Chapter IV: Part 4

But lets the mem’ry of each grace,
Each sweetness, each light tender trick
Throng to his heart, feel at its strings,
Until the tears fall hot and thick.

So work, I find since you and I
May walk together nevermore,
I hold you dear enough to wish
That we might live the dead years o’er.

Good-bye my work! and straight the pain
Of having such a thing to say,
Prints coward touches on my face,
And leaves me strangely old and gray.

Somebody

She is plain of face, she hath little grace,
They say when they speak of me,
’Tis little I care, I am more than fair
In the eyes of _somebody_.

She is cold, they say, as a winter’s day,
It mattereth not to me,
For the glow and heat of my true heart’s beat
Is known unto _somebody_.

She holdeth in hand neither gold or land--
Ah, the dull eyes cannot see
How rich and great is my broad estate
In the heart of _somebody_.

My Little Maid

My little maid, my little maid,
You grow too old, I am afraid,
Your birthday, is it? Tell me dear,
How long ago did you come here?
What? five to-day--how tall you grow!
I wish time would not hurry so,
I wish he’d just go on his way,
Nor call on us for many a-day.

Stay in the baby-world so new,
Its flowers are drowning in the dew,
Its paths are soft to tender feet,
Stay in the baby-world my sweet!

My little maid, my little maid,
You grow too old, I am afraid,
The questions trembling on your tongue
Tell me you are no longer young,
How many hours are in the year?
How high up is the heaven clear?
And do the ships, so big and grand
Go sailing to some other land?

Stay in the baby-world so new,
Its flowers are drowning in the dew,
Its paths are soft to tender feet,
Stay in the baby-world, my sweet!

My little maid, my little maid,
You grow too old, I am afraid,
The schoolhouse holds your steady gaze,
Your mind is in a wondrous maze,
So much to learn, so much to see,
You’re just as busy as can be,
My nursery rhymes have all been told,
Red Riding-Hood will soon be old.

Stay in the baby-world so new,
Its flowers are drowning in the dew,
Its paths are soft to tender feet,
Stay in the baby-world my sweet!

My little maid, my little maid,
You grow too old, I am afraid,
Your tender face it seems to me,
Is filled full of expectancy.
A spirit questioning, and wise
Looks out at me from your dark eyes,
Till I am fain to hold you fast
And hide you while old Time goes past.

Stay in the baby-world so new,
Its flowers are drowning in the dew,
Its paths are soft to tender feet,
Stay in the baby-world my sweet!

My little maid, my little maid,
You grow too old, I am afraid,
Five years! it seems a little while
Since you came here with slow sweet smile
On your wee mouth, your pretty chin,
And each cheek with a dimple in,
Your soft hands clutching at the air,
Your birthright all our love and care.

Stay in the baby-world so new,
Its flowers are drowning in the dew,
Its paths are soft to tender feet,
Stay in the baby-world my sweet.

Heather White

Sprig o’ heather, you were born
Where the mountains greet the morn,
Just within the shadow dim
Of the grey rocks harsh and grim,
Just beside the torrent’s brim,
You were born;
I, a naturalist, can trace
In thy sweet sky-lifted face,
Signs and tokens of the place
Clear as morn.

Breath that comes from ’mong the firs,
When the wet-faced sea-wind stirs
In its flight,
Night of gloom, and day of gold,
Hill and vale, white flocks in fold,
Ah, to-night,
Dim my eyes grow as they see
All thy dear heart shows to me,
Blossom from across the sea,
Heather White!

Grannie’s Message to Jack

You’re sending Jack a letter, dear--
To-day he’s twenty-one,
And plainly I can read your pride
And joy in the dear son.
He wants a message--Ah, if I
Could take his hand in mine
Instead of putting all my love
In one poor little line.

But write out clear and let it read
_To Jack, away from home,
Old Grannie says, get ready,
For the Kingdom come._

You’re smiling daughter as you write,
But Jack won’t smile that way,
His mind will just go flying back
To thoughts of yesterday;
Before he got so big and strong,
And oh, so very nice,
When he was Grannie’s white-haired boy
Just dreaming of the skies.

So write out clear, and let it read,
_To Jack, away from home,
Old Grannie, says get ready
For the Kingdom come._

Somehow the letters that we get
Don’t seem to come from him,
And often when I’ve read them through
My poor old eyes are dim,
He talks too much of worldly things--
My Jack was never proud,
Of wealth and fame, and power to win,
And going with the crowd.

So write out clear, and let it read,
_To Jack, away from home,
Old Grannie says, get ready
For the Kingdom come._

You think his birthday calls for more
Than one poor little line,
Nay, there are those who love him less
To make him wishes fine;
My words go from a faithful heart,
They’re true, and they are warm,
There’s loving wisdom in them, too,
To keep my boy from home.

So write out clear, and let it read,
_To Jack, away from home,
Old Grannie says, get ready
For the Kingdom come._

I’d like to see him as he reads,
His blue eyes brimming o’er,
And good thoughts rising white and strong
To be forgot no more;
Heaven will be nearer to his heart
Than it has been for years,
For he will read in these few words
My love, my hope, my prayers.

So write it clear, and let it read,
_To Jack, away from home,
Old Grannie says, get ready
For the Kingdom come._

The Ever and Ever so Long Ago

O, life has its seasons joyous and drear,
Its summer’s bloom, and its frost and snow,
But the fairest of all, I tell you, dear,
Was the sweet old spring of the long ago--
The ever and ever so long ago!

When we walked together among the flowers,
When the world with beauty was all aglow,
O, the rain and dew! O, the shine and showers
Of the sweet old spring of the long ago,
The ever and ever so long ago!

A hunger for all of the past delight
Is stirred by the winds that softly blow,
O, spare but a thought, dear, from heaven to-night
For the sweet old spring of the long ago,
The ever and ever so long ago!

The Height

The climbing step by step up pathways steep
Had wearied me upon that summer day,
Till, by-and-by, a strong hand seemed to sweep
All save the joyousness of life away,
The heavens stretched their azure folds above--
I stood, my feet upon the dizzy height
I had not thought to reach save in my dreams;
The whirring of an eagle’s wings in flight
Towards rarer winds, and still more dazzling gleams
Of the red sun, was every sound abroad.
Full sweet the silence of the solemn place
Where nature, radiant, drew so close to God,
You saw His very kiss upon her face,
And heard the mystic murmur of His love.

Her Portrait

A little child, she stood that far-off day,
When Love, the master-painter, took the brush
And on the wall of mem’ry dull and grey
Traced tender eyes, wide brow, and changing blush,
The gladness and the youth, the bending head
All covered over with its curls of gold,
The dimpled arms, the two hands filled with bread
To feed the little sparrows brown and bold
That flutter to her feet. It hangs there still,
Just as ’twas painted on that far-off day,
Nor faded is the blush upon the cheek,
The sweet lips hold their smiling and can thrill,
And still the eyes--so tender, and so meek--
Light up the walls of mem’ry dull and gray.

God Loveth Us

God loveth us! in pain or bliss,
O heart, be true and strong!
God loveth us, and knowing this
We know life’s sweetest song.

God loveth us! O eyes that find
Life’s lesson hard to read,
By tears of loss made dim and blind
Learn His great love instead.

God loveth us! O hands that grasp
At human tenderness,
And then in emptiness unclasp,
He waits to fill and bless.

God loveth us! O weary feet
That find life’s pathway long,
His love provides a rest so sweet
The hope of it makes strong.

God loveth us! O hearts that ache
With striving all in vain,
His tender hand is reached to take
The bitterness and pain.

God loveth us! O fallen one
Creep upward to the light,
God’s radiant stars shine on and on,
Until the dawn grows bright.

God loveth us! in pain or bliss,
O heart be true and strong,
God loveth us! and knowing this,
We know life’s sweetest song.

An Etching

A harvester throws up the sheaves,
And hums a merry old refrain,
Some thistles show their prickly leaves
Among the swaths of yellow grain.

The briar bushes soft and green
Quite hide the zig-gag fence away,
And all the space that lies between
Is carpeted with new-mown hay.

The heat of noonday presses all
To rest and silence, full and deep,
And still the cheery robins call
To show that they are not asleep.

Shadows

“O sweet white rose, I pray you tell
Why in that fragrant heart of thine
Where golden sunbeams seldom fell,
All grace and gladness seems to dwell,
And summer fragrance hold its shrine?”

“Sweet, am I,” west wind, sweet and white,
Then leave me in the shadow pray,
Here soft dews bathe me all the night,
And no harsh sunbeam comes at light,
To kiss the great white tears away.”

A Merrie Christmasse Untoe Ye

A Merrie Christmasse untoe ye!
The wishe is olde, the sweete refraine
Of that song carolled longe agoe,
When Love crepte downe o’er hille and plaine
Singing, full-toned, to heartes in paine,
“Peace ande goodwille!”
Lete white flowers growe,
A Merrie Christmasse untoe ye!

Marguerite

All light and love, and golden grace,
One full glad day, one summer day
Goes ever with me on my way,
And to no other yields a place.

Do you remember Marguerite,
Ah! faithful one, I need not ask,
Since to forget is such a task,
My strength fails toiling at it, sweet.

We climbed the path among the hills,
And laughed to see the wild-birds go
All startled, flying to and fro
Afraid of great and unknown ills.

The wind laughed with us, and grew warm
With breath of leaf, and stalk, and flower,
No space of that delicious hour
But held a fresh and subtle charm.

Till, by-and-by, we stood and knew
Ourselves upon the height alone,
For us the blue sky smiled and shone,
The great world only held us two.

So fair, so cold--it could not be!
Thou wert so proud, my Marguerite,
Thou wert so proud, and O, so sweet
I scarce could look at all on thee.

Till in me grew a madness born
Of the wind blowing from the south,
I bent and kissed thee on the mouth,
The ripe, red mouth--the bow of scorn.

No scorn was on it then, my sweet,
But tenderness beyond compare,
Thy white soul laid its secret bare,
Thy love was mine--_mine_--Marguerite!

I whispered foolish things and fond,
O bliss, for which I vainly yearned!
Not, not for me, the truth I learned,
Thine hand had signed stern duty’s bond.

It was the end, we did not say
The lover’s lingering good-bye,
Only the day’s glad soul did die,
And earth and heaven alike were grey.

Did I forget? is mine a heart,
One apt to yield up all its store?
I loved thee ever, more and more
Through all the years we dwelt apart
One walked with me a little space,
To her I gave affection mild,
As to a pretty winning child
Who sought to cheer me with her grace.

With pretty tasks she filled each day,
Walked in my home with gentle pride,
Called me a dreamer, oft would chide
My thoughts for soaring far away.

Her robes swept softly to her feet,
Her hair fell down a golden fleece,
Yet, when mine arm embraced Bernice,
My soul embraced _thee_, Marguerite.

We cannot change, we cannot pass
To other things until we die;
Who knows, the old love may not lie
Within the grave, beneath the grass?

Perhaps ’twas wrong, but this I know
My longing I could never still,
For love was stronger than my will,
And mem’ry would not let thee go.

I know where one long silky braid
Fell down upon thy snowy neck,
And how the blushes came to deck,
And where the cunning dimples laid.

Each of thy little tricks of speech
Hath kept its echo all the while,
Thy laughter growing from a smile
Which sadness oft would chase and reach.

And now we stand alone again,
With naught to keep us far apart;
Come to thy home within my heart,
And there forget all loss and pain.

Come, with that glow upon thy face
We will go back a dozen years,
Back past the graves, back through the tears,
To that cold day of youth and grace.

And there take up the golden store
Of life and love so weighty grown--
I hold thy heart against mine own,
And thus will hold forever more.

The Hoar Frost on the Wood

Look through the glistening stubble-fields to where
Last night, in sullen and complaining mood,
Over the fate that left them grim and bare,
The trees in yonder dear old forest stood.
“The spring,” they moaned, “Ah, it will be a while
Ere she can reach us with her magic wand!”
Who was it heard? To-day, mile upon mile,--
There stretches out a white enchanted land,
Each tall tree hath a weight of gems that shine--
Mark how the sun can draw its beauties out--
On every soft white thing its kisses fall,
Till in the air we see a dazzling line
Of sparkling gems--it is a glorious rout
Of nature’s children holding Carnival.

Two Creeds

The Priest was earnest and sincere--
He deemed that this stout cavalier,
This stranger unto Christ’s dear grace,
Who rested with him for a space,
Should hear the truth, what saith the creed?
“To every man that stands in need.”

Though weary miles of pilgrimage
Has tried his strength, yet would he wage,
Stout war of argument to-night,
With heathen ignorance of right,
With faltering tongue he then began
To picture to this fellow-man--
In error born, on error nursed,
By pride and passion doubly cursed--
The glories of a city fair,
To which men climb on narrow stair
Of self-denial, prayer and fast,
And zeal unflagging to the last.

“Its gates that flash the sunlight back,
What touch of splendor do they lack?
I see them lift themselves upright--
Of pearl, unblemished, pure and white--
Its streets gleam yellow in the sun,
Through fields of green its waters run,
And o’er it all no shadow flies,
The sun sets not in Paradise.

“From every throat swells forth a song,
Not one is mute of that vast throng,
Who, through the weeping and the night,
Have found their way to Heaven’s delight.
No bitterness, no cry of pain,
No grieving over mortal strain,
No shrinking will, no coward fear,
No breaking heart, no scalding tear,
In the fair city built above,
For this is heaven, and heaven is love.”

The other bowing courteously,
“Thanks for this kindness done to me.
I doffed my boldness and my pride,
And sat here meekly by your side,
While you, for a brief moment’s space,
Painted the beauty of that place,
Where white souls live, now list to me,
And bare your head as reverently,
While I set forth before your eyes
The glories of _my_ Paradise.
“A garden hidden quite away,
Where stranger footsteps never stray,
The yellow sun shines all day long,

The wild-bird sings his choicest song;
There at the gate my angel stands
To welcome me with out-stretched hands;
A lotus-bud gleams in her hair,
Her round, soft arms all white and bare,
Between her lips warm kisses hide,
Love in her eyes that open wide.

A perfume comes up from the beds
Of lilies hanging their white heads,
The pearls of dew begin to fall,
A night-bird to its mate doth call,
The changing shadows softly move
But never touch the face I love;
You know, O Priest, so learned and wise,
The sun sets not in Paradise.

You tell of rest that waits the few,
That strive with earnest zeal and true
To gain it, as the years go past,
By toil, and care, and patient fast,
O Priest! my heaven gives richer dole,
It takes the laggard, worthless soul,
And fills it up with rapture sweet,
And makes it know itself complete.
Rest! never penance won such rest
As comes to me when her white breast
Is made a pillow for my cheek,
When her dark eyes look down and speak;
O Love! the world and all its care
Lies quite outside this garden fair,
You know, O Priest, so learned and wise
The sun sets not in Paradise.

You look for heaven after death--
I draw it in with every breath--
I am content, be you the same,
If I mistake, be mine the blame,
But in one fair sweet odored grove
Lies heaven, if heaven means peace and love.”

His Ex-Platonic Friend

I’ve lost a thing of value great,
And, woe is me, I’ll now find it
The very choicest thing of all,
Or sure, you know I wouldn’t mind it.

Some call it friendship--I don’t know.
But take their word as is my duty,
But if the definition’s true,
Then friendship is a thing of beauty.

For mine took on so fair a form
It charmed away all care and sadness,
It flashed out beams so strong and warm,
Away went everything but gladness.

It looked from tender eyes of brown,
And spake my greatest fault forgiven,
In wondrous sweetness there it shone--
In truest eyes outside of heaven.

I felt it in the hand I clasped,
So small, and yet so strong to guide me
Through waters deep, or breakers past,
Or aught that threatened to betide me.

With ripe red lips it spake to me,
O voice, that always soothes and blesses!
While I, Philistine, felt to pray
That I might silence it with kisses.

I’ve lost all this by my mistake,
I walked, you see, not circumspectly,
I pressed a claim for love’s sweet sake,
And friendship took to flight directly.

And I am left to think with pain
How folly caused my loss and sorrow,
Had I my friendship back again
I’d do the very same to-morrow.

The Grave

O the grave is a quiet place, my dear,
So still and so quiet by night and by day,
Reached by no sound either joyous or drear,
But keeping its silence alway, alway.

O the grave is a restful place, my dear,
Unvext by the weightiest loss or gain,
All the undone work of the speeding year
May beat at its portals in vain, in vain.

O the grave is a tender place, my dear,
The Love immortal, the faith, the trust,
The grace and the beauty, lie buried there,
So pure and so white in a robe of dust.

O the grave is a home-like place, my dear,
Where we all do gather when day is done,
Where the earth mother folds us close and near,
And the latch-string waits for the laggard one.

Settled by Arbitration

The three sat at meat in a country inn,
And Patrick’s face wore an elegant grin,
For the Scotchman lean, and the Englishman stout
Were having a nice little quarrel out.
Now, it all begun when five times had gone
The glass and bottle to everyone,
The Englishman, he had a stubborn jaw
And could quote whole pages of English law,
While the Scotchman, was as stern and as gray
As the rocks of his country far away.
The bottle it made him but look more stern,
But the other one took a boasting turn,
He talked of their big brave ships on the sea,
Of their soldiers as brave as brave could be,
Of the English beef that no land could beat,
Of their puddings and pastries good to eat;
And the Scotchman listened to every word
And seemed agreeing with all that he heard,
Till the squared-jawed fellow by-and-by claimed
His country the wittiest ever named;
“The Henglish wit, sir, hit shines like the sun”
“Aye! the sun in a fog,” the other one,
Then the arguments flew so thick and fast--
They’d have come to blows ere the thing was past
Had not Patrick, good hearted, blithe and gay,
Chanced to travel with them that summer day,
“Now sure,” said he, “you know ’tis the fashion
To settle disputes by arbitration,
Faith, a rale ould shindy’s the thing for me,
But the rale ould shindy has ceased to be,
Let’s be the powers, and raison a bit,
Whist now! and ould Erin will settle it.”
Then these two disputants, they both agreed
To take his finding in word and deed.
“The English wit, sir--let’s take off our hats--
Can’t be seen by folks that are blind as bats,
’Tis none of your common everyday stuff,
Nor like that of Ireland, vulgar and bluff,
Sure, ’tis something I would only compare
To what is well known as precious and rare,
Say to the famous philosopher’s stone--
Or elixir of life to ould sages known;
No Irishman from the hill or the bog
Would say it was like the sun in a fog,
That statement, sirs, on the face is untrue
For sometimes the fog will let the sun through.”
One pacified man went off with good grace,
And Patrick laughed at the other’s stern face,
“You think me a blarney--hark, what I say,
I tould the truth in an iligant way,
Sure you know, and I know, and everyone,
The fable of the philosopher’s stone,
For stone, elixir, and Englishman’s wit
Men have searched long, and found nivir a bit,”
Then low to himself, “faith, that joke’s so clear
That even a Scotchman may see it--_next year_!”

The Circuit

A pretty port I sailed from,
So long, so long ago,
As day down golden stairway
Climbed to the world below.
Ho, mariner! come tell me,
Come tell me of a truth
Know you a track will lead me back
Unto the shores of youth?

A pretty port I sailed from,
So long, so long ago,
The blue sky stretching over,
Blessed all the world below.
I laughed good-bye so lightly,
Nor recked I then, forsooth,
That leagues of years and mist of tears
Would hide the shores of youth.

Yet ever follows after,
A breath of fragrance rare
From hearts of flowers that blossom
But in its tender air.
And ever hear I, sweet and clear,
The music of its birds--
The whistling flight of wings at night--
The songs too sweet for words.

And ever see its beauty,
The smiling of its shore,
And ever wait, and ever long
To anchor there once more.
Ho mariner! Ho mariner!
Come tell me of a truth
Know you a track will lead me back
Unto the shores of youth?

A pretty port I sailed from,
So long, so long ago,
As day, down golden stairway,
Passed to the world below.
Sail on! Sail on! till light is done,
Ho mariner, so wise!
’Tis far behind--so far behind--
This port I sailed from, lies.

Sail on! Sail on! you tell me,
And in the twilight’s glow
I’ll reach the port I sailed from,
So long, so long ago.
If this be so, then we may know
That all who lose will find
Each ship will come to love and home,
And all it left behind.

Youth’s golden shore lies on before,
So gaily sail we on,
For the port we reach at even
Is the port we leave at dawn.
The harbor bar shines golden,
O sweetness of the truth,
We’ll cross it o’er, and come once more
Unto the shores of youth.

Gethsemane

O Blessed Christ! O blessed Christ!
The night is deep and long,
And there is none to watch with me
Of all the careless throng.
O blessed Christ! O blessed Christ!
The world lies fast asleep,
Think Thou on dark Gethsemane
And count the tears I weep.

My Friend

I have a friend, if you should ask
Why ’tis I love her well,
Indeed, ’twould be a weighty task
These reasons all to tell.

First, she is good enough to see--
A pretty face and kind,
That somehow fairer is to me
Than others I can find.

She has two lips with laughter filled,
That hold not scorn nor sneer,
She is a little bit self-willed--
Gangs her ain gait, I fear.

She has two strong and supple hands,
Two bright and tender eyes,
She has a heart that understands,
She has a judgment wise.

Her voice--at least to me--is fine,
I like to lie and rest,
And hear her reading, line by line,
The poems I love best.

No jealousy, no trace of spite
Is in her nature strong,
She is so loyal to the right,
So gentle with the wrong.

The Prodigal

They sat alone by the fireside, a couple old and gray,
Brooding over a sorrow keen at the close of a winter’s day.

The woman spake to the man at length, tenderly, wistfully,
“The pillar of fire still guides by night, the cloud still guides by day.

If you would but take the ills of life, the losses, the sorrow vain,
To the One whose ear is open to hear each cry of pain!

You are thinking now of Willie, the boy we loved so well,
And who left his home to wander--whither--Ah, who can tell!

His room stands just as he left it--I go upstairs each day
And smooth the pillows with my hands, and for my darling pray.

He may not have--sometimes my heart grows fairly sick with dread--
In cold, or storm, or in sickness, a place to lay his head.

My heart would break did I not know the Father of us all
Stoops down to make my sorrow less, counts all the tears that fall.

You will not turn where comfort lies, towards Him you will not move,
O husband, give the Lord your heart--prove, prove His faithful love.”

“If I had sought the Lord,” said he, “when youth and strength were mine,
I might have had to cheer me now as dear a faith as thine.

But God is just, His laws so stern, I’ve broken year by year,
God is a judge--I feel that now--just, holy, and severe.

I scorn to seek Him after all the years I’ve walked in sin--
’Tis too near to life’s ending now for me to just begin.

My heart lies heavy in my breast, but I must bear my load,
My pride has kept me all along a sad and dreary road.

Yes, I’m thinking, wife, of Willie, the boy who went away--
Thoughts of him fill the heart of me when comes this time of day.

I watch you praying for his soul, a light in your dear e’e,
Methinks a soul from heaven itself might well come back to see.

But I--I cannot pray at all; the words they will not come,
My soul rebels and will not bow--_my boy is far from home_.

My lad I was so proud of, though often I was stern,
Wilful was he, but ah, to-night for his presence I yearn.”

There’s a step on the walk outside, trembling hands at the door,
And some one is kneeling by them, sobbing out o’er and o’er:

“Father, your prodigal has come, unworthy of your name,
Broken in spirit, buffeted, baptised with bitter shame.

But say _forgiven_, and lay your hand on me in the old way;
Pride kept me long from you, but I had to come home to-day.”

Such a welcome he got from them--the old love changeth not,
Faithful to death, unswerving--miracles hath it wrought.

The father turned a glowing face, and whispered: Let us pray,
My pride has kept me long from God, but I’ll go home to-day.

And then with the firelight shining, leaving his heavy load,
A prodigal old and hoary came tremblingly back to God.

He knew the truth, deep as the sea, high as the heaven above,
Knew that the Fatherhood of God was made and crowned with Love.

At Quebec

Quebec, the grey old city on the hill,
Lies with a golden glory on her head,
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair--so still--
Of other days and all her mighty dead.
The white doves perch upon the cannons grim,
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim
Above the battlefield so grim and wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
Of pride, of tenderness--her stirring past--
The strife, the valor, of the long ago
Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast,
She lies, touched with the sunsets golden grace,
A wondrous softness on her grey old face.

The Tea Kettle’s Tune

I like to hear the kettle sing
At this time of the day,
Such cheery thoughts it seems to bring,
All worries flee away.

_Now spread your table cloth so white_,
It tells me as I wait,
_Come, bustle ’round, ’tis almost night--
The goodman’s at the gate._

Long time ago it heard John say
Some foolish lover things,
And do you know that to this day
They’re in the song it sings.

It caught the gladness in my tone
When baby Grace arrived,
My pride when Jim first stood alone,
My joy when Robbie thrived.

All this was such awhile ago,
You’d think it would forget,
But ah, the tune--I love it so--
It sings me sometimes yet.

When I was vexed with John last night,
And sat here full of pride,
It sang away with all its might,
And shamed me till I cried.

’Tis humming now, _Come, broil the ham
Or supper will be late,
Put on the biscuits and the jam,
You’re goodman’s at the gate._

The Creed of Love

I have a creed, I’ll tell it you,
Since you have asked me to define
On what I build my hopes of heaven.
My creed--yes, I can call it mine,
Since it belongs to every soul
That reaches upward toward the light,
And trusts in Christ for guidance sure,
And strength and will to do the right.

You’ll find it written down, my friend,
In that old Book upon the shelf,
’Tis: _Love the Lord with all thine heart
And love thy neighbor as thyself_.
Not _quite_ enough? ’Twas counted so
By One Who walked by Galilee,
His creed of love to God and man
Is quite enough for you and me.

In the Clover Field

The air is sweet as sweet can be,
The azure sky spreads smoothly over,
And rest and joy keep company,
In this wide field of sun-kissed clover.

Among the heavy heads of pink,
The avaricious bees are straying,
A glad full-throated bobolink,
His highest note is now essaying.

The earth is holding on her breast,
The sweetest flowers of all her growing,
The white clouds float, from out the west
A soft delicious wind is blowing.

Oh, life is good on such a day,
The blue sky bending smoothly over,
For neither care nor cross will stay,
In this wide field of sun-kissed clover.

Lullaby

Going off to sleep on mamma’s breast,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
He’s the baby mamma loves best--
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
Rosy cheeks have been kissed by the sun,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
He’s so tired chasing after fun,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!

Pretty white “nighty”--isn’t he sweet?
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
Reaching right from his chin to his feet,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
Never mind staring up at the sky,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
The stars will wink at you by and by,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!

Fast asleep on his mamma’s breast,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
Put him down in his little white nest,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!

A Sunset Talk

How sweet the pink flush there in the west,
With the golden bars--let us sit a space--
I want to talk to you as we rest--
Sit where my eyes can dwell on your face.

I have been thinking of you to-day,
You smile as you listen. Is there an hour
I’m not in her thoughts, I hear you say--
Look at that butterfly hid in a flower.

Yes, I have been thinking all day long,
For the fancy came and it will not go,
That if I were to die--I am strong,
’Tis only a fancy of mine, you know.

Only a fancy (you take my breath
With your passionate kisses) people die,
And happiness is no bar to death
Or we never need fear him, you nor I.

Only a fancy, so don’t look grave,
We’ll be together for years to come,
But, listen, would you be good and brave
If Death, God’s reaper, came into our home?

Would you remember the full glad years,
And remembering them forget to weep?
We have been happy, no need for tears
If one of us, dear one, should fall asleep.

Living without me would break your heart,
“O sorrow of joys remembered!” You cry,
Keep all the brightness though far apart,
Explain my meaning--well dear, I will try.

One summer morning I heard a lark
Singing to heaven, a sweet-throated bird,
_One winter night I was glad in the dark,
Because of the glorious song I had heard_.

“The joy of my life,” I’ve heard you say,
“With her love and laughter, her smiles and tears”--
Let these be the lark’s song, sweet and gay,
That will sound in your heart through all the years.

For tell me, dear one, what is love worth
If it cannot crowd in the time ’tis given
To two like us, on this grey old earth,
Such bliss as will last till we reach heaven?

So, if I should die just bend your head,
And kiss my lips as I lie at rest,
Whisper, _I love you living or dead
Always and ever I love you best_.

Why talk of it now? A woman’s whim,
We are whimsical creatures, as you know--
Look yonder, the twilight soft and dim
Comes hurrying over the world below.

Truth upon Honor

Pa’s brother is a bachelor, but not a crusty one,
He’s got the very nicest home and lives there all alone;
At Christmas-time he buys me up most everything I want,
Because I look, ’so people say, just like my pretty aunt.

She’s just as nice as she can be, and long, long time ago
Pa’s brother was, or tried to be, this same Aunt Jessie’s beau,
For once I heard pa say to ma, “Your sister was to blame,”
Then ma, she flared right up and said, “She did right, just the same.”

“Your brother, stubborn fellow, he would break a woman’s heart,
I tell you I was glad for one they thought it best to part!”
I thought of this the other day, when our relations came
To eat the Xmas turkey, and more things than I could name.

For Aunt’s face got as red as fire when Uncle Ned came in,
“Peace and goodwill at Xmas time,” said pa, with such a grin.
“I wish,” said I to brother Tom, “they’d have a wedding day,
What is the good of two nice folks sulking around this way?

I’d be a bridesmaid for them, Tom, and wouldn’t that be fun,
Then we’d go there for holidays as soon as school was done.”
“Don’t you believe such stuff of him,” said brother Tom to me,
“Why, everyone that falls in love is silly as can be!

Put all their good clothes on at once--strut ’round an’ show off so,
The folks that have to live with them get sick of it you know.”
Sho! don’t tell up such stuff as that about our Uncle Ned,
If you don’t mind your p’s and q’s I’ll tell him what you said.

But I found out that I was right--I’ll tell you how it came,
Truth upon Honor, we did play--it’s just a lovely game,
You ask the queerest questions and they answer out quite free,
And if they tell what isn’t true, it’s wicked, don’t you see?

Tom asked me was I awful mad (he can be dreadful mean)
When a great deal prettier hat than mine went by on Mabel Green?
I had to tell, but never mind, I paid him back again,
I made him own he copied sums from clever cousin Ben.

Aunt Jess she laughed, and Uncle Ned said ’twas a jolly game,
He changed his tune though pretty quick when round his own turn came.
“Now tell the truth,” I said to him--“not maybe or I guess--
Ain’t you just heaps and heaps in love with our dear Auntie Jess?

At first he scowled at Tom and me as mad as any hoe,
And Tom he laughed and said, “Own up! you used to be her beau.”
At this he looked and looked at her, and thought her nice I guess
For right out quick he said, “It’s true--I love your dear Aunt Jess.”

We clapped our hands. Now ’tis your turn to question Auntie here,
But if he didn’t--mean old thing--just whisper in her ear.
Said she, “This is a pretty game, which everyone should know.”
“I wish we’d played it, dear,” he said, “a long, long time ago.”

Then I winked hard at brother Tom, and he winked back at me,
And we sneaked off and left them there as jolly as could be.
I know a thing that I won’t tell--not to Tom anyway,
I’ll be a bridesmaid all so fine before next Xmas day.

Elspeth’s Daughter-in-law

I don’t know what spell came over us,
That’s over father and me,
But two silly things we must have been
To let the boy have his way.
But Sammie was all the boy we had,
An’ he grew so big an’ tall--
We had no girl, I didn’t mind that,
For I don’t care for girls at all.

An’ that great fellow, six feet I know,
An’ an arm I couldn’t span,
Was handsome--I may as well own up
That I like a handsome man.
Now father declares the trouble came
To fill our life to the brim
By reason of Sam’s good looks--he _thinks_
The boy should look just like him.

Not that I’d hurt his pride for the world,
But I’d feel most awful bad
To see father’s features one by one
A-showing up on our lad.
Sam got to college all right enough,
When he came home I declare
He told me about wonderful things
He’d had to learn while up there.
He showed me gloves all padded out,
The cap an’ the scanty trews,
An’ the mask of wire that hid his face,
The day that they beat the Blues.

I had my doubts about Sammie too,
For fear ’twould spoil the lad,
An’ widow Dobbs kept throwing out hints
That he was going to the bad.
She’s awful quick with her nods and winks,
An’ a body can’t forget,
Why, she made me do a thing one day
That I’m mortal shamed of yet.

She’d been telling up a big long yarn
Of boy’s deceit, an’ of things
That mothers discover unawares--
An’ get just desperate stings.
It vexed me so much, that up I went
An’ opened our Sammie’s trunk,
Though if he had come an’ caught me there--
Well, I know I should have sunk.

I searched through all that big pile of stuff,
An’ I tried each little key,
But there was nothing in that big trunk
That his mother daren’t see.
Then I went over to widow Dobbs,
An’ we had a little spat,
My boy was hiding nothing from me,
Thank God! for a boy like that.

But I must tell you about his wife;
You see we had always planned
That he’d marry Eliza Jane Jones--
She owns a good bit of land.
She isn’t good looking, I’ll own up,
But in all your mortal life,
You never saw a better
Nor thriftier farmer’s wife.

’Twas a shock, I tell you, when he wrote
(Father said I was to blame)
That he’d bring a bride from the city--
Daisy, he said, was her name.
Well, I’ll never forget how I felt
When I first saw Sammie’s wife,
I shook hands--I couldn’t have kissed her
Had it been to save my life.

You see, I’d a thought of the work,
Plenty to do I can tell,
An’ I thought when Sammie’s wife came home
That I’d try a shirking spell.
An’ when I saw her, my heart was full
Of vexation an’ surprise,
I thought of hearty Eliza Jane Jones
Till the tears came in my eyes.

She looked like a picture standing there,
A-smoothing her soft hair down,
It made me feel hateful, just to know
I was homely, old, and brown.
It vexed me just to look at her hands,
So dimpled, an’ soft, an’ white--
I took Mr. Sammie to my room
An’ told him it wasn’t right.

“She is no worker,” I said to him,
“An’ drones are bad in a hive,”
He laughed, “Oh we are a sleepy lot,
Daisy will keep us alive!”
“I know how ’twill be,” I said to him,
She’ll want new things every day
In machinery, to do up the work
In the quick new-fangled way.

“But I won’t have it,” I said to him,
“I have my way of going,
An’ it’s girls that can’t do anything
That want to do the showing.”
He took it good--thinks I to myself
I’ll finish while I’m in it,
“There’s one thing, Sammie, I’ve never done,
An’ I’m old now to begin it.

I’m old to wait on your lady wife,
An’ stick to it day by day,
An’ listen to high-falutin’ talk,
An’ feel I’m just in the way.
An’ another thing,” I said to him,
Then stopped, an’ got red an’ hot,
“You needn’t think your babies I’ll mind,
Because I tell you I’ll not.”

I wish you could have heard the boy laugh,
He shook the things on the shelf,
“The dear little mammie, shan’t be ’bused”
He said, “I’ll mind ’em myself.”
All this talk I tell just to show
What a fickle thing I am,
An’ how little my words really meant
When I said all this to Sam.

It was only some four years ago,
An’ stowed in the big back hall
There’s machines for almost everything,
Leaning their backs to the wall.
My daughter-in-law ’tends to it all--
A good stout girl at her hand--
If I say it myself, you can’t find
Better kept house in the land.

The books, an’ papers, an’ flowers seem
Part of her every-day life,
An’ no doctor can ’tend to a sprain
Better than our Sammie’s wife.
Now, I like to sit here in my chair
An’ watch her happy an’ free,
An’ I like--yes, I’ll own up--I like
Baby to climb on my knee.

Poor old father is sillier yet,
A slave to three-year-old Jim,
My, he grins an’ looks proud as can be
Because the boy looks like him!
Oh, we all have our worries I know,
We find each blemish an’ flaw,
But there’s one perfect thing in this world--
Sam’s wife, _my daughter-in-law_.

Cold Water

My niece from Boston, Minerva Bleak,
So learned they call her Madam,
With all her ’ologies, French and Greek,
With all the queer things she styles antique,
Came to see me, an’ Adam.

My brother, he wrote before she came,
A patient I send to you,
Just chase the cobwebs out of her brain,
And make her happy and sweet again,
Just now, she’s horribly blue.

Blue! I cried, ’tis a serious thing,
System all out of kilter!
But Adam laughed when he saw me bring,
Herbs I had gathered late in the spring,
To brew into a philter.

I tell you it was a big surprise
When I got a look at her.
Blue, there was nothing blue but her eyes,
They were as blue as the summer skies,
Adam laughed,--but no matter.

She hadn’t been there many weeks
When I began to worry.
A girl should have roses in her cheeks,
Should sing, and laugh sometimes when she speaks,
And not be sad and sorry.

I knew what was wrong, and told her so,
Studyin’, and contrivin’
Over things she had no call to know,
An’ quite neglectin’ the life an’ glow
That keep the soul a-thrivin’.

She had books on science, an’ books on art,
An’ books on things still higher,
Wonderful things that gave you a start,
But not a line, or a word, on the heart
Full of its vain desire.

Well, she’d been there a month--maybe more,
’Twas dreadful stormy weather,
She’d just been telling me o’er and o’er
Quaint little stories she’d told before
As we sat there together.

When Martha came showin’ in young Blaine,
(Most as tall as our ceilin,’
Such a splendid fellow, good and plain,
With no great beauty to make him vain,
But lots of sense an’ feelin.’)

I introduced him all right I know--
I like him--so does Adam,
But Minerva’s face went white as snow,
And he said, bowing his head, just so--
“We’ve met, have we not, madam?”

A nice romance right under my nose,
I watched it growin’, growin,’
Along through the weeks of frosts and snows
(Oh, I wasn’t blind you may suppose)
And bitter north wind blowin’.

For a man from Boston came along,
(Such an elegant fellow)
Played the guitar, wore his hair quite long,
Talked to Minerva of art and song
In tones so soft an’ mellow.

Before long I had my feelings stirred,
And vowed he should’nt have her.
I listened long, but I never heard
From his mouth one good sensible word,
Nothin’ but rank palaver.

And to watch that girl, who seemed so wise,
Listenin’ to all he told her,
It made the tears come into my eyes,
An’ my strong temper get on the rise.
But when the man got bolder.

And they talked together, an’ agreed
God’s word was but a fable,
A good, well-written story, indeed,
Why I got right up, as I had need,
Stand this? I wasn’t able.

I told him he had better take
His views where they were needed,
Minerva said ’twas a great mistake,
Said sometimes her heart did fairly ache
To know as much as he did.

Then I got Minerva off alone,
Ah, she was dear, the sinner,
Said I, if old Satan gets this one
It won’t be because I haven’t done
All that I could to win her.

So I told her things tender and true,
Told her of love undying,
Told her of peace that my own soul knew,
Till pride died out of her eyes of blue
An’ she fell softly crying.

“You were a babe when your mother died,
And I stood there beside her,
Can you believe that your mother lied
When she kissed your face?” I said, an’ cried
“The Christ will keep an’ guide her,”

“Will bring my little one home to me,
As gates of pearl were lifting.”
Your mother was very dear to me.
Now on what big mysterious sea
Would you have her soul drifting.

Next day there came through the bitter cold
Two offers, or what I suppose was.
One in an envelope square and bold,
The other all perfume, white and gold,
Tied up in hot-house roses.

They all went skating that afternoon
Down on the frozen river.
When I think how they came back so soon,
Minerva half-drowned, an’ in a swoon,
It always makes me shiver.

’Twas all for the best, that bath so cold,
Proved a boon an’ a blessin’,
Down went Blaine after her, strong an’ bold,
While safe to shore the other one rolled.
O ’twas a wholesome lesson!

We sat there a happy crowd that night,
Though winter winds were blowin’,
Minerva, a little weak and white,
Her left hand hid in the preacher’s right,
Her eyes all soft an’ glowin’.

Would you believe it, the other came,
Full of presumes and supposes,
Hoped nobody held he was to blame,
I carried him down, though, just the same,
His bunch of hot-house roses.

He bowed himself off with such an air,
Not a bit overpowered,
And Adam said anything was fair,
With a man who went around with such hair,
And proved himself a coward.

My brother wrote to me yesterday,
“How _did_ you cure my daughter,
She’s not the same girl that went away.”
But when I ask her, she’ll laugh and say,
“The cure! O just cold water!”

Long Time Ago

There’s been a fair in our nearest town,
A wonderful show of new things,
And Ebenezer and I went down
Just to see the folks, and view things.

I wore the bonnet I got last week,
This stylish city-made bonnet,
And was sorry I did after all,
For the dust settled so upon it.

I wouldn’t have Ebenezer know,
Or Parson, for all creation,
But I don’t feel right unless I’m dressed
In the very latest fashion.

There’s sister Thomson, a good old maid,
It’s many a hint she’s given,
I’d feel more at home in Vanity Fair
Than I would in the courts of heaven.

She vexes me with her saintly ways,
I never need try to please her,
And I can guess at the reason too,
She wanted my Ebenezer.

“She’s delicate,” she said to him once
When he was at first my lover,
“No sort for a farmer lad to choose,
Sakes alive! there’s nothing of her.”

“She won’t stand life’s toil and turmoil long!”
She says of late, so regretful,
Well, she may get Ebenezer yet
For all men are so forgetful.

But never mind, I went to the fair,
I wish, my dear, you had been there,
For I know you would never forget
Such pretty sights as were seen there.

Now, since I saw the marvel myself,
I know you’ll surely believe it,
They’re fooling ’round with the lightning grim,
Have made a plan to deceive it.

Just think of taking some bits of steel,
And a rod that’s far from pliant,
To put on the roof of a house or barn,
That it can glare ’round defiant.

Ebenezer fancied it, I know,
And wanted to make the bargain,
But kind of dreaded what I would say,
And also good elder Largain.

“’Twould be right pleasant” he said to me,
“When the storm was at its labors,
To have something standing up like that
To scare it off to the neighbors.”

“Ebenezer,” I said, very sharp,
For I didn’t like his spirit,
“God holds all the lightning in His hand,
Then why should His children fear it?

“You just let that precious thing alone,
Let it alone, Ebenezer,
And if we’re struck when the lightning comes,
Why never mind, Ebenezer.”

Then there were machines for everything,
But I would feel like a ninny,
Setting all day on a cushioned chair,
Spinning rolls on that queer jinny.

They wanted to sell me one right off,
I shook my head, “not at present,”
I’ll do my work in the good old way,
Though it isn’t quite so pleasant.

I’ve done my share of the big farm’s work,
Spinning, and weaving, and baking;
Though sometimes only the good Lord knows
How my back and legs are aching.

And whatever sister Thomson says,
She can’t make fun of my working,
And if I like fashion most too well,
’Tisn’t the fashion of shirking.

There’s awful smart people in the world,
You’d think so if you had been there,
Such signs and wonders on every hand,
At the fair was to be seen, dear.

And I wore my very newest things,
Maybe I shouldn’t have done it,
But truth is truth, and I’ll own right up,
I look quite nice in this bonnet.

I wouldn’t have Ebenezer know,
Or parson, for all creation,
But I don’t feel right unless I’m dressed
In the very latest fashion.

The Meanest Man

“Tell you why I never got married?
I’d as lief as not, Sarah Ann,
I never but once got an offer,
And then--well, he wasn’t the man.

Tell the story--yes, if you wish it,
You cannot remember I know
When the widow Wemp an’ her youngster
Moved in the old cottage below.

That spring was as backward as could be,
The nights and the days were so cold,
Not a bird had a bit of a song
But the robins, saucy and bold.