugs me around the knees. I toop to lift her and her Shirley Temple doll in my arms.
a song ever heard From throat of a bird
Like the words from Betty's lips: No bee in the wild Than the kiss of this child
A sweeter nectar sips. There's something worth while
In Betty's smile
That money never can buy, For values of love Are measured above
And fixed by courts of the sky.
I is only a few moments I hold her in my arms-just long enough for the frost and snow of old age to melt in the sunshine of happy childhood. She brings back the buds and blossoms of early morn and evokes from me the sunset's radiant glow.
The school bell rings. Betty, responsive to the call, breaks from my arms exclaiming, "1 must go; see you tomorrow," and trips away to schoo!' I venture to say she is never tardy.
Bttty, this is my valentine to you, my little sweetheart. Clip it out of the paper and put it in your scrap book. If you have no scrap book, ask your mother to help you begin one with this little message of love....
58

"PIGS IS PIGS"
Old Grandpa sat in his split-bottom chair Not far from the kitchen door:
His face was worn and wrinkled with care, His heart was weary and sore.
'Twas a pitiable sight each day at noon To ee that lonely old soul
Trying to eat with a wooden spoon Hi soup from a wooden bowl.
Time was when a happier day he saw, But now he is feeble and gray
And must live with his son and daughterin-law
To feel himself in their way. He lighted his pipe when lunch was done
And puffed as he heaved a sigh. "Don't smoke," said Johnnie. his little
grandson. "That old pipe makes you cry."
Then into the woodshed Johnnie went. And with hammer. chisel and knife
Was raising a racket, at his work intent As if on it depended his life.
Grandpa cried. "You are going too far, What now are you trying to do?"
"I am making a trough for ... and Pa, When they get old like you."
****
POETRY AND PROSE
My thoughts and emotions usually bubble forth III rhythm and rhyme. But today no "airy nothings" come beading from my spring in search of "form and habitation." My thoughts just now are more about board and habitation.
A man can't write poetry and make a living, nor can he make a living and write poetry.
59

"Poetry is a good thin~. for folks tbat like that kind of thing. But not many folks like it," said Mr. Lincoln. He was right. In this hectic. age a writer may express himself to himself in verse and get thrills from its visions and cadence:s. But if he wants billsbank biNs-he must write prose.
Corra Harris said this: "If you wish to be popular with modern readers and make money you must write to please the cockeyed world." Her first great story. "The Circuit Riders Wife," was a sweet morsel to the "cockeyed" world and started her on the road that led to fame and fortune, though the book met disfavor of highbrowed critics and many preachers and laymen. It took nerve to write such a book at such a time, but she gave her readers what they liked, and cared not for the minority. The more unfavorable the critics; the more nu merous became her readers.
One regret of my life is that I did not know more of Corra Harris. Living only thirty miles from her home during thirty years, I never visited her pine-log cabin until just before her death. She was then in the hospital, but ber two wards, Bettie and Trannie, were very courteous to our little party. Mrs. Alton McDaniel. Mrs. Edna
F. Tate and the writer. Mrs. Tate, being a close friend of Corra
Harris and a frequent visitor. pointed out to us interesting household objects. at the same time quoting wit, humor and philosophy she had heard from the: lips of the gifted authoress in regard to the paintings, the bric-a-brac. and the many cu!ios sacred to Mrs. Harris as were the household god to their Greek devotees. I had met Mrs. Harris on only three occasions, but that was often enough to make me wish I had been among the thousands that made many pilgrim<lges to her beautiful home, to which the "cockeyed world" was always welcome. Like Sir Walter Scott, she enjoyed the week-end visits of her friends.
Caroline Miller has portrayed life of the lowly pioneers ef the piney woods section of Georgia. Her taste, subjects and style are not like those of Mr-s. Harris. but unique and impressive. "Lamb In His Bosom," and "The Circuit Rider's Wife" are decided contrasts, but each is a masterpiece of its kind, thGugh neithe-r is a book you would care to read a second time.
60

TO ELSANNE
(My Little Granddaughter)
Nothing in a name they say, I think it must be true,
For when I saw your smile today And baby eyes of blue
They called your name Elsanne and yet. My heart said Violet.
Now every bursting bud I see And every opening flower,
Brings back that cherub smile to me From the day's most golden hour
To every Violet I scan My heart says "Elsanne."
****
TO MARY JETER STARR Oh, the smile of Mary Jeter, When at early morn I meet her. Tome is even sweeter
Than the glad sunrise; For a sweeter light comes gleaming, O'er my sad fan<:y streaming.
From her love-lit soulful eyeS.
Those eyes each morn come bringing Such dreams as birds are singing And fragrant flowers are flinging
On the springtime's gentle breeze. Her voice rings with a meter That out-rivals "peter, peter"
The peterbird IS singing 'mong my trees.
*
61

A LIGHT FROM THE SKIES
When I'm all cast down And the world's cold frown
Is freezing me through and through, And the sky overhead Seems turned to lead
And the ground seems leaden too, lt is then, it is then, Sweet as song of the wren
Comes a baby's innocent coo, And a light from the skies In Elsanne's eyes
Melts all my troubles In blue.
****
IN THE HARBOR
An aged man with hoary hair, A little child played 'round his chair And clambered on his knee. The careworn face with heaven smiled; Like an angel laughed the child, As happy as could be.
Where life begins and where life ends, Near the Father's door meet these two friendsAnd each with empty hand. A soul grown tired of earthly years And one untouched by sins and fears Are near the golden strand.
And this is why the baby fair Loves to climb on Grandpa's chair To greet him with a smile. These friendly ships in harbor free, One nearing home, one bound for sea, Would furl their sails awhile.
.* * * *
62

ADDITIONAL TRIBUTES
APPRECIATION OF ERNEST EAL
By MARGARET F. DANIELL
Believing that if we have nice things to say about some one we should say them while he is living. I am taking this method of expressing my appreciation of Ernest Neal-what he means to me. personally. and to all the others here at the Georgia Baptist Orphans' Home.
Being in a pbsition to see and know reactions to the visits of various outstanding leaders to this home. especially those who speak at chapel service, I do not believe any of them have made a more indelible impression upon these children than Mr. Neal has made. He has held their undivided attention as he read his beautiful poems. the inspired words coming from the soul of a poet and drawing the minds of the childree together toward the one great Eternal Spirit.
Personally, I am thankful for the privilege of knowing Mr. eal and having him for a friend. Life to me has been made sweeter by occasional associations with this understanding spirit. We are sometimes prone to work our minds and nerves into a chaotic state. even over frivolous and unimportant matters, and to such an extent that we are not able to meditate upon the higher spiritual things or to consider eternal values. Under such conditions a call from Mr. Neal means resuscitation of the soul and a new prospectus for the future.
Thus. knowing something of the great depths of the life and soul of Ernest Neal. I value his work that much more. Through his poems I look into the hidden channels of life and feel the great pulse of our Infinite God.
****
A TRIBUTE TO ER EST NEAL
By MRS. W. FRA K WELLS
Mr. Neal was honor guest at a tea given by the G. S. C. W. alumnae in the spring of 1930 at the Atlanta Rhodes Memorial Building. There I met him. One of his poems. "Song to Georgia." set to music by Nell Womack Hines. was sung by the college glee club and a copy given as a souvenir to each of the attendants.
63

From that day, Mr. eal has been my friend. On the Sunday, following our introduction, he attended my Sunday Class, read for us "My Castle," and "The Land of the Cherokees." The young people were so delighted, they eJected him unanimously as an honorary member of the class.
Mr. Neal comes often to our home and together with my children and me enjoys the woods, wild flowers, and trees. Many of his most beautiful poems have been written in my library or in the swing in my garden. The first of these was "The Afterglow of a Happy Day" and the greatest is a long, unpublished poem which he has called "Inspiration." Almost every time he visits us he writes a poem commemorating some little incident or idea suggested by the conversation at our table or among our other guests.
My boys love Mr. Neal's stories about Indians, the animals on his father's farm and Old Mack, his collie. The "Thursday ight Club" of boys and girls who meet with me each week, hail with delight his presence. "Where the Moonshine Still Is Calling," and "My Lady at The Window" amuse them and they are also delighted with his more serious works.
My little granddaughter says, Mr. eal is magic. He can sec fairies everywhere and the flowers and birds talk to him."
Mr. Neal recites his poems beautifully; his voice is rich, resonant and pleasing. It is surprising how many poems of Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, Byron, Burns, and Shakespeare he knows. For hours. he can entertain and instruct. He seems fondest of lyric poetry and is unexcelled in his ability to write Spencerian verse.
My husband and his friends have discovered how well versed Mr. Neal is in politics and world issues. He improvises little jingles on public characters and ridicules delightfully the platforms and programs of politicians . . .
Mr. Neal is gentle, appreciative, helpful and kind. My friends and neighbors call on him and our community feels honored to have him a frequent visitor.
Many are the treasured moments I have had with my friend, when I sit at his feet and he tells me in measured metres the great truths he has learned in his eighty years and whispers the hopes he has of a life eternal. Mr. Neal is truly a great soul, a sweet singer of songs, a worthwhi-le friend, and companion.
64

SEVENTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY I thank God for this happy birthday. Sometimes I feel that life is a failure and I have done nothing worthwhile. But in the light of today's reflections I am swallowed up in the mantle of Love. I am happy. I feel so grateful to all my friends everywhere. I have not lived so long that nine-tenths of the people I meet on the street do not greet me with a cheering smile and a hearty good-morning. The remembrances, love and sympathy of old and young friends is one of the chief blessings of a long life in a small town. I shall not live to see "Beautiful Calhoun" a large city in which I can stroll all day without meeting familiar faces. I was born in Sparta-but what does it matter where I was born, or where I shall die? It's what we do or don't do between those events that counts for or against us. Some are born with a silver spoon in their mouths and die gnawing on one made of pewter; some babies eat out of a wooden bowl, but may live to eat from a silver platter. Yet, love 'for God and Man makes life a "me-rry-goround" and fits us for the citizenship of heaven.
65

; GAYLAMOUNT I
1PAMPHLET 1IIHDE1 I

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: Martu/ac/urei III :

eAYlORD BROS. Irte.: Syracul., N. Y. I Stockton, Coli!. I

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