The Yank and the Reb (and other poems)

THE YANK AND THE REB
(AND OTHER POEMS)
----BY----
LUCIUS PERRY HILLS
ATLANTA, GA. A. B. CALDWELL PTTBLISHING CO.
1917

TS
DEDICATION
To all the friends whom I have dearly loved. And those whose kindly words have cheered my heart;
To those who have my better nature moved By the sweet magic of some Heaven-torn art;
To those who, by the power on them bestowed, Or with the genius which to them was given,
Have lightened any weary mortals load, Or raised a fainting spirit nearer Heaven;
To all whose tender memories to-night, Like angel visitors around me throng,
The echo of those memories I write, And dedicate these whisperings of song. Lucius Perry Hills.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication .............. 3 Lucius Perry Hills A Sketch ........ 9
POEMS OF PATRIOTISM ........ 13-26 The Yank and the Reb ......... 15 Deweys Welcome . ......... 19 Song of the Rough Riders ........ 21 Song of the Yankee Tar ......... 23 The Two Veterans .......... 25
DIALECT VERSE ........... 27-60 When the Honeymoon is Over ....... 29 The Soiree Dramatique ......... 32 The Possum Legislature ........ 38 Hardshell Logic ........... 40 A Simple Mountain Love Story ...... 43 The Opera Encore .......... 45 How the Fiddle Sung ......... 49 Compensation ............ 52 A Day in Atlanta ........... 53 The Tramp to Florida ......... 59 Thoughts ............. 60
POEMS OF SENTIMENT ......... 61-83 My Mothers Old Steel Thimble ...... 63 Not Dead ............. 64 Mothers Boy ............ 66 A Curl of Golden Hair ......... 68 My Love and I ........... 70 Only Retold ............ 72 Orlean .............. 73 Maid of My Dreams .......... 75 My Angel Bride ........... 76 Grief and Faith ........... 77 Lenore .............. 78 Faiths Messenger .......... 79 Two Blossoms ............ 80 A Dream of You ........... 81 Lifes Tangled Threads ......... 82 Hopes Messenger .......... 83

HUMOROUS VERSE ......... 85-116 Poetical Courtship .......... 87 The Face Against the Pane ........ 93 Cassie B. Anca ........... 95 The Song of the Switch ......... 96 My Summer Lass ........... 98 The Janitor and the Goat ........ 99 The Poets War Brigade ......... 101 A Purgatorial Stunt Fest ........ 103 When the Office Sought the Man ...... 107 A Courtship of the Future ........ 108 My Message, and How It Got There ..... 109 An Evenings Entertainment ...... .111
FLOWER POEMS .......... 117-121 The Birth of the Violet ......... 119 The Passion Flower .......... 119 How the Easter Lily Grew ........ 119 Golden Rod ............ 120 Forget-me-not ............ 120 The Love Song of the Flowers ....... 121 The First Red Rose .......... 121
SONNETS ............. 123-128 Oliver Wendell Holmes ......... 125 A Sonnet for You ........... 126 A Memory of Her .......... 127 The Agnostic Orator .......... 128
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS ....... 129-141 Chimes of Memory .......... 131 The Pencil Pusher .......... 133 To A Little Beauty .......... 134 The Sea Shells Whisper ........ 135 God Help the Poor .......... 137 Autumn Glories ........... 138 A Creed of Preference ......... 139 A Wish for You ........... 141

LUCIUS PERRY HILLS A SKETCH.
The author of the collection of verse presented here was born at Bennington, in the State of New York, on June 16, 1844. During the fourth year of his childhood his father died, and nine years later his widowed mother succumbed in the bitter struggle for existence. Lucius, in his teens, went to work on the farm of a Dr. Moore.
In October of 1861, at the age of seventeen, he enlisted for service in the Tenth New York Volunteer Cavalry, and re mained under arms for his full term of three years, with the exception of six weeks in a hospital with typhoid fever.
After the war, Mr. Hills entered the University of Michigan, and by hard work and self-denial managed to support him self while completing the law course of that institution. Upon graduation he came to his brother, in Atlanta, and continued to make this city his home until his death here on the 9th of August, 1914.
In 1875 Mr. Hills was appointed route agent in the Rail way Mail Service, running between Atlanta and Charlotte, N. C. It was during his eighth year as a railroad man that he received injuries in a train wreck, and recovering there from, he resigned his position to take a place at the clerks desk of the Kimball House in Atlanta.
In this position he became better acquainted with his fel low townsmen and met many of the prominent people of Geor gia and other sections. It was in the palmy days of the his toric Kimbatl House, when business men, educators, states men the great and the near great, the politicians, legislators and lobbyists, office-seekers and hangers-on, made "The Kim ball" headquarters while in Georgias capital. The poets natural gifts as an entertainer soon became recognized, and thereafter for many years he was in constant demand among the promoters of social and charitable entertainments in the city. It was during this period that he began to compose original poetry for recitative purposes.
In the early eighties Mr. Hills made two trips to the North Georgia and North Carolina mountains, tramping alone and

A SKETCH
oh foot into theheart of a then almost unexplored region. Frequent letters of his experiences en route appeared in the Atlanta Constitution. The "Tramp," as he signed himself, acquired an intimate knowledge of the habits and quaint phi losophy of the mountaineers, made many friends among these little understood people, and conceived for them a peculiar sympathy and regard which he carried with him through life.
Mr. Hills spent his middle life in the work he loved best: on the lecture platform, during which time he traveled widely and made friends wherever he went. When advancing years had forbidden the strenuous trials and hardships of regular travel, the poet lived quietly in Atlanta, among a small chosen circle of friends, whose joys and sorrows he made his own. Shortly before his death he conceived the idea of returning to the "tramp life" for a while to renew the bygone joys of other days. He began a journey to Florida afoot in the winter of 1913, and finished the itinerary he had planned, that of a trip to Cuba, Panama, Trinidad, Bermuda, and West Indian localities, but he gave up a large part of the walking program before he had gotten far from his home. He landed from the steamer in New York a sick man, and was taken directly to a hospital. Eagerness to attend Grand Opera in Atlanta, however, caused him to leave his bed against his physicians orders, and hurry home. It was for the last time, and a few months later he passed away.
Among Mr. Hills poetical works in book form may be men tioned an early volume, "Echoes," which is now out of print.
In commemoration of a concert in Atlanta by Madame Patti, the author issued a booklet, "A Memory of Song," in which his impressions during the singers performance were set forth in verse. The booklet was later elaborated and pub lished deluxe with illustrations from oil paintings representing the scenes of the old familiar songs, "Old Kentucky Home," "Suwanee River," "Home, Sweet Home," "Comin Through the Rye," and other old songs. This volume made an imme diate hit, and enjoyed a wide sale. A collection of autograph letters preserved by Mr. Hills, contains many tokens of appre-
10

A SKETCH
ciation and esteem from rulers and nobility, statesmen, and men and women of letters in many lands.
This, the third volume to bear his name, is a memorial of Mr. Hills character and work. It contains the best of his published and unpublished poems those by which he de sired to be remembered. Readers will find many selections suitable for recitation, especially among the patriotic, humor ous, and dialect poems. Many of the verses have hitherto appeared in newspapers, notably in the Atlanta Constitution, and the writer feels sure they have made places for them selves already in the hearts of the reading public, which might readily be seen, if one were privileged to peer into the wellthumbed scrap-books still treasured in hundreds of homes.
"The Yank and the Reb" was written and recited for a gathering of large significance. The occasion was a national convention of the Grand Army of the Republic with many camps of the United Confederate Veterans as guests assem bled in Chicago, to observe the anniversary of General Ulysses S. Grants birthday. Exercises for one evening were under Mr. Hills direction, and among many splendid numbers by artists of national prominence, the authors recitation created the wildest enthusiasm. Afterward it was copied by news papers throughout the country.
The last piece in the book, "My Creed of Preference," Is a true interpretation of the authors mental and spiritual atti tude toward life and social relations. Among the directions for his funeral, he requested that some member of the O. M. Mitchell Post, G. A. R. of Atlanta, be allowed to read this poem over his bier.
"Friends and simple things, these were what he lived for," wrote someone who had known him. And this is true. If his life work contains a message, it is a message to the plain people, whom he loved. His words are simple words, his descriptions are quaintly direct, the emotions he plays upon are the common heritage of the race; there is nothing of the ornate, the abstruse, the obscure, in his writings.
Patriotism, loyalty, the old-fashioned virtues were his. Although he lived by a sternly uncompromising code, he felt
11

A SKETCH

a large sympathy for the weak and the erring. Although he held his own talents of small account, he was quick to recog nize ability in others, and many struggling young artists and
musicians have received encouragement and more substantial
aid at his hands. When so much of modern verse echoes the clash and the
turmoil of this dynamic age, it is often soothing and comfort
ing to turn the pages of a volume of such simplicity as will
be found here. That a few sad hearts may find comfort, a few weary souls be cheered and strengthened, in the perusal of the following verses, is the sincere wish of the editor.
It was Mr. Hills wish as set forth in his will, that his life
long friend, Major Charles W. Hubner, have charge of editing and supervising the publication of this volume. Major Hub
ner reluctantly asked to be relieved of the undertaking on account of advancing years, and the pressure of other duties.
It was with regret that the administrator of the estate of
the deceased, who is his nephew, dispensed with the able services of that gentleman, and with some misgiving assumed
the difficult and unaccustomed task. The editor wishes to express his sincere appreciation to
both members of the firm of Douglas & Douglas, attorneys, of Atlanta, for the loyal assistance they have rendered him in
issuing this memorial volume, and also in all matters con nected with administering the estate of his late uncle.
This cordial relation is the result of a long-standing friend
ship and mutual admiration between the author and the elder Mr. Douglas, and of enduring ties, established during child hood, between the younger Mr. Douglas and the editor.

Atlanta, 1916.

GEORGE B. HILLS.

POEMS OF PATRIOTISM

"THE YANK AND THE REB.
White fingers were strewing memorial flowers Where the fallen Confederates lay,
The boys who had fought neath the Stars and the Bars In their ragged old garments of gray;
And I laid a white rose on a grave at my side, As a token most tender and true,
To the courage of those who fought as my foes, While I had been wearing the blue.
Nearby stood a veteran, grizzled and bent, Holding close in his tremulous hand,
A tattered old flag that in many a fight Had led on his Confederate band.
And I saw tears gathering fast in his eyes, As he gazed on that battle flag there,
And folded it over the battle-scarred staff With a sad and reverent air.
Then one who had worn nor the blue nor the gray, Standing there by the graves of the dead,
With a sneer in the smile on his lips the while, In a tone of mockery said:
"Now look at that Johnnie who stands over there, Just caressing his shred of a flag,
And wiping the tears from his watery eyes At the sight of that tattered old rag
"This incident vxu supposed to have happened during Memorial Day ceremonies at a Confederate cemetery.
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POEMS OF PATRIOTISM
"The flag of a cause that he knows was unjust, And which all of its followers knew
Never represented a thing upon earth That was honest, or noble, or true;
A flag " "Hold a moment," I said, "if you please While I ask this one question of you,
And pray, where were you, in the Sixties, Sir, When the gray was at war with the blue?
"Not following where that flag led the way, Or youd surely acknowledge, I ween,
That it represented a courage as grand As humanity ever has seen;
Nor gallantly facing those legions in gray, Or you would most certainly know,
That none but a coward will eer cast a slur On a gallant and true-hearted foe.
"Ive stood on the line in full many a fight, Within sound of the wild rebel yell,
While those ragged old legions came charging along Through a hailstorm of bullet and shell ;
And my heart whispered then, again and again, Yes, as ever an honest heart must,
That never would soldiers do battle like that For a cause they considered unjust.
"I thought they were wrong, and Im thinking so still, For I am a Yank, dont you see;
But through triumph and rout, I had not a doubt They were thinking the same thing of me;
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POEMS OF PATRIOTISM
For the ranks of hypocrites never could boast Of soldiers who battled so well
Of those who could face with such courage and grace The breath of the battlefields hell.
"And I yield no jot of my soldierly pride, Or my love for the flag- of the free,
While bowing my head oer the graves of the dead Who fell fighting with Jackson and Lee;
And Im claiming the right of one in the fight Who supported his country and flag,
To honor the Vet with his eyes growing wet At the sight of his battle-torn rag.
"For tis proof of a soul thats loyal and strong, And that never will shrink from a fight,
But bravely defend to the bitterest end, Any cause he considers the right;
And I know henceforth hell be ever more true To the Union, the Stripes and the Stars,
Because his proud spirit will never consent To dishonor the Stars and the Bars.
"And if, in the future, my cynical friend, A foreign invader shall come,
And wars rude alarms call our heroes to arms With the sounds of the bugle and drum,
Then your sort once more, just as you did before, Far away from all danger may stay,
While battles are fought, and victories wrought By the sons of the Blue and the Gray.
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POEMS OF PATRIOTISM
"For then, staunch and true, will the Gray and the Blue, An army that never surrenders,
Still fight side by side, in their courage and pride, The Nations heroic defenders;
While there, mid the hell of bullet and shell, Oer the quick and the dead and the dying,
On the quivering air, victorious and fair, Old Glory will ever be flying."
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POEMS OF PATRIOTISM
DEWEYS WELCOME.
Ho! All ye listless, idle bells,
Clear out your brazen throats, And loose your iron tongues to strike
Their loudest, clearest notes; Prepare to clang, whereer ye hang,
In steeple or in dome, A ringing welcome to the chief
For Deweys coming home.
Ho! All ye grim, deep-throated guns, Ye black-lipped dogs o war,
That in these piping times of peace Have naught worth barking for
Prepare to roar along the shore, And oer the oceans foam,
A booming welcome to the chief For Deweys coming home.
Hist! All ye maidens of the land, With voices clear and strong,
Go teach your sweet red lips to sing Their most melodious song;
A song of welcome to the chief Who never more shall roam,
The idol of the nations heart For Deweys coming home.
Our Father, God, who evermore, Upon the sea and land,

POEMS OF PATRIOTISM
Holds shifting waves and winds within The hollow of Thy hand;
O, bring our hero safely back, To tread his native loam,
And let him hear the nations cheer That welcomes Dewey home.

POEMS OF PATRIOTISM
SONG OF THE ROUGH RIDERS.
When Lawton called his troops to arms that blazing summer day,
To storm the San Juan heights that rise near Santiago bay; The ready answer quickly came from center, left, and right, While North and South each sought to gain the forefront of
the fight.
Then Torals guns boomed from the forts, Cerveras from the fleet,
And down the slopes the rifles poured a storm of leaden sleet; But where the hell of shot and shell fell thickest in the fray, Our Teddy led his riders down by Santiago bay.
Joe Wheeler led the boys in blue, as once he led the gray, And where his dashing troopers fought no power could bar
the way; The livelong day the battle raged, and at the set of sun, The haughty Dons were vanquished, and the Spanish line
was won.
Old Torals guns were silent then, Cerveras guns were still, And on the town our boys looked down from each embattled
hill; While there upon the outer line, all rough and ready, lay Our Teddy and his riders, down by Santiago bay.
Theres glory for the general commanding in the fray, And glory for the gallant Joe who once had worn the gray, And glory for the rookies, for twas they who won the fight, And set Old Glory flying there, above the San Juan height
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POEMS OF PATRIOTISM
Then heres three cheers for Lawton, and three for Wheeler, too,
And three times three for all who fought so bravely and so true;
And heres a rousing tiger for the boys who led the way Our Teddy and his riders, down by Santiago bay.

POEMS OF PATRIOTISM
SONG OF THE YANKEE TAR.
Spring to the halyards, gallant tars, and man each swelling sail,
Once more our good old Ship of State is riding in a gale; A blast that for a moment made the vessel pitch and reel, Till the crew were called to quarters, and the Captain took
the wheel.
The clouds of war are gathering, the lightnings pierce the sky, And on the stormy sea the waves are rolling mountain high; But through it all our staunch old ship will keep an even keel, For Justice is our pilot, and the Captains at the wheel. The Captains hand is steady, and the Captains eye is clear, And where the pilot points the way the gallant craft hell
steer; The shrieking winds bring to his ears Humanitys appeal, And naught can veer the vessels course, while he stands at
the wheel.
Weve nailed Old Glory to the mast, its stars and stripes
unfurled,
A signal that all tyrants now must leave this western world. And to that signal every heart is beating, true as steel, For Freemen man the vessel, and a Patriots at the wheel.
With Human Rights for ballast, and with Justice for our guide,
With no battle-cry of vengeance, but a high and honest pride. Well fight the battle to the end, and make the nations feel That Yankee tars are heroes, from the halyards to the wheel.
Dedicated to William MeKmley, May, 1898.
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POEMS OF PATRIOTISM
So, with hearts and hands united, we will weather every blast, Until our good old Ship of State rides peacefully at last; Then every heart in every land, that beats for human weal, Will bless the crew that manned her, and the man who held
the wheel.

POEMS OF PATRIOTISM
THE TWO VETERANS.
Two old crippled veterans we, One of Grant, and one of Lee,
Just sitting here; One wore the blue, and one the gray, But we are comrades here today
Say, aint it queer? Each fought for what he deemed the right, Each did his duty in the fight, . As best he knew; But now we clasp each others hand, And firmly by the Union stand,
Both gray and blue.
One battled neath the stripes and stars, And one beneath the stars and bars,
In deadly strife; And while the two great armies fought, Each in the conflict fiercely sought
The others life.
But we have seen, with joy and pride, Our gallant sons march side by side,
All dressed in blue; And sires and sons will henceforth be To our proud banner, fair and free,
Forever true.
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DIALECT VERSE

WHEN THE HONEYMOON IS OVER.
Well, John, so youre tellin me, youre about to leave us soon, To go on a little weddin trip, an spend the honeymoon; So I spose youre happy as a bird that sings the whole day
through, An I reckon youve got no idee of ever feelin blue; But, my boy, I went that road myself, nigh forty years igo, An I got acquainted with some things that mebbe you aont
know; So jest let me give you some few pints about the outs an ins, When the honeymoon is over, an the humdrum life begins.
Them thar poets say that lovers most allers thinks they hears Their own little world revolvin to the music of the speres; All naturs full of melody, from the whistle of the breeze, To the warblin of the little birds, an the hummin of the bees; But when their ways begin to clash, an things dont kinder
June, That same world somehow or other gits to playin* out o tune, An their ears become familiar with the discords and the dins, When the honeymoon is over and the humdrum life begins.
Now, your wife wont be no angel, John, an if she were, I fear Youd make the most ongainliest match, to work in double
gear; So, when youre travelin side by side, if she shouldnt ketch
your pace, Dont go to rarin, an to swearin* that youre goin to quit
the race; But through all the journeys ups and downs, jest make allow
ance due,

DIALECT VERSE
For the many imperfections human naturs subject to, An youll soon strike up the even gait that giner-ally wins, When the honeymoon is over, and the humdrum life begins.
The matrimonial turnpike, John, has got some hills to climb, An colts in double harness wont pull together every time, For the one, perhaps, will want to run, when tother wants
to walk, Or one be pullin strong an true, while tother one will balk; An though you think that turnpike was jest made for you an*
her, Youll be strikin ruts an thankee-mams before youve trav
eled furr, An your ve-hicle is bound to git some jolts an jostle-ins, When the honeymoon is over, and the humdrum life begins.
You will find the fallow field o life chock full of stones and stumps,
An like every worker you will git your share of thumps an bumps;
For the critter will git fractious like, an you kin calculate Youll frequent find it powerful hard to plow your furrer
straight; Then when the hayin time comes on, if you feel inclined to
fret, An complain of Providence because the clovers gittin wet, Jest remember thats the time to fight your most besettin*
sins, When the honeymoon is over, and the humdrum life begins.
And sometimes when youve been all day a workin* out o doors,
Till you have to use a lantern light to do your evenin chorees;
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DIALECT VERSE
Then you come In tired an hungry, an set down to wait for tea,
If you find that things aint fixed jest like you think they ought to be,
Dont you grumble cause your little wife aint quite as spruce an neat
As she was when you sot courtin her on that old rustic seat; For perhaps shell have to wrassle with the kittles an the tins, When the honeymoon is over, and the humdrum life begins.
I suppose you kin remember how you used to spend your cash To git ice cream an keromels, an every sich like trash; Then yon never reckoned the expense, an if shed only smile, An put her little hand in yourn, an leave it there awhile, You would grow so soft an meller like, you vowed your very
life Would be a stingy price to pay for sich a darling wife; So dont grumble then at what shell spend for household
furnishins, When the honeymoon is over, and the humdrum life begins.
But, my boy, you allus make a little sweetheart of your wife, An be her tender lover through all the changin scenes of life; Try an help her bear her burdens, an youll find yourn lighter
too, An her smile when storm clouds gather!! be like sunshine
peepin through; All along the toilsome journey, clean to the very end, Make her your pardner, an companion, an confidential friend; Then youll find that little wife o yourn is heavens richest
boon, For shell make the humdrum of your life a lifelong honey
moon.
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DIALECT VERSE
THE SOIREE DRAMATIQUE.
When the voters of my deestrick, where the mountain laurels grow,
Sent me to the legislatur of old Georgia, dont you know, I reckoned twould be proper like, to go wandrin round
awhile, Sos to git some little notion about the city folkses* style; So I went up to New York upon a sort of jamboree, To visit my old friend, the Judge, an investergate, you see.
While in that metripolus His Honor took it upon him To show me round among the bung tungs, an put me in the
swim, So one day I got a billet dux, containin an invite To go to the Waldorf Castoria boardin house that night, To hear some furren artists that was a-goin to play an speak At an entertainment that they called a swarray dramatique.
Now I thought Id make them swells believe I was clear upin G
So I got a book and learnt to talk some parley voo frongsee, And I read the daily papers, to learn what critics say When discussin entertainments in a scientific way. His Honor gave me some pointers as to how I ought to act, He said that all I needed was to use a little tact, An when I didnt know exactly what I had ought to do, To roll my eyes, look powful wise, an jest exclaim
"Oo! Woo!"

DIALECT VERSE
H6 said of course that Id have to git some dress suit clothes to wear",
Cause it was goin to be a powerful rickashay affaif, So I went an hired me a suit which he said looked quite eclaw, An made me feel about as graceful as a scarecrow stuffed
with straw.
But when I got to the boardin house, I found that all the rest Of the gentlemen assembled thar were simularly dressed, Though they appeared to me as feelin more to home like
in their clothes Because they had been more ust to wearin of em, I suppose.
But the women folks good heavens an earth! Yo bet they war a show,
With ther dresses powrful short above, an mighty long be low,
As if theyd cut off from the top a yard o cloth or more Jest to Use fof what they called en train, to kick along the
floor. His Honor saw I looked surprised, an so he explained to me, "Why, thats what we Call full everting dress in swell sasiety," But for full dress it seemed to me a most doggone queerish
taste, When I could see a womans neck plumb half-way to her
waist;
But I jest bound I wouldnt give niy ignorance away, So I sashayed mongst the ladies with a sort of neglijay And told them all how proud I felt to be there among the
swell, An how becomih they all looked with their gowns Cut dis-
habelle.

DIALECT VERSE
I am sure they war delighted with my sang froid sort o style, For they greeted all my compliments with a peculiar smile; And I accidently chanced to overhear one lady say: "Aint His Honors friend, the Colonel, most delightfully
blashay!" Then His Honor brought around quite the finest girl Id sen, An presented her to me as Miss Mademaselle Blondine, An said he hoped that evening he could depend on her to see That his distinguished friend, the Colonel, didnt suffer with
ennui. But I told Madamselle she ought to make a cup-de-peed, At the idea that while with her, I could ever be ennuied. Well, by-and-by we brought our conversation to a close, A big, fat, bald-headed Dutchman, named Herr Wachtelheimer
rose, And said: "Mine friends, I haff der pleasure of introducing
here, Dose gread European ardists who dis evening vill abbear; And der first number on der brogram vill be a grand solo Blayed by Professor Patsonrootski upon the piano; But before he blays dot musics, I vish you to understand, Dot fine instrument he blays upon, it iss a Steinvay Grand Und if you should vant to ged you von, I dells you how you
can Come und led me sell id to you on the extor-shenment blan."
Then the Professor slowly rose, bowed a time or two, and went
Over to a queer three-legged catercornered instrument, Pulled out a sort of milkin stool, and a-settin down on it He walled his eyes up like, he war a-goin to have a fit,
34

DIALECT VERSE
Then for jest about ten minutes, or for nearly that awhile He pounded them ar ivories in a most emphatic style, And when he reached his fi-nal-ee he came down with such
a crash That it seemed to me hed tear that old pianer all to smash.
Now I dont understand such music, but all the same you see, I thought Id show Miss Blondine how scientific I could be, So I clasped my hands, drew in my breath, and jest exclaimed
"Oo! Wool Dont the Perfessor play with a most exquisite tec-ne-cue! And how delicate the shading of each trill and tremulo Down through the de-cre-cendus, to his pianissimo, While his forti passages are like the mighty peoples cry, Or, as we Latin scholars term it, the grand nuxvomoki."
Then Herr Wachtelheimer rose again, with an impressive air, To introduce the next performer, one Monsieur Tragedaire; And said: "We have here this efening, one who haff inscribed
his name High up upon the monument of histrionic fame, And who, for your endertainment, in his wonderful manaire, Will giff an impersonation of his greadest charactaire." Then from among the artists, a weasley little Frenchman rose, And struck what I reckon you would call a high dramatic
pose, And said: "Yes, it iss very true zat I am one great actaire, And zat ze whole world ring wiz ze name of Monsieur Trage
daire ; Yet I am proud zis evenaing, zat I have come here to speak Ze production of ze great Shakespere, King Richards soli-
leke."
35

DIALECT VERSE
Then he jest humped up his shoulders, made a corkscrew of his knee,
And itt a queer French gibberish, spoke Richards Soiiloque. Now as Monsieur was a Frenchman, it was plainly to be seen I mtlst surely sing his praises to Madairiselle Bloridihe; So I said: "Madamselle, I owe Monsieur a compliment, He has the divine inflattis to a very large extent, An when it conies to spbutin* Shakespere, hes mighty hard
to beat, For in that Richard piece of his he jest got there with both
feet." Madamselle looked pleased and said: "Colonel, you do so
tickle hie, You make your criticism in such an apropos lingue," And I smiled back at her and said: "Ah, Madamselle, oul^
oui!"
Then the German gent who had the barren spot upon his head,
Arose once more, and in his own peculiar manner said: "I haff der bleastire to present Senorita Donaberry, Who iss a famous artiste of Delsarte elocutionary; And who so kindly haff consendted dot she vill now recidte A most beautiful new ptiem, Curfew Shall Not Ring To
night.* " Then Senorita took the floor, lookin peart as peart can be, In a Grecian robe de nuit, with hair fixed a la fricassee, Ahd she spoke that dinged old chestnut in aft Irish brogue,
by gum, An Contorted like some feller in a gym-a-nasiufn.

DIALECT
When that gal quit elocutja bout that blamed old curfew bell,
Herr Wachtelheimer went to her, and shook her hand a spell, And said: "I congratulate you on dot piece you speak tonight, For as you electrocude id twas completely out off sighdt." Then I whispered to Madamselle, "Now jest twixt me an
you, Wouldnt it have been a stunner if twas out of hearin, too?" But she frowned and said: "O Colonel, when of ladies you do
speak, You must not be making your remarks so very sarcastique." Then I gpt scairt for fear I might get myself into a fuss From the way I have of using words that are ironimus; So I lowed I wouldnt linger till they closed their repertwar, But slipped off from Madamselle without bidding her bonsr
war An you bet the next time I want to go on a jamboree, An old Georgia mountain shindig will be good enough for me.
37

DIALECT VERSE
THE POSSUM LEGISLATURE.
About legislator5 meetin time, I left our settlement, An went down to the capital, for I war powerful bent On seein how them politishiners war goin to legislate Onto some important matters appertainin to the state.
First I heerd them in the lobby with their secret whisperin, How closin business up too soon would be a shameful sin, So they thought twas best to kill some time by gittin up a
spat Bout the frost upon the simmon, an the possum gittin fat.
The Guvnord sent a message full o chunks of common sense, With recommends to save the state dishonor and expense; But they all allowed the season for sich trifles wasnt pat, While the frost was on the simmon, an the possum gittin
fat.
The hones voters of the state had raised a powerful storm, Insistin that the convict laws was needin some reform; But the members said constituents might go to Ararat, For the frost was on the simmon, an the possum gittin fat.
One feller moved a bill to give more money to the schools, An keep.pore folkses chillun from a-growin up like fools; But they reckoned that that warnt no cash to hep the pore
mans brat While the frost was on the simmon, an the possum gittin
fat.
38

DIALECT VERSE
Then there war bills for temperance, an* bills for womens rights,
An bills for stoppin lynchins, an one for legalizin fights; But thar wasnt nary ghostly show for any bill but that Bout the frost upon the simmon, an the possum gittm fat.
So they all kep workin hard at doin nothin ever day, Till one member ups an moves a bill for raisin of their pay; Then they all struck up a chorus: "Now we know whar we
are at, For that pole will reach the simmon, an well git the "possum
fat."
Now I reckon them legislators wont git no business hump, Till about the time for Gabe-riel to blow his final trump, Then I hope theyll all jine hands an jump into the devils
vat, Where the heat will roast the simmon, an fry out the possum
fat.

DIALECT
HARDSHELL LOGIC.
Oh, the mountains of old Georgia Thats the only place for me;
The doggone best place to live in Anybody ever see;
Air is allus fit for breathin An the waters fit to drink,
With a little dash Q moonshine When you give the proper wink.
All the air is full o music, Mockin birds an whippoorwills,
An the whistle of the breezes In the trees among the hills,
An the splashin an the singin Of the waterfalls an rills,
An the gurgle of the licker Runnin from-the moonshine stills;
An theres just a slosh o beauty Over hill an dale, you know,
Where the gorgeous rhododendrons An the mountain laurels grow.
Ever* one lives free an easy, For thar aint no rushin here;
Folks work hard at doin nothin For the most part of the year;
Jest a-settin in the sunshine, Or a-layin in the shade
Tis the greatest land fer restin
That the good Lord ever made.
40

DIALECT VERSE
Gos? I go to meetin Its nigh on &\ mile from here;
But thats np great shakes o walkin For a longrlegged mountaineer.
An I Jove to lead the smgin With thi$ snorous voice o mine,
With 3 timbre thats as pitchy As a knot o Georgia pine,
An which is most harmonizin In its variatin tones
With the sympathetic tribble Qf my sweetheart, Sally Jones.
Parson is a Hard-shell Baptjs An hes some sot in hi way,
But thars ope thing sure for sartfn He aint preachin jest for pay.
Haint got no store o 1arain An his sight js njther dim,
But he banks on inspiration For to be a-leadi? him.
NOW an then he makes a blunder, Or he reads the text out wrong,
But hell fit the sermon to it An he follers it along,
An no college theologic Thats a preachin in the town,
Could make it seem more logic-er Than that old Parson Brown.
I remember how, one Sunday, Parsoq opened up the book,
Put his finger on a passage, Gave it jest a passing look,
41

DIALECT VERSE
Then said: "Beloved brethering, I shall speak to you today,
An I hope you all will listen Clost to what I have to say,
For the text of my expoundin An writ in this Book divine,
*Is: The vial of the temple, Hit war wropped around in twine."
Then he went on to explainin How in Bible days of old,
The priests had a sacred licker That war preciouser than gold,
Which they kep up on the altar In a vial, night and day,
Wher the people cquld look on it When they come in thar to pray;
An knowing it war so precious, That if it should be lost
Thar warnt nary way of gittin No more at any cost;
Why, the priests they took that vial With its licker most divine,
And to make it more securer They jest wropped it round with twine.
"An brethering, the example Of them careful priests that day,
Has come down through the ages, An been follered on the way,
Still increasin an improvin As the years went rollin on
An shows to we-uns here today Jest how come the demijohn."
"The veil of the temple was rent in twain."
42

DIALECT VERSE
A SIMPLE MOUNTAIN LOVE STORY.
Stranger, it seems while you and I Have been talkin here, you know,
Youve sot my memory travelin Down the trail of long ago,
To the time I seed Marier, On a June day bright and clear,
Plowin out the weedy corn rows With a little muley steer.
Her old dress war made of humspun, And her feet were brown and bare,
And the mornin" breeze war playin With the sunshine in her hair;
While her strong clear voice came floatin Like sweet music to my ear,
With its "Whoa, haw, gee, gelong thar, You ornery little steer."
I jest stood and watched her plowin Through the corn rows for awhile,
Her bright eyes were all a-twinkle An her red lips wore a smile,
Till before I hardly knowed it She had laid my pore heart bare,
Plowed a furrer right plumb through it, And planted roses there.
So I courted her that summer, Till the chill November breeze,
With them artists, frost an sunshine, War a-techin up the trees
43

DIALECT VERSE
With a b)aze of golden glory Over all the mountain side,
When we jined our lives together, Apd Marier war my bride.
We war married, an I brought her To this old log cabin here,
Wher weve lived an toiled together, For nigh onto forty year;
We have shared the joy an sorrer That came to us day by day,
As lifes shadders an its sunshine Chased each other on the way.
We ha^e both grown old and feeble, And Mariers sunny locks
Are a-fadln to the color Of the gray moss on the rocks;
But her eyes yet hold their twinkle, And her lips are smilin still,
And her love lights up the pathway
As we travel down lifes hill.
And so, stranger, every evenin When I bow my head in prayer,
I jest raise my voice to heaven While I thank the Father there,
For the day I seed Marier In the June-time of the year,
Plowin out the weedy corn rows With her little muley steer.
44

DIALECT VERSE
THE OPERA ENCORE.
I took a trip down to Atlanty, nigh twenty years ago, An a city chap I kndwed ast me to go aft see a show; Twaf a sdrt 6 singitl circus that they called aft dpefay, With a little primmer dansu-ess for dancin the ballet.
When we went in to the ticket gent, my pardner says, says he: "Jest givfe me the two best seats you got, down in the orchard
tree." But I didnt see no trees inside, of peaches, plums, or pears, But a doggone lot o people settin in long rows of chairs.
The women was dressed Up mighty peart, exceptin jest a few That waf settift in some boxes right In dverTjodys VleW; "They war so White ah scant o clothes, that they looked to
me, by gum, Like some Venus statues I had seen down in a museum.
The mitsicianers they played awhile, an then the curtain riz, And the sight I saw upon the stage jest set ftiy brain d-whiz; A lot b gala whose dresses had a cjueerish sort o trick, Of conimencin kind o latish like, an eiidin rather quick.
Pardner said that was the chorus, introducin the ballet, Add they sting and marched around the stage in Quite a
pleasin way, Till the little dancin gal waltzed in, a-spinnin like a top, Whirlift round, and round, and round, and fdtmd, jest
like she couldnt stop.
45

DIALECT VERSE
And you can bet your bottom dollar, that primmer dansu-ess Jest took the rag clean off the bush with her scantiness of
dress; For I vow she didnt have on scacely any duds at all, Exceptin round her waist, a sort of blue lace parasol.
But good laws, them people didnt seem to mind the thing a bit,
An pardner said she war makin of a most tremenjous hit, When the bald-heads down on the front row begun to clap
an shout, To see her standin on one toe, tryin to kick the ceilin out.
Well, after that ballet an chorus had danced and sung a spell, They all went marchin off the stage, an a Miss Madamselle, With her lover chap come in and sung a seesaw sort of song, First the one and then the other, jest a-humpin it along.
Then they had a sort of huggin match, and a kind o kissin spree,
Till a big fat chap comes rushin in, as mad as he could be; An sung cusses at Madamselle with sich a mighty roar That his voice fell down the cellar stairs, and rolled along
the floor.
Then he drew a big long cheese knife, whirled it round a time or two,
An went right for that lover, like hed spit him thoo an thoo; But Madamselle rushed in between, with all her bloomin
charms, Give one piercin screech, an tumbled right into her lovers
arms.
46
J

DIALECT VERSE
Right at this time the curtain fell, an the people clapped an cheered,
Raisin the doggonedest racket that my ears had ever heered, Till I ast my pardner what they meant by sich a blamed up
roar, An he lowed that singin war so fine, they wanted an encore.
So bimeby the curtain riz agin, and Miss Madam-azelle Come a-bowin and a-smilin, and the music played a spell Then she sung a song of "Home, Sweet Home," so tender like
an low, That I thought one of the heavenly choir war singin in that
show.
An I reckon anyone might think that Im a-tellin lies, But Ill swar that music brought the tears a-streamin from
my eyes; For her voice jest seemed to reach my heart, an* wind itself
around, So flutterin, an soft, an silky, like a spider web o sound.
An while I sot thar an listened like some feller in a dream, I seemed to hear the ripplin water in yander mountain stream; The soft rustle of the autumn leaves, the murmur of the
breeze, An the chirpin of the robins in the branches of the trees.
Then a picture riz before me of this old log cabin here, Where Ive lived on corn and bacon for nigh on to fifty year; But while I war a-listnin to that er little show gal sing, 1 wouldnt have give this cabin for the palace of a king.

DIALECT VERSE
An when at last the singin ended, I tetched my partners sleeve,
An told him as how I reckoned it war tirtiC tot tat to leave; For my soul war runnirt Over with the music 6f that song, An I wanted to git ont o doors, an carry it along.
An now, ever sence that evenin, when the sun is sinkin low, While thfe summit of old Sharp Top that shines with his dying
glow, I jest bow my head an listen, till I altriost seem to healThe music of that same sweet song, still a-ringih Iti my ear.
And Ill tell you, when at last my time to leave this world has come,
If I chance to git a ticket to the New JefUsatefaij All Ill ask uf> thar In Paradise, is jest for standin room, While I hear that show gals angel sing hefr sbflg of "Home,
Sweet Hoflle."

DIALECT VERSE
HOW THE FIDDLE SUNG.
Say, boys, you know that city chap thats ben totin me around;
To see all sorts of sights, an hear almost every kind of sound; Wal, when I war down to town last week, he tuk me out
ag"in, For to hear a high-toned fiddler chap play on a violin; Leastways I think they called it some such highfalutin name, But good laws, twarnt nothin but an old red fiddle all the
same; Howsomever, if you chaps had heerd that fiddle sing, youd
swore That you never heerd no instrument could sing like that
before.
The fiddler came onto the stage with a pleasant sort o smile, An stood strokin an a-pattin that old fiddle for a while, Like it war a livin critter, that could feel an understand A language that he war talkin by the tetchin of his hand; Soon he raised it to his shoulder, an then he laid his chin In a sort of a caressm way, down on that violin, Jest as how a tired little child might a-laid its head to rest, On the soft an soothin pillow of a lovin mothers breast; An he shet his eyes a minute, in a dozy kind of way, Like twar night, an he war jest a-goin to fiddle in the day; While I follered suit, an shet mine too, for music allus
pears To give me a queerish sort o1 sense of seein with my ears.
,

DIALECT VERSE.
Then the feller went to fiddlin, kind o lazy like and slow, And the strings begun to whisper with a music sweet and low, Like they couldnt help from singin, but sung quiet like to
keep From arousin up the dreamin world too sudden from its
sleep; An then purty soon I seemed to see a sort of misty light Creepin slowly up the eastern sky, an pushin back the night; While the birds began to twitter in a hesitatin style, Jest experimentin like, to see if it war wuth their while; But by-and-by when the summits of the old Blue Ridge begun To show ravelins of light round the edges of the sun, Why then the whole indurin chorus jest turned to with a
vim, And sot all the world rejoicin with ther airly mornin hymn; While the fiddler drew the music from them fiddle strings,
so fine, That doggone me if I didnt think I heerd the sunbeams
shine.
Then I seed two lovers courtin in the shadder of a tree, An they war jest about as spoony as lovers git to be; I seed em whisprin secret like, bout tother, that, an this, An ther heads kep drawin closter, till bimeby I heerd a
kiss Not one o the kind that pops out with a sudden plunk an
thud, Like a mule a-pullin of his foot from old noth Georgy mud; But a lingerin, sweetness, long-drawn-outish kind o kiss, you
know, Like the fellerd tuk a powerful holt, an couldnt let er go;
50

DIALECT VERSE
It sounded some like a whip-lash, jest before you hear it crack;
But it lasted ruther longer, an it ended in a smack Which set my old lips to tinglin with the very sort o fire That ust to tickle em sometimes when I went to court Marier.
\ Jest then the fiddler turned the tune, an I seed a black cloud
rise, Like a widder*s veil a kiverin* the bright face of the skies; The wind turned in to howlin like twas a risin harricane, An the birds left off their twitterin, an it begun to rain; I could see the lightnin blazin, an I heerd the thunder
crash, An fer a while it seemed as if the world was goin to smash.
But right thar the music changed agin, the black clouds rolled away,
And left the dead sky curtained with a dismal sort of gray; The wind was mouning through the trees, with sich a lone
some sound, That I felt as if ther warnt another livin soul around; Then a church bell began tollin for a spent that had fled, An somehow rother I seemed to know a little child war dead; I seed a open grave, an a babys coffin settin thar, An I heerd the mother cryin while the parson said his prar, Then the sexton war a-lpwerin* the coffin in the ground, An I heerd the dirt fall on it with a dull, heart-sicknin*
sound, While that fiddle war singin sich an agonizin strain, That it seemed as if the universe war moanin with its pain; All creation turned to weepin, an I could a-swore, you know, That I seed the tears a-droppin from that quiverin fiddle bow,
51

DIALECT VERSE
While all the crowd that sot thar listenin jest gasped an held ther breath,
Till the music in that fiddle sobbed, an sobbed itself to death, An the world went into mournin as its sperit riz on high, To go on, and on forever, serenadin through the sky.
An I tell you fellers, if that thar choir a-singin round the throne
Should ever ketch the echo of that wanderin sperits tone., It will hush its song awhile, an give ther golden harps a rest, While from ever chamber window in the mansions of the
blest, A boquet of angel heads will be a-stretchin out to hear The sweet music of that serenade ring through the heavenly
spere; An- should them ar cherubs ever 1arn what instrument on
earth, Sung the airly mornin anthem at that serenader*s birth; I reckon that for once theyll do a powerful human thing, For theyll envy ever one that heerd that old red fiddle sing.
**
COMPENSATION.
He who by any kindly word or deed, Assists one weak and struggling soul to rise,
Not only helps another in his need, But lifts himself still nearer to the skies.

DIALECT VERSE
A DAY IN ATLANTA.
When I war most down to Atlanta, Trampin from the old Blue Ridge,
My autermobile friend, he met me Crossin of the Peachtree bridge;
An rode me in to town a-whizzin, So it nearly took my breath,
Dodgin in an out permiscous, Till I war nigh skeerd to death.
He lowed while I war in the city He war goin to be my host,
An take me with him to the places Wher* Id see an hear the most;
Said he wished I could stay longer Than a single day an night;
But if I must be in a hurry Why, of course, it war all right.
Then he jest gimme a contraption Called a kodak camery
Lowed it would take the pictur*s Of the sights along the way;
He expounded how to work it In the proper way, sos when
I should git back to the Blue Ridge I could show whar I had ben.
Then we went crowdin mongst the people Up to a big store place, where
They kept the high-toridest fixins Of the things that men folks wear;
53

~WI
DIALECT VERSE
An I rigged myself out frightenin Like I war wallerin in wealth,
Or war a sort o Rockerfeller Jest a-trampin fer my health.
When I war dressed in my new riggin Lookin like a doggoned sport,
We went tourin the boardin houses On the most bung-tungest sort;
Went first to one he called the WinecoflF, A most queerish name, I think,
For I didnt hear no one coughin, Nor git no wine to drink.
They put us in a little cage room, Histed us from floor to floor,
Till we war standin on the roof top, An could view the landscape oer;
I seed that rock they call Stone Mountain, An old Kennesaw, as well,
Where, they tell me, back in war time, Sherman went to raisin hell.
So, we went on from one to tother, An they took us all around
From the roof top to the cellar, Which was two stories under ground;
Thar war some they called sky-scrapers, But whether they was big or small
I jest pinted my kodak at em, An tuk picturs of em all.
54

DIALECT VERSE
When it had come round time for dinner, Pardner took me to a lunch
Where we et victuals a la carry, An* drank some probition punch
That didnt have no sign o dashin Of the good old mountain dew
They make up home in the Blue Ridge Without payin revenue.
When Id et all the a la carties An the bill war bein paid,
A doggone colored nigger waiter Brought me a bowl o lemonade,
An I was on the pint o drinkin, When he whispered, with a grin:
"Boss, dats jes some lemon water Foh to dip yo fingers in."
But I pertended not to hear im, An with a knowin smile,
I drew the bowl up nigher to me, Like I knowed how all the while,
An swashed my hands round in the water, Like I was quite up to date,
Then wiped them on a little towel That war layin by my plate.
After the a la carty luncheon We went to the matinee,
A sort o vauderville performance Without any kind o play.

DIALECT VERSE
First ther war two doggoned Hebrews That war advertised fer wit,
An they thought they war some funny, But I couldnt laugh a bit.
Thar war some jugglin* an some dancin An some singin that war fair,
An a lot o fool monerloggin That would make you tear your hair;
Some white men painted up like niggers, Some Dutch, Irish, an what not
But seemed to me the hull performance War a doggoned piece o rot.
For all the time I war a-thinkin Of that time, so long ago,
When I fust tramped to Atlanty An went to a operay show,
Where my soul got souzed in music, An my eyes war runnin oer,
While I heerd Miss Emmer Abbott Sing her "Operay Encore."
We went to dinner in the evenin* Which war queerish like fer me,
For when Im up thar in the mountings Noons our dinner time, you see;
Pardner said wed take it easy Down to the Imperial,
An he brought along fer compny A mighty purty little gal.
56

DIALECT VERSE
He ordered up fer us most sumptuous From a printed card menew,
Wher twas a la this, an a la that, Stid o jest plain roast an stew;
But I had 1arnt some few pinters From that luncheon we had et,
So I didnt shock our girlie With my mountain etiquet.
Then my pardner tuk me to a club-house Where the college chummers meet,
An ever feller that war in ther Says, "Come, Kunnel, its my treat"
An when we all had irrigated, An were jolly, jest enough,
I spouted mountain poems to em Which they said war bully stuff.
From thar we went autermobilin* Round the White Way part o town,
Skeerin the pedestrianters When we nigh on run em down;
Then we took in movin picturs Which war like mericles to me,
For everthing thar war gyratin Jest as lively as could be.
An so we went from one to tother Till my head war in a whirl,
So I couldnt tell my sweetheart From the movin pictur" girl;

DIALECT VERSE
An things kep gittin more confused Till at last I told my host
That I had best be turnin in Twar to-morrow mornin most.
So he tuk me to a boardin house Of the swellest sort, you know,
An said, "Put the Kunnel in the bed-room Where the bride-groom fellers go!"
But I protested strenuous, An I says to him, "No, sir I
I aint no travelin honeymoon, Im a durned old bachelder."
Well, I got a good nights sleepin Took my breakfast a la cart,
Give my friend the goodbye hanshake An was ready fer the start;
So I lef the town behint me, To proceed upon the way,
An take a little winters jant Down into Fleriday.
58
i

DIALECT VERSE
THE TRAMP TO FLORIDA.
Well, I have ben livin* now, nigh on three score years an ten, Which accordin to the Scripturs bout the limit of most men; But Im some full p ginger yet, an I wouldnt be surprised If I do a few more little stunts before Im Oslerized.
I was raised up in the mountings, an Ive tramped em in an out,
Seein ever* nook an corner of the country round about, Tell Ive sorter tuk a notion that it wouldnt do no harm To go nosin round some other parts of Uncle Sams big farm.
My city friends ben tellin me, that in this here land of ours Thers a state that all the hull year round is jes chock full o
flowers; So I lowed Id leave the mountings, an turn my face that
way, To jest take a little winters jant, down into Fleriday.
That thar feller said hed like to take me down in his ma chine
A doggone autermobile wagon thats run with gasoline; Said that it could beat the railroad by the National Highway, An* where twould take me a week to walk, hed land me in
a day.
Well, Ive nothin* agin railroads, nor agin autermobiles, Nor agin no sort o vehicle thats travelin on wheels; But I rather reckon that Ill have a much more home-like feel, To go hikin to the land o flowers on my old leg-mobile.
59

DIALECT VERSE
The injins run with muscle power the good Lord give to me, That never needs no crankin fer to start it off, you see, An my sparkin apparatuses wont have no sort o hitch, Nor ther wont be no doggone blow-outs to dump me in the
ditch.
Twill be easier, I reckon, than climbin a mounting trail, But I wont aim to break no speed laws, nor git myself in
jail; Nor race Billy Pace-on Weston, with his sixty mile a day, For Ill be trampin jest fer fun, not pedestrainin fer pay.
An when I git down to Fleriday among them howlin* swells, Livin in the boardin houses they call alley-cart hotels, Ill sashay round with the bung-tungs jest as peart as peart
can be, An theyll doggone soon find out ther5 aint no chigger-bugs
on me.
***
THOUGHTS.
Thoughts are but the echoes of the hearts emotion, Whose shifting tides forever ebb and flow,
As calms and storms upon lifes troubled ocean Bring to each soul its happiness or woe.
60

POEMS OF SENTIMENT

MY MOTHERS OLD STEEL THIMBLE.
While rummaging a basket, filled with relics of the past, I turn them idly one by one, until I find at last, Wrapped in a piece of homespun cloth, and laid away with
care, The dingy old steel thimble that my mother used to wear.
Oh! What a flood of memory sweeps in upon my soul, As that old faded covering I carefully unroll; Till, dim with the dust of useless years, I see before me there, The battered old steel thimble that my mother used to wear.
Rough with the toil of mother love, in busy days of yore, It was the only ornament those dear hands ever wore; And tenderly I cherish it, this treasure rich and rare, This precious old steel thimble that my mother used to wear.
Companion of her widowhood, her faithful friend for years, Made sacred by her patient toil, and sanctified by tears; No costly gem that sparkles on the hand of lady fair, Can match the old steel thimble that my mother used to wear.
Within a quiet church yard she has slumbered many a year, Yet in this holy hour I seem to feel her presence near; And hear her benediction, as I bow in silent prayer, And kiss the old steel thimble that my mother used to wear.
The memory of that mothers love has been a beacon light, To guide my wayward footsteps in the paths of truth and
right; And so, the key to Heavens gate, if eer I enter there, Will be the old steel thimble that my mother used to wear.
63

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
NOT DEAD.
They said That she was dead, And our wild grief Sought vain relief In sobs and sighs, And tears that burned the eyes, And almost drowned the faith which she had taughtDespair that sought To put at naught Our faith in God and Immortality.
But now we know It is not so, Although The lifeless form lies low Within the silent grave; And drifted snow, Pure as her spotless soul, Spreads white and cold Above the frozen mold Where, as the seasons roll, The spring shall see the green grass wave, And fragrant flowers grow.
She is not dead! For she was part Of Gods great loving heart; And tis a shameful lie If it were said That any part of Gods great love can ever die.

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
Tis only that which earth to us had given Which earth has taken to itself again; That frail mortality that only felt lifes pain But all of her that came to us from heaven, She who was part of that great heart above, She who could know and feel our tender love, And give a love more tender in return, Can never die, And coldly lie In senseless slumber neath a marble urn.
And so, Although We may not see her as we did of yore, Although we hear her loving words no more, We feel and know That she whom we have loved Is with us still, And that she will Be with us evermore.

1

.

_______POEMS OF SENTIMENT

MOTHERS BOY.

Two little feet that patter, patter,

On the noisy floor,

,

Two little hands that scatter, scatter

Toys the household oer;

Two rosy lips that prattle, prattle,

With a childish joy,

While the playthings rattle, rattle

That is mothers boy.

|

Two half shut eyes that twinkle, twinkle,

With a tender love,

Like shining stars that sprinkle, sprinkle



Heavens blue dome above;

(

Two weary eyelids closing, closing,

I

Slowly down to rest,

Mothers boy is dozing, dozing

On his mothers breast.

.,

Now mothers boy is sleeping, sleeping,

On his downy bed,

While angel eyes are keeping, keeping

Watch above his head;

And mothers kneeling, praying, praying,

i

Faith without alloy,

Eyes uplifted, saying, saying:

"Father, keep my boy!"

66

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
Two scarlet cheeks are burning, burning, With a fevered glow,
And mothers boy is turning, turning, Restless, to and fro;
Now mothers heart is crying, crying, With a pathos wild,
While her boy is dying, dying, "Father, spare my child!"
Now mothers eyes are aching, aching, Tears refuse to flow,
And mothers heart is breaking, breaking, With a speechless woe;
For mothers soul is weary, weary, Lifes a broken thread,
All the world is dreary, dreary, Mothers boy is dead.
67

POEMS OF SENTIMENT

i

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-,



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(

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it

.

A CURL OF GOLDEN HAIR.
b
Sitting by my study table, In the twilight, cold and gray,
Toying with an ancient volume That had long been laid away,
From between the pages fluttered, Fell, and lay before me there,
Faded flowers, lightly fastened With a curl of golden hair.
In a moment all my fancies Of the future backward roll,
While the thoughts of by-gone days come Sweeping in upon my soul;
Days when I, a youth of twenty, Free from every thought of care,
Fondly loved the blue-eyed maid who Wore that curl of golden hair.
I remember one bright evening, Sitting neath an arching vine,
While the hand that plucked those flowers Lay so lovingly in mine;
And we builded airy castles, Which we might together share,
When the bridal wreath should mingle With her curls of golden hair.
Then, while standing close beside her, At her fathers cottage door,
Little dreaming I should see that Lovejy form in life no more;
8

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
Long I stood and gazed enraptured, At the dimpled face so fair,
Ere I kissed the milk white forehead, Neath its crown of golden hair.
Soon I stood beside a casket, In a silent, darkened room,
And my lone, despairing heart was Filled with deepest midnight gloom;
For I looked upon my darling, Lying cold and lifeless there,
With a wreath of snow white lilies Twining in her golden hair.
Many years have passed since then, and I have roamed the wide world oer,
On the mountains towering summit, By the oceans stormy shore;
Yet, through all of lifes emotions, Hope and joy, or doubt and care,
Still my soul is linked to heaven By that curl of golden hair.

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
MY LOVE AND I.
Down where the fragrant south wind sighs Through spreading oaks and towering pines,
Where neath the shade, cool comfort lies, And in the waters, health reclines;
Oer flowery mead and grassy lawn, Beneath the soft, rose-tinted sky,
We wander in the dewy dawn My love and I.
Beside the clear, swift running brook That winds among the rocks and trees,
Where Cupid lurks in every nook, And sings or sighs in every breeze;
With lips that crave loves precious boon, And eyes that speak in glances shy,
We loiter through the summer noon My love and I.
Then where the bare and ghostly walls Of the old ruined mill now stand,
Whose patched and tattered shadow falls Where wars red flame once swept the land;
Charmed by the music of the stream That sings its ceaseless lullaby,
Upon its banks we sit and dream My love and I.
But now the fiery god of day Sinks from our sight adown the west,
And touches with his dying ray The distant mountains lofty crest;

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
Yet still we wander, hand in hand, Where evening zephyrs softly sigh,
Till by the rock-lipped spring we stand My love and I.
The silver chariot of the moon Glides slowly up the eastern sky,
And now we know that all too soon The hour has come to say good-bye;
So, guided by its lambent ray, Through paths where soft moon-shadows lie,
We slowly homeward wend our way My love and I.
O hallowed scenes of one glad day! The grove, the spring, the brook, the mill;
Through all the futures devious way Their memories will haunt us still;
And when in years to come, perchance, Back to these scenes our thoughts shall fly,
Well live again this sweet romance My love and I.
71

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
ONLY RETOLD
Only a couple, sitting alone, Down there by the murmuring waters;
Only a son of Adam, in love With one of Eves beautiful daughters.
Only a hand so slender and white, Held dose in one larger and stronger;
Only a wish breathed into the night, That the fleeting moments were longer.
Only three words in her listning ear, With low, tender accents spoken;
Only a gleaming circle of gold, She wears, as loves beautiful token.
Only two hearts now beating as one, While filled with loves luminous glory;
Only the bliss of a lovers first kiss, Re-telling the same world-old story.

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
ORLEAN.
The hours were all too brief, Orlean, In those glad summer daya,
When, wandering neath the sylvan shades, Or in the moons soft rays,
I looked upon your radiant face Turned upv/ard to the skies,
And saw the glory of the stars Reflected in your eyes.
Your smile was like the morn, Orlean, Tinged with its brightest hue,
Your lips were like a budding rose Moist with the morning dew;
The music of your silvery laugh Made care and sorrow fly,
As though some joyous angels mirth Were echoed from the sky.
The touch of your soft hand, Orlean, Set all my soul a-thrill,
Wheneer we wandered by the stream Down near the ruined mill;
And every sound of natures voice Was music to my ear,
And each fair scene seemed fairer still Because Orlean was near.

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
But those glad days are flown, Orlean, And we are far apart,
And every thought of me, perchance, Is banished from your heart;
Yet ever to my soul there comes Fond memories of thee;
And still the music of those days Sings to me ceaselessly.

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
MAID OF MY DREAMS.
O, Maid of My Dreams! With your beauty so rare, Your laughing brown eyes, and your soft, silken hair; For me, I well know, you have never a care, Yet my soul goes seeking thee everywhere.
O, Maid of My Dreams! In the mornings first hour, When white lilies bend to the pelt of the shower; My glad soul would hie to thy beautiful bower, As a honey-bee flies to the opening flower.
O, Maid of My Dreams! At the days weary close, When evening around me her cool shadow throws; My souls fond caresses would haunt thy repose, As dewdrops are kissing the blush of the rose.
O, Maid of My Dreams! When the sleeping world seems Aglow with the sheen of the moons silvry beams, And heavens far dome with the bright starlight gleams, My soul shall still seek thee O, Maid of My Dreams.
O, Maid of My Dreams! If my soul in its quest, Should ever discover thy haven of rest, Fly back with it here, like a bird to its nest, And make thee a home on thy true lovers breast

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
MY ANGEL BRIDE.
Alone by the firelights fitful gleam, I sit in my easy chair,
And watch in the flames the by-gone scenes Which my fancy pictures there;
And as swiftly by on memorys wings The fanciful pictures glide,
I catch the trace of a beautiful face, Tis the face of my angel bride.
Our lives were joined by no ritual words, And no bridal wreath wore she;
For all too soon did the angels come, And bear her away from me;
But yet, while eternitys ages roll, She is mine, whateer betide,
For our souls were wed, ere the spirit fled From the form of my angel bride.
And now my soul holds never a love But the love of the sainted dead;
A purer love than many a love Where the priestly words were said;
So as still alone on the sea of life I float with the drifting tide,
I will place each day the rarest bouquet On the grave of my angel bride.
76

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
GRIEF AND FAITH.
Two little hands, so cold and white, Folded across the pulseless breast;
Two little feet, so still tonight, Lie side by side in moveless rest.
Two lips that only yesterday Made childish music through the hall,
Are now but silent, breathless clay, And give no answer to our call.
Two loving eyes, so softly brown, Which nevermore will laugh or weep,
Have drawn their snowy curtain down, And closed in endless, dreamless sleep.
Grief gazes on the pall and cries: "Alas! Tis more than I can bear!"
But Faith looks upward to the skies, And sees a shining Angel there.
n

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
LENORE.
Oh, beautiful eyes, as blue as the skies, And as bright as the stars that besprinkle the night;
How each soft, melting glance puts my soul in a trance, And touches each nerve with a thrill of delight.
Bright tresses of brown, as soft as the down Of the thistle that floats on the midsummer air;
How I envy the breeze that with impudent ease, Caresses and kisses her beautiful hair.
Oh, beautiful lips, as sweet as the tips Of the rosebuds just moistened with dews from above,
Oh, what rapture awaits, at those coral-like gates, The one who first wakens their whisper of love.
Oh, loveliness rare, of eyes, lips and hair, And the graces of heart which the angels adore;
Not a blossom that grows, whether lily or rose, Can rival the beautiful, darling Lenore.
78

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
FAITHS MESSENGER.
My heart had said: "There is no God!" But when I saw your face, I knew
That only Gods Omnipotence Could send the world a gift like you.
I said that love was all a myth, A sham, in which Id have no part;
But when I saw you smile, love came And made its home within my heart.
I said: "Alas! There is no heaven To which a human soul may rise."
But when you looked at me I saw A heaven shining in your eyes.
And now the heavy clouds of doubt That hung above my head are riven,
Since you, my Angel, came and brought Me faith in God, and Love, and Heaven.

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
TWO BLOSSOMS.
Last night she gave to me a pure white rose, Sweet as the breath of spring, and fair to see;
But in my heart a brighter blossom grows, The love of her who gave that rose to me.
The rose she gave will wither, fade, and die, Its beauty and its fragrance pass away;
But ever in my heart her memory Will grow in fadeless splendor, day by day.
And as the tide of years shall ebb and flow, Whateer may come to me of care or strife,
I still will pray that thornless flowers may grow Along the sunny pathway of her life.
80

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
A DREAM OF YOU.
Darling, I had a strange sweet dream last night, Oh, how I wish the vision had been true;
I dreamed that, neath the moons entrancing light I found myself at last alone with you.
The stars smiled on us from their home above, To see us sitting side by side, alone;
And holding sweet communion, love with love, For you had promised to be all my own.
My eyes were feasting on your matchless charms, I hung upon the honey of your kiss;
Then clasping you in my enfolding arms, Our souls went sailing on a sea of bliss.
And, as with silent lips we drifted there, Too full of joy for any spoken word,
There seemed to come, borne on the quivering air, The sweetest music mortals ever heard.
Then, while our boat went sailing on and on, I prayed that we might never find a shore;
But that our raptured souls might float upon Loves boundless ocean thus, forevermore.
Alasl the prayer was vain, for soon there broke Upon the east, the mornings crimson gleam;
And, whispering your dear name, I awoke To find that it was nothing but a dream.
But though that vision of the night has flown. My hearts distress is not without alloy;
For it is sweet to feel that I have known, Een in a fleeting dream, so great a joy.
81

1
fl
POEMS OF SENTIMENT
LIFES TANGLED THREADS.
A woman sits the livelong day By a swift-turning wheel,
While through each hand a single thread Is running from a reel ;
And as the wheel turns round and round In its unvaried track,
The threads are twisted in a cord Of mingled gold and black.
A fickle Goddess sits supreme Upon her throne of state,
While joy and sorrow, through her hands, Pass like two threads of fate;
And as the wheel of destiny Turns out lifes cord, behold
From end to end the fiber runs In mingled black and gold.
Hope is the thread of shining gold, The sable, black despair,
And not a soul exists but both Are strangely blended there;
But when the tangled cord of life By Deaths dread hand is riven,
Faith, like a golden thread of light, Will still reach up to Heaven.

POEMS OF SENTIMENT
HOPES MESSENGER.
A poet sang a song into the night, For but this reason, that he needs must sing,
And through the darkness, like a ray of light, The sweet and tender strain went wandering.
It passed the mansions of the rich and great, And none within its plaintive music heard;
It passed where mighty monarchs sat in state, But not a soul was by its music stirred.
At last it found a woman, bent in tears Above a bier whereon her dead child lay,
Its music softly crept into her ears, And to her stricken soul it seemed to say:
"Arise, wan mother, lave thine aching eyes, And look no longer downward to despair;
But upward lift thy gaze unto the skies, For, lo! thy darling angel dwelleth there."
83

1 it
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M. /'i. '
M&1

HUMOROUS VERSE

".f

POETICAL COURTSHIP.
Some years ago, in a certain town, There lived a girl named Susan Brown, Who, through the country, up and down, Obtained .considerable renown; Not for any special grace Of intellect, or form or face, For certainly it would be vain To deny that she was extremely plain. Her form was remarkably short and stout, Her complexion was like a speckled trout, Her eyes were the color of well-skimmed milk, And her hair like a snarl of crimson silk, Tinged with the vivid tint that lies In the glowing autumn sunset skies; In fact so red, Ive heard it said, That often in the night it shed Upon the darkness such a glow, The roosters all began to crow; For, seeing the light shine out in the night, So exceedingly red, and uncommonly bright, The birds, which isnt at all surprising, Supposed of course the sun was rising; And so they crowed with all their might.
But Susan had one saving grace, Aside from mind, or form, or face; For everyone in the village knew Her paternal parent was rich as a Jew, In fact, was possessed of a million or two; And so, each impecunious batch, Who was seeking a matrimonial match, Thought Susan would make a most elegant catch.
87

HUMOROUS VERSE

Now, in the selfsame village where

Dwelt the heiress of this millionaire,

There lived a youth, surpassing fair,

i

Named Charles Augustus James St. Clair;



His accomplishments were many and rare,

y

And he bore himself with a courtly air,

/

Which the village school girls did declare

Was quite distingue and militaire;

1

And, as far as anyone could see,



Only a single fault had he,

y

Which was impecuniosity;

/

For the truth must be told,

That, in silver and gold,

r

Like Mr. Lazarus of old,

f

He was as poor as poor could be;

i

Poor as a pauper without a cent,

(

Poor as a church mouse, during Lent;

>

Or even poorer still than that,



Poor as a country parsonage rat.

i

Yet despite his poverty, all the same,

:

This youth with the euphonious name

\

Declared his soul was all aflame

With a passion which no power could tame,

For the girl with the golden hair and fame;

So, when the village gossips came

And whispered slyly in his ear

That Susan Brown was rather queer;

Or when some envious old maid said

That Susans temper, like her head,

Was a perfect snarl of fitry red,

88

HUMOROUS VERSE
He only smiled his blandest smile, Childlike, it seemed, though full of guile, And snapped his fingers at their warning, And all their sage advices scorning, Declared that he would woo and win her, Although "Old Nick" himself were in her.
Alas! My muse must here proclaim That in the matrimonial game, Tis often wealth, not worth that wins, For gold, we see, like charity, Can hide a multitude of sins. But to resume one Sabbath night, When moon and stars were shining bright, Our Charles Augustus James St. Clair Arrayed himself with special care, In a broadcloth suit, glossy and new, For which he had paid with an "I. O. U.," And sallied forth to see the maid On whom his future hopes were stayed, Determined, without more debate, That very night to seal his fate.
So, silently wandring on his way, And carefully pondering what to say, He framed a speech brimful of lies, Such as we know all ladies prize, Of features fair, and glossy hair, And mental graces rich and rare, And ruby lips and sparkling eyes;
89

HUMOROUS VERSE

And, being esthetic, and somewhat poetic,

And having a voice that was very magnetic,

He arranged a chime of pleasing rhyme,



Which he meant to recite at the proper time,

1 ,!

In a style which would be extremely pathetic.

tjr/

Precisely at the hour of eight, He entered at the garden gate,

j

And Susan met him at the door,

,. \

And a welcome smile her features wore,

j( i

Which made the young man feel much more

Encouraged than hed been before.

Together, side by side they sat, Engaged awhile in friendly chat About the weather and things like that, Till our hero thought the time was pat For him to test the ladys heart With his declamatory art. So, with what composure he could command, He tenderly took the ladys hand, While his right arm sought her waist, but found That it wouldnt go more than half way round; So, changing his tactics, he gently pressed Her glowing head to his manly breast, And began with a lofty rhetorical flight, His poetic tale of love to recite.

But alas! his frail, rhyme-laden boat Refused on memorys sea to float, And he got no further than "Dear Miss Brown," When he found his speech turned upside down,

90

HUMOROUS VERSE
While the words lay criss-cross in his brain, Like trees just after a hurricane; And he grew perplexed, and exceedingly vexed, Like a parson who has forgotten his text; But well he knew it would never do To end his effort till he was through, So trusting to luck, he blundered ahead And these are about the words he said:
"O, radiant, fair and beauteous Miss, Thine azure lips were made to kiss, And a very world of meaning lies In the golden glow of your glossy eyes, While your ruby hair, so sparkling and bright, Shines on my path like a beacon light " But there he stopped, as well he might; For in a rage the lady rose, And with one hand seized his classic nose, While the nails of the other plowed the skin Of his cheek, from the temple to the chin; Then she yelled in his affrighted ear, In a voice most terrible to hear, "Ill teach you, you base, ill-mannered bear, To be making light of my auburn hair!" And then she gave his ears a box, And madly tore his raven locks, Till he rent the skies with his piercing cries. While tears of an enormous size Rolled down in torrents from his eyes.
91

HUMOROUS VERSE

But at length, by an effort of wild despair, And depriving his head of a handful of hair, He managed away from her grasp to tear, And without adieu, away he flew, At a galloping pace which I tell you Would distance Tarn O Shanters mare.

Now the watch dog saw the flying man,

.

As down the garden walk he flew,

; *)

And, with a natural belief

That he was an escaping thief,

Pursued him to the garden wall,

'i

Where, never slacking his speed at all,

With one wild leap he left the ground,

And cleared the wall at a single bound;

But, alas! as he went, he left beneath,

The tail of his coat in the watch dogs teeth,

And then and there, in that terrible tear,

Ended forever the love affair

Between the gallant young St. Clair

And the girl with the very auburn hair.

Moral: Young men, whenever you go to propose, Pray be content with simple prose; For if you attempt to grow sublime By putting your sentiments into rhyme, Youre sure to get muddled every time, And ten-to-one, youll lose your bride, And perhaps the tail of your coat beside.

A

HUMOROUS VERSE
THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE.
Johnny, Johnny, little Johnny, With his face against the pane,
Looking out into the orchard, Dripping in the steady rain,
Hears the muttering of the thunders, Sees the vivid lightnings play,
While he stands and mutely wonders When the storm will pass away,
So that he, with stealthy footsteps, Through the orchard may pi-root,
And, like our first great-grandparents, Monkey with forbidden fruit
Johnny, Johnny, little Johnny, With his face against the pane,
Looking out into the orchard, Wishing it would cease to rain.
At this point there is an interlude, during which the rain ceases. Johnny perambulates through the orchard, plucking and eating the unripe fruit to his hearts content.
Night finally settles upon the scene, Johnny meanders back to the house, and retires to his little bed, shortly after which begins:
CANTO THE SECOND. Johnny, Johnny, little Johnny,
With his hands against the pain! Lying there and vainly wishing
It had never ceased to rain; For the fruit he had been chewing,
Emerald fruit he loved so much,
93

HUMOROUS VERSE

Now a dire distress was brewing

Deep within his buttery hutch;

So he lies there, moaning, groaning,

Writhing on his little cot,

Vainly trying to be tying



His slender form into a knot,

And while he drinks his paregoric,

Solace for his inward woe,

He deems his anguish metaphoric

Of the torments down below;

And it is not much surprising,

As he lies there agonizing

That our Johnny, little Johnny,

With his hands against the pain,

Swears that he will never monkey

With the unripe fruit again.

94

HUMOROUS VERSE
CASSIE B. ANCA
TEE BRAVE HIKED GESL.
The girl stood by the kitchen stove, Whence every flame had fled,
And vowed by all the powers above The very coals were dead.
Yet firm and resolute she stood, A true-born kitchen queen,
Determined to ignite the wood By using gasoline!
She took the oil can from the floor, And raised it up on high,
And kept on pouring more and more, Until twas nearly dry.
There came a burst of thunder sound, The girl! Oh, where was she?
The few small fragments that were found Were buried neath a tree.
There were three fingers, and a toe, And one bright auburn curl,
And this was oil we had to show For that aheroic girl.

HUMOROUS VERSE
THE SONG OF THE SWITCH.
With arm that is nervy and strong, And a frown the color of pitch,
The pedagogue stood In furious mood, And sang the song of the switch.
"Come hither, you mischievous elf!" To the shivering youth, he cried,
"And Ill wallop your thighs Till the ridges rise, And Ill corrugate your hide."
Then he sang the song of the switch, With its ringing whickety whack,
Till the urchin wormed, And wriggled and squirmed, As the blows fell on his back.
Yet still he kept singing the song, Till the urchin began to yell,
And his cries kept time To the rhythmic rhyme, As the good switch rose and fell.
Oh! The song was a lively song, And it made the little boy dance,
Till he sadly sighed For a tougher hide, Or an extra pair of pants.
96

HUMOROUS VERSE
And when the song of the switch was done, And its final tattoo was beat,
The bellowing imp To his bench did limp, And tenderly took bis seat.

HUMOROUS VERSE
MY SUMMER LASS.
When blazing dog-days vex the earth, And Sirius ranges high,
There comes to me a summer lass With lovelight in her eye;
And whether in my inland home, Or by the sounding sea,
She wooes me with a soft caress, And fondly clings to me.
I do not love this summer lass With all her fervid charms,
And gladly v/ould I find escape From her enfolding arms;
But on my struggling will, her hold Increases hour by hour,
Till helplessly I yield unto Her strange hypnotic power.
Throughout the livelong day I feel Her hot breath on my face,
And evening finds me still within Her languorous embrace.
Upon each moment of my life She boldly doth intrude,
Till I am powerless to resist My summer lass-i-tude.
98

HUMOROUS VERSE
THE JANITOR AND THE GOAT.
Pat Murphy was an Irish lad, who by industry and gall, Reached the lofty height of janitor in a Knights of Pythias
hall; He swept and dusted every day, and on lodge meeting nights He lit the hall with what he termed "Thim inclandistine
lights;" And every time he swpt the room, he wondered more and
more, What strange instrument of torture was concealed behind the
door Of a little corner closet that the lodge folks took good care Should be always closed and bolted tight, whenever Pat was
there. One day he asked the Grand Mogul: "Phat hov yez in thot
room, And why dont ye lave it so that I can get in wid me broom?" "Why, Patrick," said the Grand Mogul, with a quiet wink and
grin, "Thats only a little cupboard that we keep our butter in." Pat scratched his head awhile, then said: "Yer Honor, now
I see, So Ill just christen that department the grand lodge but
tery." One evening shortly after, when he was lighting up the hall, He became so curious he couldnt hold himself at all, So he took a bunch of keys he had, and tried them one by one, Until at last he found a fit, and behold the deed was done
99

HUMOROUS VERSE
And then he thought hed take one peep, just to see what there was there,
But although Pat in looking in observed the greatest care, A furious billy-goat rushed out and dived between his legs, And just hoisted the poor janitor clean up from off his pegs, Then raged cavorting round the room with Pat upon his back, Something like a hurdle racer going round a circus track. Nine times he circled through the hall, until Pat began to yell, Then tossed him up against the roof and caught him as he fell, And sent him flying through the air in an acrobatic feat That continued clean on down the stair, and ended in the
street Just then the Worthy Master chanced along, and stopped to
see Whatever might have been the cause of that catastrophe, And, perceiving Pat, commanded in accents stern and clear, "Rise, Sir, and tell me why it is that I find you lying here." "Oh! Ho!" groaned Pat, "I cannot rise, for Im in martal pain, So if it plaze yer Honor to let me lie while I explain. Tonight when I was lighting up, the thought occurred to me That there was a suspicious odor from the grand lodge but
tery, And sure that s-picion was so loud, to me twas mighty plain Some Spalpeen had been chatin yez with oleomargerane So I took a key that aJl the while I carried in me pocket, An thried it in the cupboard door, to see if twould unlock it. Sure, it opened aisy, sor, but by me faith I swear, Yer dommed ould butther was so strong, it knocked me down
the stair."
100

HUMOROUS VERSE
THE POETS WAR BRIGADE.
Ho! Gallant men, who wield the pen, And shed whole seas of ink;
Whose hearts are full of fury, and Whose heads are full of think;
When eer our country calls upon Her gallant sons for aid,
Loud comes the ready answer from Our poets war brigade.
Then to discordant notes of strife, Each minstrel tunes his lyre,
And every heart is swelling like A huge pneumatic tire;
With rhythmic step we march along, As in a dress parade;
Ten thousand cranks to join the ranks, That form our war brigade.
Each poet then, with ready pen, And ink horn at his side,
His wild cavorting Pegasus Doth gallantly bestride;
No harmless cartridges of blank Flash in our fusilade,
But volleys of most deadly rhyme Pour from our war brigade.
And when they hear those missiles sing, Our frightened foes all flee,
With a punctured tired feeling, and Plunge headlong in the sea;
101

HUMOROUS VERSE
Then gaily we return as from A picnic escapade,
With not a scribbler missing from Our poets war brigade.
But when our war is ended, and The drum and fife are still,
And the world no longer listens to Our war cries, loud and shrill;
In ears of charming maidens we Sing loves sweet serenade,
And their bright eyes soon hypnotize The poets war brigade.
102

HUMOROUS VERSE
A PURGATORIAL STUNT FEST.
It was midnight up at Oshkosh, after a dreary day, At the close of the convention of our dear old *I. L. A. Where knights of the long lonesome trail had come from
far and near, To gather information and to give each other cheer.
The Chautauqua course was ended, the gay stunt club had adjourned,
And to their various domiciles the "Ites" had all returned, Where they mostly were reposing in a slumber calm and deep, When this strange fantastic vision broke upon my troubled
sleep.
I dreamed that time was ended, and in one tremendous crash This universe of ours had gone to everlasting smash, While to their final reckoning the human race had come, And all according to deserts received their final doom.
The saints had gone to glory, and the graceless reprobates Were banished to a lake whereon they found no use for
skates, While the host of lesser sinners, in a motley crowd were sent To the realms of purgatory for a milder punishment.
Old Nick was superintending the roast and barbecue, So Beelzebub was detailed to prepare the milder stew, And, assuming willing management, he rose and gravely
bowed, And with a leering, sneering smile, he thus addressed the
crowd :
* Interstate Lyceum Association. 103

HUMOROUS VERSE
"O Shades of Purgatory, you have been assembled here For a probationary term of punishment severe, By being forced to listen for some weary days and nights, To a course of entertainment by a band of lyceumites.
"My arrangements for the torture are most perfect and com plete,
And this auditorium contains no exit to the street; The punishment will be adjusted according to your sin, And the continuous performance is ready to begin."
But as a sort of prologue to the entertainment course, The bureau managers came on with their hustling agent force, And held a fierce bragging contest, which was such a brilliant
hit That Ananias writhed in envy, and Munchausen threw a fit.
Then with a rush and clamor, the envious knockers came, And for first place on the propram made their insistent claim; But Beelzebub soon hushed their clack, and answered with a
frown, "Youre in the wrong department, take the elevator down."
Then the seasons program opened, with the bands and or chestras,
Followed by quartets and glee clubs and concert companies, Giving long programs with a vim that never seemed to flag, And rendering all sorts of music, from Wagner down to rag.
104

HUMOROUS VERSE
Then on came the solo artists, tenor, baritone, and bass, With sopranos and contraltos all joining in the race; Warbling operatic arias in every vocal range, With an occasional old coon song, just thrown in for a change.
Then the Chautauqua lecturers filed on in long review, Each with his message to the world, most wonderful and new, Some were preachers, noted for fantastic heresies, And some were politicians, nursing presidential bees.
But there were two upon the list who certainly might claim That they could read their title clear to an immortal fame, For both had played a gallant part in an explorers role, And each had been the very first to reach the frozen pole.
These both told of their discoveries in detail most precise, Of their perilous adventures on the drifting fields of ice, Till the very air of Hades felt a sympathetic thrill, And roast and toast and barbecue were shivering with a chill.
But however grave the speakers, or profound their lecture themes,
Or howeer incomprehensible their vague prophetic dreams, All to give their two hours talk-fest a brief touch of lighter
tone Told the selfsame funny stories, and each claimed them as his
own.
Then the so-called humorists came on, who deemed it royal fun
To strangle the Kings English, just to incubate a pun, And they spent long hours introducing old crippled jokes and
quips With gray side whiskers that had grown to reach their wab
bling hips.
105

HUMOROUS VERSE
Then readers and impersonators took their places on the stage, To portray the human passions, hate, sorrow, love and rage; Some read long-winded novels of the present or the past, And some recited dramas with themselves for all the cast.
\ But when one presumptuous fellow announced the tragedy
of Lear, Old Shakespeares ghost came strolling in to catch what he
might hear; And he watched the queer performance till he was in such a
daze He was almost ready to admit that Bacon wrote his plays.
But the old bard soon recovered, and in a towering rage, Seized the rash impersonator, bore him struggling from the
stage, Pitched him headlong to the burning lake, and to old Nick
cried: "Skew him to your hottest grid, where his bacon will be fried."
Then came yel-locutionists galore, from the expression schools, Regulating tone and gesture by the strictest Delsarte rules, And elocuting monologues and poems by the score, Till the platform manager declared that he could stand no
more.
So, for his last announcement old Beelzebub arose, And said, "The hour has come to bring this torture to a close; But as a grand finale to your purgatorial ills, You shall listen to a poem by one, Lucius Perry Hills."
106

HUMOROUS VERSE
Then in my dream I saw myself upon the platform there, Resolved to do my little stunt with an especial care,
When suddenly the crowd sent up a wild, protesting yell, "What weve had was Purgatory, but to give us Hills is helL" Then pandemonium broke loose, and some demon of despair Seized me by the bosom of my pants and hurled me through
the air, And as I landed in "a heap amid the din and roar, I woke to find that I was lying prone upon the floor.
Now the lesson of that nightmare dream is very clear to me, In fact, dear fellow sufferers, so self-evident, you see, That I have waited three long years of penitence and pain, Before I ventured to return and give you hell again.
****
WHEN THE OFFICE SOUGHT THE MAN.
The Office, once upon a time, resolved to seek the man, And said in slow, determined tones, "Ill find him if I can; The task may be quite difficult, the journey long, no doubt, But I will travel near and far, until I find him out."
And so the Office soon prepared to start upon its quest, To search the country over, from the east unto the west; But ere he sallied forth he took a hurried look around, And lo! The road was full of men, all waiting to be found.
107

HUMOROUS VERSE
A COURTSHIP OF THE FUTURE.
Together side by side they sit Beneath the spreading trees;
She takes his soft white hand in hers, Gives it a gentle squeeze;
And slyly then her strong right arm Steals round his slender waist,
And oh, so tenderly she leans His winsome lips to taste
She whispers, "Dearest Algernon, My love has long been thine,
O, tell me, darling of my heart, That I may call thee mine!"
He draws himself away, and breathes A sigh of deep regret;
While his bewitching azure eyes With pitying tears are wet;
"Another won my love," says he, "Dear lady, ere I knew you;
But though we never can be wed, Ill be a brother to you!"
108

HUMOROUS VERSE
MY MESSAGE, AND HOW IT GOT THERE.
I wished to send a fond message To my darling, far, far away;
And for some reliable method I was searching from day to "day.
If I should endeavor to phone it, I knew it would surely be lost,
For my love was not on the circuit She was also as deaf as a post.
So I called a bicycle messenger Those boys I fancied were true,
Gave it to the champion rider, And told him to hurry it through.
But he was a terrible masher, As champions are apt to be;
And so the first girl he encountered He offered my message to she.
She taught it to a pretty poll parrot, Which squawked it from morning till night,
Till the police pronounced it a nuisance And the neighbors were ready to fight.
Then a German orchestra got it And gave it a rambling tune;
Each separate instrument tried it From piccolo down to bassoon.
109

HUMOROUS VERSE
But when the slide trombone struck it And blew a most furious note,
It split a great hole in his windpipe, And the message slipped into his throat.
Then my heart grew weary with striving, And I thought perchance it were best
To cease for awhile my vain efforts And give my poor message a rest.
But I whispered it as a secret, To a girl at the beach one day;
And she swore by the boundless heavens, She would never give it away.
So that night with peace and composure In Sleeps loving arms I lay curled
Next morning I found that my message Was known all over the world.
110

HUMOROUS VERSE
*AN EVENINGS ENTERTAINMENT
(tW THE HOUSEBOAT ON THE STYX.)
Twas one night as I lay dozing in a cozy steamer berth, With my truant fancy roaming through the heavens and the
earth, That this truant in his wanderings played most fantastic
tricks, Until finally it landed in the "Houseboat on the Styx."
The occasion was a banquet in the club-room of the boat, In honor of two new arrivals, from regions far remote, Who had crossed the stream together, who had been friends
before, Who had taken Charons ferry, for the rivers further shore.
One was a genial humorist, from Manhattans busy town, Whose most ready wit had won for him considerable renown; While the other, in the public view, had blossomed rather late, And was posing as a poet from a good old Southern state.
When the guests were all assembled there, Lord Chesterfield arose,
And said, "As a matter of good form, I desire to propose That we now elect Confucius, the great prophet of the East, To conduct the ceremonies, and be master of the feast."
* Composed during a trip on a Fatt River steamer, and respectfully inscribed to the author's friend, John Kendrick Bangs.
Ill

HUMOROUS VERSE
"I will second that!" cried Tommie Hood, "for his Lordship, I declare,
Has just hit upon the very chap to occupy the chair; One who in each emergency will know just what to do, For a Chinaman, I understand, will never lose his cue."
When the question had been put, Confucius was declared the choice
Of the Associated Shades, with not one dissenting voice, And old Boswell was appointed, as stenographer, to write, With his usual minuteness, the proceedings of the night.
These preliminaries ended, the Shades sat down to dine, Devouring richest viands, and drinking rarest wine, Till they all grew rather mellow, and were in a mood to cheer, With most vociferous applause, whoever might appear.
Then Confucius rose with stately mien, and said: "O mighty Shades,
Two new members have just joined us from the mundane everglades;
One is a Georgia poet, and one the jolly man of mirth Who wrote clever stories of our club while he was still on
earth.
"And it has been the custom of our club from year to year, To test well the mental caliber of each newcomer here, We this evening have assembled, to hear by word of mouth, From the joker of Manhattan, and the poet of the South."
112

HUMOROUS VERSE
"One moment," interrupted Hood, "while I first propose, your Grace,
A bumper to our senior member, the father of his race; For I would not, I declare to you, in language most sincere, Give A-dam for all the other Shades who are assembled here."
"Bravo 1" cried they all in chorus, as they tossed their bumpers down,
Then they placed on Adams brow a wreath of fig leaves, as a crown
Which might indicate that he, of all the immigrants from earth,
Held the foremost post of honor, by priority of birth.
This episode concluded, each Shade inclined a willing ear Toward the two newcomers, whose ryhmes and jokes they
wished to hear; And Confucius asked the Georgia bard if he would please
rehearse, For their common entertainment, some of his peculiar verse.
Thereupon the victim slowly rose, and told in flowing rhyme, Of some wonderful adventures which had happened at a time When he roamed the Blue Ridge mountains, guided by his
own sweet will, And hobnobbed there with the mountaineers, beside the moon
shine still.
Then he recited sundry verses, purporting to relate The emotions of a mountaineer, who in a trance-like state, Had once heard a famous singer, who, responding to an en
core, Sang "Home, Sweet Home," as mortals never heard it sung
before.
113

HUMOROUS VERSE
When these rhythmic tales were ended, old Munchausen took the floor,
His sad eyes were tearful, and his face a grieved expression wore;
His confidential air was gone, he most meekly bowed his head, And gazing upon the Georgia bard, reproachfully he said:
"O poet, lo, these many years, I have most sincerely felt That for economizing truth, I could surely claim the belt; But from that proud eminence I now most gracefully retire, Since in you I find at once combined, the poet and the liar."
Then all the crowd cheered long and loud Tom Moore pro posed a toast
To the Cracker bard whose lyre could give the Baron such a roast;
And then Bobbie Burns danced Hieland flings upon the clubroom floor,
Because old Manchausens chestnuts would be cracked for them no more.
Soon the prompter shouted "Next!" at which Confucius took his cue,
And said: "Friends, I have the pleasure now, to introduce to you
One who has, by making mortals laugh, won an immortal fanle,
Arid we now shall see if with our club he can maintain the
114

HUMOROUS VERSE
Then the genial humorist arose, to serve some bits of wit Which were sandwiched twixt the covers of the books which
he had writ; Rarest morsels of such spicy mirth as made the clubmen roar, While at every pause they clapped their hands and loudly
called for more.
So the fun grew fast and furious, till the signals in the east Gave due warning of the hour for the adjournment of the
feast; When they all prepared to listen to the final paragraph, And close the nights entertainment with one long, uproarous
laugh.
But at last the climax came, and then the chairs went on a spree,
The table waltzed about the room, while the dishes danced with glee;
The old craft quivered to her keel, all her joints began to start,
And at last the houseboat split her sides, and shook her ribs apart.
This most wonderful denouement woke me with a sudden shock,
To find my steamer at the landing, and pounding gainst the dock;
And I knew then that my fancy, in its midnight escapades, Had caught Bangs and me performing at a banquet of the
Shades.
115

HUMOROUS VERSE
Then a sorrowful emotion oer my consciousness did roll, And a wave of melancholy swept the chambers of my soul; As I thought how dull to mortals here this grim old world
would be, If that strange fantastic dream had been a stern reality. It is true I knew it mattered not to any living thing, When my lyre shall stop its twanging, and my muse shall
cease to sing; But I felt how sad our hearts would be, if we should hear no
more, His ever cheerful voice of greeting from old Manhattans
shore. So I humbly fell upon my knees, beside my steamer berth, And implored the Gracious Giver of all good things on the
earth, That many long years might pass, before my friend shall
intermix With the Shades who nightly gather in the "Houseboat on
the Styx."
116

FLOWER POEMS

THE BIRTH OF THE VIOLET.
The Master stood beside the rugged cave Wherein his friend in dreamless silence slept,
And as he gazed upon that cheerless grave He bowed his head in human grief, and wept.
Then, as his tears fell on the stony earth, Like gentle showers of warm, refreshing dew,
The barren soil was stirred to sudden birth, And on that spot the first sweet violets grew.
****
THE PASSION FLOWER.
At Crucifixions Eve the Magdalene In secret to the Cross-crowned hilltop crept,
And in the gathering twilight, all unseen, She bowed her head in speechless woe, and wept.
And then she knelt and breathed a fervent prayer For one last token of her Saviors power;
When lof there quickly grew and blossomed there, As emblem of his love, the Passion Flower.
****
HOW THE EASTER LILY GREW.
When angels came and rolled the stone away, The Savior rose and stepped forth from the tomb,
And where his wounded feet first pressed the clay, The morning saw an Easter Lily bloom.
119

FLOWER POEMS
GOLDEN ROD.
When winters chilling winds began to blow, And songsters flitted toward a southern shore,
A maiden scattered crumbs upon the snow, To feed the birds that lingered near her door.
But when the balmy spring again came round, And warm sun-fingers touched the sleeping sod;
Whereer a crumb remained to wed the ground, There grew a stalk of stately goldenrod.
****
FORGET-ME-NOT.
Only a private soldier, lying dead, Shot from an ambush as he walked alone;
They heaped a careless mound above his head, And marked it with the single word, "Unknown."
That night a weeping angel swiftly flew Down from the skies and kissed the sacred spot,
And in the morning, on the grave there grew An azure-faced, star-eyed forget-me-not.
120
Ll.

FLOWER POEMS
THE LOVE SONG OP THE FLOWERS.
One summers eve the God of Music chose To wed fair Beauty to his tuneful Art,
So, searching out the rarest, queenliest rose, He breathed soft melodies into its heart.
Love came that night and kissed the Song-rose there, While sweet perfumes filled all the leafy bowers;
And Fragrance whispered to the summer air: "Henceforth I am the love song of the flowers."
***
THE FIRST RED ROSE.
An anxious lover held within his hand A pure white rose, sent from his ladys bower,
From which he fain would read her secret thought, And thus he whispered to the fragrant flower:
"Tell me, sweet rose, and did my ladys lips Press thy soft petals ere you came to met
Then will I stoop to play the arrant thief, As now I bend to steal her kiss from thee."
Then, at the touch of his impassioned lips, The white rose crimsoned like the blushing morn;
Hope woke within his anxious heart, and smiled, And in that hour the first red rose was born.
121

SONNETS

TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
1893. One voice alone of that once grand quintette*
That wooed the Muses to melodious strains, Thy voice, the best loved of them all, remains To charm and cheer us with its music yet; To wreathe the lips in roseate smiles, or wet Our eyes with tears, as gay or sad refrains Drop from thy tuneful harp in golden chains Of harmony the heart can neer forget. The angels catch faint echoes of thy song, And envy earth its full-voiced symphony, But we shall bow in sorrow when that throng Gathers about Heavens gates to welcome thee, And sadly weep, while angel tongues rejoice, Because their choir has gained a sweeter voice.
1 Bryant, Longfellow, Wfuttier, LovieU, Holmes.
125

SONNETS
A SONNET FOR YOU.
I did not dream that I could miss you so, But when I took your hand and said good-bye, With smiling lips that gave my heart the lie,
Then, masking all my sorrow, turned to go, From my poor little world the mellow glow
Of twilight fled, and from the darkning sky The stars were one by one snatched ruthlessly, And flung into the sea of night below; And now my one bright ray of joy and hope, The sweet companionship where hearts unite, Of these fond memories alone remain, While in the dark my stumbling soul must grope, Striving in vain to find the cheering light That will not shine until we meet again.
126

SONNETS
A MEMORY OF HER.
The rapt, unreckbned hour passed all too soon When careless chance first brought us face to face, And I beheld the loveliness and grace
Which set my sad, embittered thoughts attune With pulsing harmonies, a moments boon
Flung to me by the fickle Fates that chase Each other swiftly to and fro, and trace Upon Times mottled page Lifes strange cartoon. And now I sit alone and vainly sigh For the glad rapture of that magic spell, That fleeting dream, so rudely banished by The sudden weeping and your last farewell; But through the memory of that sad refrain, Hope speaks insistent, "We shall meet again."
127

SONNETS
*THE AGNOSTIC ORATOR.
A wondrous witchery of words he wove A tapestry of speech charming the ear With rhythmic phrases that now woke a tear
Of sympathy, and then anon would move The lips to rippling laughter, while above
The knell he sought to toll for Hate and Fear, Melodious chimes seemed ringing loud and clear, To usher in the reign of Peace and Love. But while the great word-wizard spoke, I knew Celestial Beings that to him were nought But wisps of legend, Superstitions brew In fevered minds, the tales old women taught Those angel hosts of Heaven came winging thence To shape upon his lips their eloquence.
Written about the author's lifelong friend, Col. RoTtt. Q. Ingersott. 128

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

CHIMES OF MEMORY.
O, morning chimes of memory, With voices soft and low,
That whisper through the mist of years The songs of long ago;
Sweet songs that mother sang to us When, nestled on her breast,
We heard the dear old lullabies That soothed us into rest.
O, jingling chimes of memory, That sing in roundelays,
The fleeting joys and sorrows of Our childhoods careless days;
Ye sing of laughter and of tears, Of games and fairy books,
Of romping in the woodland, and Of fishing in the brooks.
O, mellow chimes of memory, That reach us from above,
With melodies that charmed us in The springtime of our love;
Ye sing of eyes that haunted us With bright, bewitching beams,
And sweetest maiden lips that came To kiss us in our dreams.
O, clear-toned bells of memory, That peal your steady chime,
As once you rang it in our ears In manhoods strength and prime;
131

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
When to our eyes the bending skies Looked rosy, bright and fair,
And Hopes high-arching rainbow hid The distant clouds of care.
O, clanging bells of memory,
That ring the clash of strife, The clamor of the straggles and
The battles of a life; Sometimes ye sing a paean strain
Of victory complete, And sometimes ring a sad refrain
Of failure and defeat.
O, tolling chimes of memory, That through the weeping air
Bring to our ears the tearful tones Of sorrow and despair;
Knells of hope-laden vessels that Lie shadowless and deep,
And dirges echoed down the years Of loved ones lain to sleep.
O, failing chimes of memory, The sweetest of them all,
Your tones grow faint and fainter while Lifes lengthening shadows fall,
And, as through gathering twilight The dying echoes creep,
We close our misted eyes at length, And drift to dreamless sleep.
133

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
THE PENCIL PUSHER.
TO THE AMEBICAN NEWS GATHERER.
The whirligig of Time turns round, great questions come and go,
The financiers bale up their wealth, while politicians blow; One party gets into the swim, the others in the soup, But, Pencil Pushers, youre the boys who hustle for a "scoop." You sharpen up your Fabers and go forth upon the street, Ready for a pointer from whomsoeer you meet; Scorning fear and favor, every character youll paint, And interview with equal grace the sinner and the saint Down where the pestilential slums are reeking with despair, With instinct keen for truth, youll find the Pencil Pusher
there, Ready to spread his story of experience abroad, And teach the world its duty to Humanity, and God. When some dark deed of mystery and blood has shocked the
town, The sleuth hounds of the law set out to run the scoundrel
downj They follow up a dozen clues, arrest a dozen men, Find them all as innocent as lambs, then turn them loose
again;
Till baffled Justice gropes about, in blind bewilderment, Policemen get befuddled, and detectives lose the scent; When, with his nose for news, some Pencil Pusher takes the
trail, Soon solves the mystery, and lands the murderer in jail.
133

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
Then turn the Pencil Pushers loose, and give the boys more rope!
They are our countrys bulwark, and the peoples pride and hope;
Theyll do their duty fearlessly, while life to them is given, Then interview Saint Peter for a press pass into Heaven.
****
TO A LITTLE BEAUTY.
Little beauty, kiss me here! Little beauty, have no fear; Kisses given, kisses taken, Need in thee no shame awaken; Give me then an hundred kisses, Mark them down an hundred blisses; Lips of mine will never spurn them, Ten for one I will return them, When to you a lovers kiss No more any plaything is; When Childhoods careless days are flownWhen you are ten years older grown!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
THE SEA SHELLS WHISPER.
The North Wind, shaking with a chill, Flew southward toward the summer land,
And passing oer the ocean shore, He spied a sea shell on the strand.
Between the sea shells pink-white lips The chilly North Wind quickly crept,
And, nestled close within its heart, Benumbed with cold, he soundly slept.
The South Wind, parched with burning heat, Flew panting toward the chill North Land,
And chancing near the ocean, saw That selfsame sea shell on the sand.
The pale pink lips, wet with the spray, Invited her with promise fair;
And creeping in, close to its heart, She found the North Wind sleeping there.
Upon the sleepers icy lips The maiden pressed a fervid kiss;
And thrilling to its magic touch, The North Wind woke to love, and bliss.
And there he weed the willing maid, And there, anon, the pair were wed;
And in the sea shells polished heart They made, that night, their bridal bed.
135

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
They slept until the rosy east Blushed with the mornings first caress;
Then parting with one last embrace, Each wandered forth the world to bless.
The North Wind swiftly flew to fan The fevered South with cooling breath;
The South Wind kissed the frozen seas, And woke them from their icy death.
But ever since, as oer the earth The North and South Winds gaily rove,
The murmuring sea shell echoes still Their first fond whisperings of love.
136

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
GOD HELP THE POOR.
God help the poor I When savage Winter comes with chilling breath; Breathes on the city with a blast of death; Bites at each shivering wretch, with icy teeth; While hungry babes cry vainly for relief;
God help the poor! God help the poor! When pampered Wealth sits idly at its ease, Surrounded by its gilded luxuries, Looks calmly at the fire lights cheerful blaze, Then folds its dainty hands, and softly prays: "God help the poor!" God help the poor! O, ye who at your firesides speak that prayer, Who live surrounded by the glow and glare Which Fortunes lamp sheds on the favored few Know, while ye pray, that God is calling you To help the poor.
137

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
AUTUMN GLORIES.
I love the deep forest, tis natures cathedral, And the spirit of worship dwells perfectly there;
The chorus of birds sing an anthem of praises, While each whispering zephyr is breathing a prayer;
But I love best to wander amid the cool shadows When the summer is gone, and the years growing old,
And the glorious arches above me are frescoed In their colors of purple, and crimson, and gold.
But while the bright hues of sweetgum and maple, With the oak and the beech, all their beauties combine,
The eyes ever search for occasional glimpses Of the evergreen freshness of hemlock and pine;
For the soul feels a thrill of still deeper devotion, When we see, while the bold winds of autumn blow cold,
The deep emerald hue of the springtime still blending With the glory of purple, and crimson, and gold.
So if in lifes morning our souls shall be nourished With the warm dews of love, and the sunshine of truth,
While swift years are passing, the hearts best emotions Will blossom and grow in perennial youth;
And at last when the chill of old age steals upon us, And the warm, cheering days of lifes summer are told,
In our souls the sweet freshness of childhood will mingle With the frost tints of purple, and crimson, and gold.
138

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
A CREED OF PREFERENCE.
Id rather meet with base deceit from every trusted friend, Yet keep my childhoods faith in human nature to the end, Than be a doubting pessimist, believing only this: That every touch of loves warm lips is but a Judas kiss. Id rather be a common thief, tried, and condemned to dwell Within the dreary confines of a lonely prison cell; An outcast from the worlds regard, from home and friends
exiled, Than rob youth of its joy, or steal the childhood from a child. Id rather feed upon a crust of honest labors bread, With nothing but a pile of straw whereon to lay my head ; Than dwell in wealth and luxury, a sharer of the spoil Wrung by the cruel hand of Greed from unrequited toil.
Id rather live and die alone upon some barren isle, TJncheered by any loving voice, or any womans smile; Than wed the one my soul adores, and know in after years That life with me had been for her, one of regret and tears.
Id rather tell a thousand lies to shield a heart from pain, Or help some struggling soul its lofty purpose to attain; Than, boasting of uncompromising honesty, forsooth, Stab hope with candid speech, or break a heart with brutal
truth.
139

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
Id rather deem the vilest bawd as pure as driven snow, Or stain my soul with perjury by swearing it were so; Than breathe unjust suspicion that would tinge a cheek with
shame, Or spread false scandal that would blight an honest womans
name.
Id rather that my name shall sink into Oblivions pool, Or be remembered but as that of a dull scribbling fool; Than climb Parnassus dizzy height, to Fames immortal goal, And leave one written line that might debauch a human soul.
Id rather that one honest friend should come and drop a tear Of heartfelt sorrow and regret upon my humble bier; Than have a sculptured monument rise towering to the skies, Caived with a glowing epitaph of laudatory lies.
Id rather reach the Judgment seat, and face my Maker there, As one who never sang His praise, or came to Him in prayer; Than as a canting hypocrite, with sanctimonious face, Who never did one deed because he loved the human race.
Id rather meet damnations doom, a solitary soul, If all my fellow men thereby might reach the heavenly goal; Than stand alone beside Gods throne through His eternal
reign, And see the balance of the race doomed to an endless pain.
Id rather my unransomed soul forevermore should dwell Tormented in the fiercest fires of an eternal hell; Than hold a seat in Paradise, with all my sins forgiven, And know that any act of mine had barred one soul from
heaven.
140

A WISH FOR YOU
Sweet as the songs which the robins sing, Pure as the flow of a crystal spring, Deep as the depths of a mother's love, True as your faith in the God above; With a harvest of smiles and a famine of tears, Through all the course of the coming years, So sweet, so pure, so deep, so true, Be the joy Fate holds in store for you.
141