Chapter II: Part 2

"He spat oot graun' like, 'Sin' ye're ower fond o' pelf
'Ye can hae,' said he, 'the rich pairty,
But I'll tak' the mon that is puir as mysel'
And gie him a welcome right hearty'--
A welcome right hearty.

"Gosh! I had tae lauch at the feckless auld mon
As he stood there, his bonnet-strings twirling;
Ye'd think he was chief o' a whole Highland clan
That marched to the pibroch's mad skirling.

"Ah! hot-headed, high-handed, go as you please,
These Highlanders no worth a copper,
Wi' their kilt and hose, and their uncovered knees--
A bold dress, and highly improper!

"Oor Colin's the same; hark ye, Davy and Jock,
Go no to the hills for your mating;
Twa weel dowered lassies o' guid lowland stock,
'Tis for such I'd hae ye both waiting.

"Ho! it's get what ye can, and keep what ye get,--
What is it ye whisper amang ye?
What! oor rich uncle's deid--weel, weel, dinna fret,
Ah'm certain that he wouldna wrang me.

"He promised to leave everything he possest--
Before witness promised it fairly--
To the most deserving, the noblest and best
O' a' the Allans o' Airlie.

"Ye ken I'm the mon. Here's the lawyer at hand,
(I'm richer a'ready and prooder)
Hark ye! 'Give and bequeath my gowd and my land'--
Mr. Grant, I pray ye, speak looder.

"I'll buy me the laird's castle doon by the park--
Oh, me! but I'll step aboot rarely.
'To my nephew, Colin'--it canna' be--hark!
'To the grandest Allan o' Airlie.'

"To Colin! I'd ficht, but I've no got the pluck,
I'm auld, and I'm broken, I tell ye;
I ca'd him a fool--he has had a fool's luck,
And noo he can buy me and sell me.

"Now hearken ye, lads, frae the morn till the nicht
It pays best tae act quite sincerely;
Get what ye can--aweel, the motto's a'richt,
But some things are gotten too dearly.
Ay, some things are gotten too dearly.

"I'm thinkin' o' gran'faither's Inverness wife,
Nor cattle nor siller she brought him,
Juist a hairt fu' o' luve--some queer views o' life--
How runs that auld ballad she taught him?

_"I've a lowly cot and a wide open door,
Neither old nor young need pass by, sir;
A piece of red gold for the brother that's poor--
Ho, a rich, happy man am I, sir!"_

"Aweel! there be lessons ye'll no learn in school,
It tak's my breath away fairly--
The ne'er-do-weel Colin, the family fool,
And the graundest Allan o' Airlie!"

THE HARBOR LIGHTS OF HOME.

J. Thomas Gordon left home one day,
Left home for good and all--
A boy has a right to have his own way
When he's nearly six foot tall;
At least, this is what J. Thomas thought,
And in his own young eyes
There were very few people quite so good,
And fewer still quite so wise.

What! tie as clever a lad as he
Down to commonplace toil?
Make J. Thomas Gordon a farmer lad,
A simple son of the soil?
Not if he knew it--'twould be a sin;
He wished to rise and soar.
For men like himself who would do and dare
Dame Fortune had much in store.

The world was in need of brains and brawn,
J. Thomas said modestly,
The clever young man was in great demand--
They would see what they would see.
He would make his mark in the busy world,
Some day the daily press
Would herald the glad news forth to the throng,
J. Thomas is a SUCCESS.

Then would the doubters and sceptics all
Say, with regret sincere,
"To think that we gave his hopes and his aims
But an unbelieving sneer!"
As for him, he would kiss his mother,
And give her wealth galore,
Shake the hand of his father--maybe--
Then back to the world once more.

With big ambition and high conceit
Was young J. Thomas filled;
The warning of friends and their arguments
His eloquence quickly stilled.
"You may go," said the irate father,
"I'll not urge you to stay;
You will learn your lesson, you headstrong fool,
Be glad to come back some day."

So J. Thomas Gordon left the farm,
As boys have done before,
And his mother began to count the hours
Till he would be home once more.

The father wearied as time went on--
Missed the boy from his side;
But all through the years the fond mother kept
Her love, her hope, and her pride.
With a mother's beautiful faith, she said:
"I know my boy will come
So wealthy, so honored, noble and great,
Proudly come marching home."

And ever she looked at eventide
Into the glowing west
For the dust of the carriage bringing her
The one that she loved the best.
Ah! how she longed to look on his face,
Her stalwart lad and true,
With his sunburned cheek, and his ruddy hair,
And his eyes so bright and blue.

To those who said 'twas cruel of him
Never a line to send,
She had but one answer, with eyes ashine:
"It will all come right in the end;
He's busy making a name and place,
And I must patient be
Till this clever, ambitious lad of mine
Finds time to come back to me."

Important and wealthy and famous,
Honored and wise and great!
But look you, who can that ragged tramp be,
Down there by the garden gate,
Pale as if hunger had pressed him sore,
Trembling because so weak,
Pushed on by his longing, held back by shame--
A tear on his poor pale cheek?

'Tis he! Had he come back rich and great
She'd have met him at the door,
But she's down the path with her arms outspread,
Because he has come back poor.
Gone, gone are her day-dreams sweet and fair--
Gone in the swift glad shock
Of folding a ragged tramp in her arms,
But love stands firm as a rock.

She rang the dinner bell long and loud,
The father came with speed;
The welcome he gave the prodigal
Was a tender one indeed.
"The young fool has learned his lesson,"
J. Thomas whispered low.
"So he has--God bless him!" the father cried,
"He'll make a good man, I know.

"Honest, unselfish, and true as steel,
Our boy will stand the test;
Kindly of thought and word and deed--
The homely virtues are best.
I knew when you went, and you know it now,
That all this pride and style,
This yearnin' to fill up the public eye,
Isn't really worth the while."

Oh, the happy face of the mother
That night as, kneeling low,
Tom said the prayer that he used to say
At her knee so long ago.
A new J. Thomas had this to add--
With his bonnie blue eyes wet--
"Thank God for the home, for the faithful hearts
That never change or forget."

* * * * *

Though far and wide on the world's rough sea
The children, reckless, roam,
The boldest thanks God in some stress of storm
For the harbor lights of home.

THE PREACHER DOWN AT COLES.

He was not especially handsome, he was not especially smart,
A great big lumbering fellow with a soft and tender heart.
His eyes were gray and honest, his smile a friendly one,
He wore his parson's suit of black on days of state alone;
At other times he went around in clothes the worse of wear,
A blue cloth cap set jauntily upon his thick gray hair.
He cared so little how he looked, so little how he drest,
That he tired the patience sorely of the ones he loved the best.
For a preacher, so they argued, should be dressed like one, of course,
But in the winter it was tweeds, in summer it was worse;
Ducks and flannels would be grimy, if the sad truth must be told,
For he spaded up the gardens of the people who were old,
And he ran down dusty highways at unministerial rate,
Going errands for the people who really could not wait.
His coat-sleeves would be short an inch, his trousers just the same,
For the washerwoman had them every week that ever came.
He cared so little how he looked, and never paused to think
That linen, duck, and flannel were such awful things to shrink.

His wife, she was the primmest thing, as neat as any doll,
And looked like one when walking by her husband big and tall.
It almost broke her heart that he refused to give a thought
To how he looked, or do the thing, or say the thing he ought.
Sometimes, though well she loved him, quite high her temper ran,
For 'tis hard on any woman to have such a careless man.

Think! when the conference president came visiting the place,
The preacher down at Coles he had a badly battered face--
One eye was black as black could be; he looked, so we've been told,
More like a fierce prize-fighter than a shepherd of the fold.
"How did it happen?" questioned him the visitor so wise,
With hint of laughter on his lips, and in his twinkling eyes.
"Old Betty Brown," the preacher said--his wife broke in just here,
"A cross-grained spinster of the place who hates him, that is clear;
And never did a woman have a meaner tongue than hers--
The slighting things she says of him, the mischief that she stirs!"
"Fields have we," said the president, "in country and in town;
Believe me, Madam, most of them can boast a Betty Brown."

The preacher stroked his blackened eye, and laughed good-naturedly.
"She doesn't like me very well, but what of that?" said he.
"The other night I found the poor old creature sick in bed,
She 'didn't want no prayin' done,' she very quickly said,
So, seeing that she was so ill and worn she could not stir,
I thought with care and patience I could milk the cow for her.
I stroked old Spot caressingly, and placed my little can,
But Spot she knew, and I came home a sadder, wiser man."

The preacher down at Coles he was no orator at all,
But sick, and sad, and sinful were glad to have him call.
Not that he ever found a host of happy things to say;
In fact, as far as talking went, he might have stayed away.
But oh, the welcome that he got! I think his big right hand
Gave such a grip that all the rest they seemed to understand.

Some of the congregation would have liked a different man,
He couldn't hope to please them all--few ministers that can.
Once, at the district meeting, the good old farmer Bowles
Stood up and spoke his mind about the preacher down at Coles.

"There's not," he said, "you know it, too, a better man than he;
An' you fault-findin', carpin' folk--I say this reverently--
If the Lord 'd take an angel and gently turn him loose
To preach down here, do you suppose he'd please the hull caboose?
Not much! It's human nature to quarrel with what we've got,
An' this man is a better man than we deserve, a lot."

But he did preach curious sermons, just as dry as they could be,
And the old folks slumbered through them every Sabbath, peacefully;
But they all woke up the moment the singing would begin,
And not an ear was found too dull to drink the music in.
For though the preacher could not boast an orator's smooth tongue,
He could reach the people's heart-strings when he stood up
there and sung.

O the wondrous power and sweetness of the voice that filled the place!
Everyone that heard it swelling grew the purer for a space.
And men could not choose but listen to the singer standing there,
Till their worldliness slipped from them, and their selfishness
and care.
Mourners turned their eyes all misty from the crosses tall and white
Where their loved ones slumbered softly all the day and all the night;
Listening, faith rose triumphant over sorrow, loss, and pain,
Heaven was not a far-off country, they would meet their own again.
And the white-haired men and women wished the singing need not cease,
For they seemed to see the beauty of the longed for Land of Peace.
Upward soared that voice, and upward, with a sweetness naught could
stem,
Till each dim eye caught the glory of the new Jerusalem.

He was such a curious fellow, the preacher down at Coles!
One winter day the word was brought to town by Farmer Bowles
That in a little shanty, in the hollow by the mill,
Were children gaunt with hunger, a mother sad and ill,
The father just a drunkard, a vagabond who left
His family for long, long weeks of love and care bereft.
The squire talked of taking a big subscription up,
And talked, and talked, while in that house was neither bite nor sup.
O, these talking folks! these talking folks! the poor would starve
and freeze
If the succoring and caring were done by such as these.

The preacher down at Coles he had not very much to say;
He harnessed up the old roan horse and hitched it to the sleigh,
And piled in so much provisions that his wife said, tearfully,
She didn't have a cake or pie left in the house for tea.
He filled the sleigh with baskets, and with bundles--such a pile!
Heaps of wood, and clothes, and victuals--everybody had to smile
As they watched the old roan canter down the crossroad, o'er the hill,
To the little cheerless shanty in the hollow by the mill.
The preacher built a fire and bade the children warm their toes
While he heard the worn-out mother's tale of miseries and woes.
He brought in a bag of flour, and a turkey big and fat--
His dainty wife had meant to dine the Ladies' Aid on that.
He brought in ham and butter, and potatoes in a sack,
A pie or two, a loaf of cake, and doughnuts, such a stack!
Ah! his wife and her good handmaid had been baking many a day,
For the Ladies' Aid would dine there--he had lugged it all away.
He brought in a pair of blankets, and a heavy woollen quilt;
Betty Brown, who happened in there, said she thought that she
would wilt,
For these things the active members of the Missionary Band
Had gathered for the heathen in a far-off foreign land.
"These belong unto the Lord, sir," Betty said, "I think you'll find."
But he answered her quite gently, "Very well, He will not mind."
"To see him making tea for the woman in the bed
Made me wish I had been kinder to the preacher," Betty said.
Though he was so big and clumsy he could step around so light,
And to see him getting dinner to the children's huge delight!
It was not till he had warmed them, and had fed them there, that day,
That he whispered very softly: "Little children, let us pray."
Then he gave them to the keeping of a Father kind and wise
In a way that brought the tear-drops into hard old Betty's eyes.
She felt an aching in her throat, and when she cried, "Amen!"
Other folks might flout the preacher, Betty never would again.

He took up the fresh air movement, but the people down at Coles
Shook their head--a preacher's work, they said, was saving precious
souls,
Not worrying lest the waifs and strays that throng the city street
Should pine for want of country air, and country food to eat.
Lawyer Angus, at the meeting, spoke against new-fangled things;
"Seems to me our preacher's bow, friends, has a muckle lot of strings."
Merchant Jones said trade was failing, rent was high and clerks to pay;
Not a dollar could he give them, he was very grieved to say.
Old Squire Hays was buying timber, needed every cent and more;
Doctor Blake sat coldly smiling--then the farmer took the floor.

"Wish," he said, "our hearts were bigger, an' our speeches not so long;
I would move right here the preacher tunes us up a little song."
Sing? I wish you could have heard him--simple songs of long ago,
Old familiar things that held us--warm that golden voice and low--
Songs of summer in the woodlands, cowslips yellow in the vale;
Songs of summer in the city, and the children wan and pale,
Till we saw the blist'ring pavement pressed by tired little feet,
Heard the baby voices crying for the meadows wide and sweet.

"Now we'll take up the collection," said the wily farmer Bowles,
And they showered in their money, did the people down at Coles.
"Here's a cheque," said lawyer Angus, "'tis the best that I can do;
Man, you'd have us in the poorhouse if you sang your sermons through!"

The very careless fellow still goes his cheery way
Unmindful of what people think or of what people say.
Some still are finding fault with him--he doesn't mind it much--
Laughs when they make remarks about his clothes and shoes and such,
Declare his sermons have no point, and quarrel with his text,
As people will, but oh, it makes his pretty wife so vext!
"I think," she says, "as much of him as any woman can,
But 'tis most aggravating to have such a careless man."

There are those who think him perfect, shout his praises with a will.
He has labored for the Master, he is laboring for Him still;
And the grumbling does not move him, nor the praises sung abroad--
Things like these seem only trifles to the man who works for God.
Farmer Bowles summed up the total in his own original way
When he spoke at the Convention that was held the other day.
"Never knew a better worker, never knew a kinder man;
Lots of preachers are more stylish, keep themselves so spic-and-span
You could spot 'em out for preachers if you met 'em walkin' round
Over on the Fejee Islands, silk hat, long coat, I'll be bound.
_Our_ man's different, but, I tell you, when it comes to doing good
There's not one can beat him at it, an' I want this understood.
Ask the sad folks and the sinful, ask the fallen ones he's raised,
Ask the sick folks and the poor folks, if you want to hear him praised.
Orator? Well, maybe not, friends, but in caring for men's souls
There stand few men half so faithful as the preacher down at Coles."

CHORE TIME.

When I'm at gran'dad's on the farm,
I hear along 'bout six o'clock,
Just when I'm feelin' snug an' warm,
"Ho, Bobby, come and feed your stock."

I jump an' get into my clothes;
It's dark as pitch, an' shivers run
All up my back. Now, I suppose
Not many boys would think this fun.

But when we get out to the barn
The greedy pigs begin to squeal,
An' I throw in the yellow corn,
A bushel basket to the meal.

Then I begin to warm right up,
I whistle "Yankee Doodle" through,
An' wrastle with the collie pup--
And sometimes gran'dad whistles too.

The cow-shed door, it makes a din
Each time we swing it open wide;
I run an' flash the lantern in,
There stand the shorthorns side by side.

Their breathin' makes a sort of cloud
Above their heads--there's no frost here.
"My beauties," gran'dad says out loud,
"You'll get your breakfasts, never fear."

When up I climb into the loft
To fill their racks with clover hay,
Their eyes, all sleepy like and soft,
A heap of nice things seem to say.

The red ox shakes his curly head,
An' turns on me a solemn face;
I know he's awful glad his shed
Is such a warm and smelly place.

An' last of all the stable big,
With harness hanging on each door,
I always want to dance a jig
On that old musty, dusty floor.

It seems so good to be alive,
An' tendin' to the sturdy grays,
The sorrels, and old Prince, that's five--
An' Lightfoot with her coaxing ways.

My gran'dad tells me she is mine,
An' I'm that proud! I braid her mane,
An' smooth her sides until they shine,
An' do my best to make her vain.

When we have measured oats for all,
Have slapped the grays upon the flanks,
An' tried to pat the sorrels tall,
An' heard them whinny out their thanks,

We know it's breakfast time, and go
Out past the yellow stacks of straw,
Across the creek that used to flow,
But won't flow now until a thaw.

Behind the trees the sky is pink,
The snow drifts by in fat white flakes,
My gran'dad says: "Well, Bob, I think
There comes a smell of buckwheat cakes."

A BOY'S TRIALS.

When I was but a little lad
One thing I could not bear,
It was to stand at mother's knee
And have her comb my hair.

They didn't keep boys' hair as short
As it's kept now-a-days,
And mine was always tangled up
In twenty different ways.

I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth,
And say it wasn't fair--
It was a trial, and no mistake,
When mother combed my hair.

She'd brush and brush each stubborn curl
That grew upon my pate,
And with her scissors nip and clip
To make the edges straight.

Then smooth it down until it shone,
While I would grin and bear,
And feel a martyr through and through,
When mother combed my hair.

She'd take my round chin in her hand
And hold it there the while
She made the parting carefully,
Then tell me with a smile:

"Don't push your cap down on your curls
And spoil my work and care;
He is a pretty little lad
When mother combs his hair."

I'd hurry out and rumple up
That mop of hair so thick--
A vandal, I, for she had worked
So hard to make it slick--

And wish I were a grown-up man
So nobody would dare
To put a washrag in my ears,
Or comb my tangled hair.

Heigho! now that I'm bald and gray,
Methinks I would be glad
To have her smooth my brow and cheeks,
And whisper, "Mother's lad!"

A longing for the care-free days
Doth take me unaware;
To stand, a boy, at mother's knee
And have her comb my hair.

AN APRIL FOOL OF LONG AGO.

In powdered wig and buckled shoe,
Knee-breeches, coat and waistcoat gay,
The wealthy squire rode forth to woo
Upon a first of April day.

He would forget his lofty birth,
His spreading acres, and his pride,
And Betty, fairest maid on earth,
Should be his own--his grateful bride.

The maid was young, and he was old;
The maid was good to look upon.
Naught cared she for his land or gold,
Her love was for the good squire's son.

He found her as the noonday hush
Lay on the world, and called her name.
She looked up, conscious, and her blush
A tender interest did proclaim.

For he was Hubert's sire, and she
To keep a secret tryst did go.
He said: "Methinks she cares for me"--
That April fool of long ago.

The flattered squire his suit did press
Without delay. "Say, wilt thou come,"
He said, with pompous tenderness,
"And share my wealth and grace my home?"

"Kind sir," the lovely Betty cried,
"I'm but a lass of low degree."
"The love that is controlled by pride
Is not true love at all," quoth he.

"I hold a man should woo and wed
Where'er he wills--should please himself."
"There is the barrier strong," she said,
"Of pedigree, and place, and pelf.

"Could one so lowly hope to grace
Your home?" Right proud his air and tone:
"You're pure of heart and fair of face;
Dear Betty, you would grace a throne!"

"Since you so highly think of me"--
Her tears and laughter were at strife--
"You will not mind so much, maybe,
That I am Hubert's promised wife."

Pale went the good squire's florid cheek,
His wrath flamed out--but Betty stood,
Brown-haired, red-lipped, blue-eyed and meek,
A sight to make a bad man good.

She won on him. "But why this guile--
This secrecy?" His voice was rough.
"We feared," she whispered, with a smile,
"You would not think me good enough."

"An April fool am I. Come, come--
My offer stands. As Hubert's wife,"
He laughed, "you'll share my wealth and home
And brighten up a lonely life."

He kissed her cheek and rode away.
Unbroken was his heart, I wist,
For he was thinking of a day--
A day back in youth's rosy mist--

And of a form and of a face.
"My dear, dead love," he whispered low,
The while he rode at sober pace,
That April fool of long ago.

FOR HE WAS SCOTCH, AND SO WAS SHE.

They were a couple well content
With what they earned and what they spent,
Cared not a whit for style's decree--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

And oh, they loved to talk of Burns--
Dear blithesome, tender Bobby Burns!
They never wearied of his song,
He never sang a note too strong.
One little fault could neither see--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

They loved to read of men who stood
And gave for country life and blood,
Who held their faith so grand a thing
They scorned to yield it to a king.
Ah, proud of such they well might be--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

From neighbors' broils they kept away;
No liking for such things had they,
And oh, each had a canny mind,
And could be deaf, and dumb, and blind.
With words or pence was neither free--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

I would not have you think this pair
Went on in weather always fair,
For well you know in married life
Will come, sometimes, the jar and strife;
They couldn't always just agree--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

But near of heart they ever kept,
Until at close of life they slept;
Just this to say when all was past,
They loved each other to the last!
They're loving yet, in heaven, maybe--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

THE PLOUGHMAN.

Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frame
Born, grown, and fitted for the toil.
My father, tiller of the soil,
Bequeathed them to me with my name.

Fear work? Nay, many times and oft
Upon my brow the sweat-bead stands,
And these two brown and sinewy hands,
Methinks, were never white or soft.

I earn my bread and know its worth,
Through days that chill and days that warm,
I wrest it with my strong right arm
From out the bosom of the earth.

The moneyed man may boast his wealth,
The high-born boast his pedigree,
But greater far, it seems to me,
My heritage of brawn and health.

My sinews strong, my sturdy frame,
My independence free and bold--
Mine is the richest dower, I hold,
And ploughman is a noble name.

Nor think me all uncouth and rough,
For, as I turn the furrows o'er,
Far clearer than the threshing-floor
I see the tender growing stuff.

A lab'rer, I, the long day through;
The lonely stretch of field and wood
Seem pleasant things to me, and good;
The river sings, the heaven's blue

Bends down so near the sun-crowned hill--
Thank God, I have the eyes to see
The beauty and the majesty
Of Nature, and the heart to thrill

At crimson sunset, dawn's soft flush,
The fields of gold that stretch afar,
The glimmer of the first pale star
That heralds in the evening's hush.

They lie who say that labor makes
A brute thing, an insensate clod,
Of man, the masterpiece of God;
They lie who say that labor takes

All from us save the lust of pelf,
Dulls eye, and ear, and soul, and mind,
For no man need be deaf or blind
Unless he wills it so himself.

This life I live's a goodly thing--
My soul keeps tune to one glad song
The while I turn the furrows long--
A ploughman happy as a king.

TWO MONUMENTS.

Two men were born the self-same hour:
The one was heir to untold wealth,
To pride of birth and love of power;
The other's heritage was health.

A sturdy frame, an honest heart,
Of human sympathy a store,
A strength and will to do his part,
A nature wholesome to the core.

The two grew up to man's estate,
And took their places in the strife:
One found a sphere both wide and great,
One found the toil and stress of life.

Fate is a partial jade, I trow;
She threw the rich man gold and frame,
The laurel wreath to deck his brow,
High place, the multitude's acclaim.

The common things the other had--
The common hopes to thrill him deep,
The common joys to make him glad,
The common griefs to make him weep.

No high ambitions fired his breast;
The peace of God, the love of friend,
Of wife and child, these seemed the best,
These held and swayed him to the end.

The two grew old, and death's clear call
Came to them both the self-same day:
To him whose name was known to all,
To him who walked his lowly way.

Down to his grave the rich man went,
With cortege long, with pomp and pride,
O'er him was reared a monument
That told his virtues far and wide;

Told of his wealth, his lineage high,
His statesmanship, his trophies won,
How he had filled the public eye--
But empty praise when all was done.

The other found a narrow bed
Within God's acre, peaceful, lone;
The throng cared not that he was dead,
A man uncultured and unknown.

But in the house that he had left
A woman whispered through her tears:
"Christ, comfort me, who am bereft
Of love that failed not through the years."

And oft his stalwart sons and tall
Would murmur as their eyes grew dim:
"A useful life is best of all;
God grant we pattern after him!"

A sick man sighed: "I'll miss his smile;"
A shrivelled crone did shake her head
And mutter to herself the while
How oft his hand had given bread.

A maimed child sobbed: "He carried me
To gather blossoms in the wood,"
And more than one said, brokenly:
"A man who always did me good."

One came at twilight to the grave,
And knelt and kissed the fresh-turned sod.
"Oh, faithful soul," she cried, "and brave,
'Twas you that led me back to God!

"Back from the sin, the shame, the snare--
Forget your trust and faith?--not I;
Each helpful word, each tender prayer,
I will remember till I die!"

Two men that sleep: above the one
The monument an artist's hand
Has fashioned from the block of stone,
A thing of beauty, tall and grand;

Above the other naught--what then?
Ere he did fold his hands for rest,
He builded in the hearts of men
The fairest monument and best.

THE LONESOMEST HOUSE.

It's the lonesomest house you ever saw,
This big gray house where I stay.
I don't call it living at all, at all,
Since my mother's gone away.

Only four weeks now--it seems a year--
Gone to heaven, the preacher said,
And my heart is just broke awaiting her,
And my eyes are always red.

I stay out of doors till I'm almost froze,
'Cause every identical room
Seems empty enough to scare a boy,
And packed to the door with gloom.

Oh, but I hate to come in to my meals,
And her not there in her place,
Pouring the tea, and passing the things,
With that lovin' shine on her face!

But night-time is worse. I creep up the stair
And to bed as still 's a mouse,
And cry in my pillow, it seems so hard
To stay in this old gray house!

And nobody giving me good-night hugs,
Or smoothing my hair back--so;
Things a boy makes fun of before his chums,
But things that he likes, you know.

There's no one to go to when things go wrong--
Oh, she was so safe and sure!
There wasn't a thing could tackle a boy
That she couldn't up and cure.

There's lots of women, it seems to me,
That wouldn't be missed so much,
The women whose boys are 'most growed up,
And old maid aunties, and such.

I can't understand it at all, at all,
Why on earth she should have to go,
And leave me here in this old gray house,
Needin' an' wantin' her so!

Oh, the very lonesomest thing of all
In the wide, wide world to-day
Is a big boy of twelve whose heart's just broke
'Cause his mother's gone away!

DADDY'S BOY.

It is time for bed, so the nurse declares,
But I slip off to the nook,
The cozy nook at the head of the stairs,
Where daddy's reading his book.

"I want to sit here awhile on your knee,"
I say, as I toast my feet,
"And I want you to pop some corn for me,
And give me an apple sweet."

I tickle him under the chin--just so--
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.

"You can't have a pony this year at all,"
Says my stingy Uncle Joe,
After promising it--and there's the stall
Fixed ready for it, you know.

One can't depend on his uncle, I see,
It's daddies that are the best,
And I find mine and climb up on his knee
As he takes his smoke and rest.

I tickle him under the chin--just so--
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.

I want to skate, and oh, what a fuss
For fear I'll break through the ice!
This woman that keeps our house for us,
She isn't what I call nice.

She wants a boy to be just like a girl,
To play in the house all day,
Keep his face all clean and his hair in curl,
But dad doesn't think that way.

I tickle him under the chin--just so--
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.

"You're growing so big," says my dad to me.
"Soon be a man, I suppose,
Too big to climb on your old dad's knee
And toast your ten little toes."

Then his voice it gets the funniest shake,
And oh, but he hugs me tight!
I say, when I can't keep my eyes awake,
"Let me sleep with you to-night."

I tickle him under the chin--just so--
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.

JANET.

Janet, she was trim and small,
Swift her feet could go;
Sandy, he was great and tall,
Sandy, he was slow.

Dark the curls on Janet's heid,
Dark her een, and true;
Sandy's hair was straicht an' reid,
Sandy's een were blue.

Sandy had been coortin' lang,
Sandy wasna bold,
Blushed when Janet trilled the sang,
Sweet as it is old:

_"Gin a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?"_

Janet's lips were reid and ripe,
Full o' sic delichts;
Longing for them spoiled the pipe
Sandy smoked o' nichts.

Janet laughed when he would sigh,
Janet wasna kin'.
Spite o' a' as days went by
Janet filled his min'.

When in kirk he sat and heard
Sermons deep and lang,
Every fluttering bird ootside
Seemed piping Janet's sang.

Through the psalm, and through the prayer,
Thought went wanderin' wide--
O what were toil, what were care,
Wi' Janet by his side?

Janet, wi' the waist sae sma',
Janet, dear indeed;
Sermon, psalm, and prayer, and a',
Sandy didna heed--

Going hame at sober pace
Made confession--sae:
"Hearken, Lord! hide no Thy face
Though I go astray.

"Help me juist tae do my pairt--
Win her if I can--
Sae I plead wi' a' my hairt,
Help a sinfu' mon!"

Surely faith was in that prayer.
Ere an hour went by
Janet cam' wi' lichtsome air
Through the fields o' rye.

Sandy, tak' ye hairt o' grace--
Surely 'tisna wrang--
Here's the lass wi' saucy face,
How runs Janet's sang?

_"Gin a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body
Need a body cry?"_

THE LAD FROM INVERNESS.

He would go, they could not keep him, for he came of fighting stock;
Though his widowed mother pleaded, he was firm as any rock.
Well he loved the patient woman who had nursed him on her breast,
Been quite blind to all his follies,--but he loved his country best.
"I'll come home again," he told her; "I'll come home again some day,"
Laid his face to her's and kissed her, said good-bye and marched away.
Stronger than the voice that pleaded, "Laddie, laddie, bide at home,"
Was the shrill voice of the bugle and the deep voice of the drum,
Calling to him all the day, calling to him in his dreams:
"Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"

His face was like a maiden's face, so smooth it was, and fair;
The laughter in his eyes of gray, the sunshine in his hair;
But a man's heart, true and gallant, beat beneath the tartan plaid,
And a strong right arm he boasted, did this bonnie Highland lad.
Oh, the battlefield is gruesome, with its dying and its dead,
But 'twas to the field of battle that the drum and bugle led--
Magersfontein--and the bullets biting fiercely left and right,
And the lad in kilt and hose there in the thickest of the fight.
Fearful odds, and none to help them, fight they boldly, undismayed,
Gallant clansmen of the north land! Brave old Highlander brigade!
Someone blundered, this we know,
When you met the ambushed foe,
But you fought as heroes fight, and died as heroes die;
This we know, this we know.

Where the fighting had been fiercest, as the sun sank in the west,
Did they find the widow's laddie, with a bullet in his breast,
And his smiling face turned upward. Did he dream at last--who knows--
Of the far-off hills of Scotland? Lying there in kilt and hose,
With the gold hair gleaming brightly underneath the bonnet blue,
And the tartan plaid laid gently o'er the heart so brave and true.
Stilled forever! With death's coming did there fall upon his ear
Music that he loved to list to, bugle call so high and clear,
Thrilling, stirring, sweeter, shriller, and the deep voice of the drum,
Calling to him through the shadows, calling softly through the shadows,
"Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"

ALL ON AN APRIL MORNING.

The teacher was wise and learned, I wis,
All nonsense she held in scorning,
But you never can tell what the primmest miss
Will do of a bright spring morning.

What this one did was to spread a snare
For feet of a youth unheeding,
As March, with a meek and lamb-like air,
To its very last hour was speeding.

Oh, he was the dullard of his class,
For how can a youth get learning
With his eyes aye fixed on a pretty lass
And his heart aye filled with yearning?

"Who finds 'mong the rushes which fringe a pool,"
She told him, "the first wind blossom,
May wish what he will"--poor April fool,
With but one wish in his bosom.

Her gray eyes danced--on a wild-goose chase
He'd sally forth on the morrow,
And, later, she'd laugh in his sombre face,
And jest at his words of sorrow.

But penitence and a troubled mind
Were fruits of the night's reflection;
After all, he was simple, and strong, and kind--
'Twas wrong to flout his affection.

They met on the hill as she walked to school;
He said, unheeding her blushes,
"Here's the early flower your April fool
Found growing among the rushes.

"Take it or leave it as you will"--
His voice ringing out so clearly
Awoke in her heart a happy thrill--
"You know that I love you dearly."

Day-dreams indulged as she taught the school
Held lovers kneeling and suing;
"Take it or leave it"--her April fool
Was masterful in his wooing.

He gave her the flower--she gave him a kiss--
His suit she had long been scorning;
But you never can tell what the primmest miss
Will do of a bright spring morning.

BILLY.

O! He was the boy of the house, you know,
A jolly and rollicking lad;
He never was sick, he never was tired,
And nothing could make him sad.

If he started to play at sunrise,
Not a rest would he take at noon;
No day was so long from beginning to end,
But his bed-time came too soon.

Did someone urge that he make less noise,
He would say, with a saucy grin:
"Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir--
O sakes! I wish I was a twin.

"There's two of twins, and it must be fun
To go double at everything;
To holler by twos, and whistle by twos,
To stamp by twos, and to sing!"

His laugh was something to make you glad,
So brimful was it of joy;
A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
But it never troubled the boy.

You met him out on the garden path,
The terrier at his heels,
And knew by the shout he hailed you with
How happy a youngster feels.

The maiden auntie was half distraught
With his tricks as the days went by;
"The most mischievous child in all the world!"
She said with a shrug and a sigh.

His father owned that her words were true,
His mother declared each day
He was putting wrinkles into her face,
And turning her brown hair gray.

His grown-up sister referred to him
As "a trouble," "a trial," "a grief";
The way he ignored all rules, she said,
Was something beyond belief!

It never troubled the boy of the house,
He revelled in racket and din,
Had only one regret in the world--
He hadn't been born a twin!

* * * * *

There's nobody making a noise to-day,
There's nobody stamping the floor,
'Tis strangely silent upstairs and down--
White ribbons upon the door.

The terrier's whining out in the sun:
"Where's my comrade?" he seems to say.
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog,
There's no frolic for you to-day.

The freckle-faced girl from the house next door
Is sobbing her young heart out.
Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forget
The laugh and the merry shout.

The grown-up sister is kissing his face,
And calling him "angel" and "sweet,"
And the maiden aunt is nursing the boots
He wore on his restless feet.

So big, so solemn the old house seems--
No uproar, no racket, no din,
No shrill peal of laughter, no voice shrieking out,
"O sakes! I wish I was a twin!"

A man and a woman white with grief
Watch the wearisome moments creep--
Oh! the loneliness touches everything,
The boy of the house is asleep!

SLY BOY.

I was the slyest boy at home,
The slyest boy at school,
I wanted all the world to know
That I was no one's fool.

I kept my childish hopes and schemes
Locked closely in my breast,
No single secret shared with Bob,
The chum I liked the best.

I never showed my squirrel's nest,
Nor beaver dam, nor cave,
Nor fortress where I used to go
To be a soldier brave.

Oh, I was sly, just awful sly,
In winter, summer, spring,
While Bob would tell me all he knew,
I never told a thing.

And yet Bob always got ahead;
I'd find the careless knave
Asleep within my fortress walls,
And fishing in my cave.

"What, yours!" he said, in great surprise,
"You should have told me so.
You never said a word, old chum,
And how was I to know?"

My slyness hurt more than it helped;
If Bob had known, you see,
He was too kind to do his best
To get ahead of me.

I still was sly when I grew up.
I fell in love with Nan,
But scorned to own it to myself
Or any other man.

So sly was I, Nan never guessed--
No more did handsome Bob--
That every time she looked my way
My heart, it stirred and throbbed.

The same old story! Ere I knew,
My chum had loved and won.
When I explained I'd picked her out
To be my very own,

"What, yours!" he said in great surprise,
"You should have told me so.
You never said a word, old chum,
And how was I to know?"

I've learned my lesson, lost my girl;
You'll own 'tis rather rough.
Henceforward I'll not be too sly--
I'll be just sly enough.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

QUEEN VICTORIA.

1837.

The sunshine streaming through the stained glass
Touched her with rosy colors as she stood,
The maiden Queen of all the British realm,
In the old Abbey on that soft June day.
Youth shone within her eyes, where God had set
All steadfastness, and high resolve, and truth;
Youth flushed her cheek, dwelt on the smooth white brow
Whereon the heavy golden circlet lay.

The ashes of dead kings, the history of
A nation's growth, of strife, and victory,
The mighty past called soft through aisle and nave:
"Be strong, O Queen; be strong as thou art fair!"
A virgin, white of soul and unafraid,
Since back of her was God, and at her feet
A people loyal to the core, and strong,
And loving well her sweetness and her youth.

1901.

Upon her woman's head earth's richest crown
Hath sat with grace these sixty years and more.
Her hand, her slender woman's hand, hath held
The weightiest sceptre, held it with such power
All homage hath been hers, at home, abroad,
Where'er hath dwelt a chivalrous regard
For strength of purpose and for purity,
For grand achievement and for noble aim.

To-day the cares of State no longer vex;
To-day the crown is laid from off her brow.

Dead! The great heart of her no more will beat
With tenderness for all beneath her rule.
Dead! The clear eyes of her no more will guard
The nation's welfare. Dead! The arm of her
No more will strike a mighty blow for right
And justice; make a wide world stand amazed
That one so gentle as old England's Queen
Could be so fearless and so powerful!

Full wearily the sense of grief doth press
And weight us down. The good Queen is no more;
And we are fain to weep as children weep
When greedy death comes to the home and bears
From thence the mother, whose unfailing love
Hath been their wealth, their safeguard, and their pride.
O bells that toll in every zone and clime!
There is a sound of sobbing in your breath.
East, west, north, south, the solemn clamor goes,
Voicing a great, a universal grief!

THANKFULNESS.

I thank Thee, Lord,
For every joyous hour
That has been mine!
For every strengthening and helpful word,
For every tender sound that I have heard,
I thank Thee, Lord!

I thank Thee, Lord,
For work and weariness
That have been mine!
For patience toward one groping toward the light,
For mid-day burden and for rest of night,
I thank Thee, Lord.

THE NATIVE BORN.

There's a thing we love to think of when the summer days are long,
And the summer winds are blowing, and the summer sun is strong,
When the orchards and the meadows throw their fragrance on the air,
When the grain-fields flaunt their riches, and the glow is everywhere.
Something sings it all the day,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

There's a thing we love to think of when the frost and ice and snow
Hold high carnival together, and the biting north winds blow.
There's a thing we love to think of through the bitter winter hours,
For it stirs a warmth within us--'tis this fair young land of ours.
Something sings it all the day,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Ours with all her youth and promise, ours with all her strength
and might,
Ours with all her mighty waters and her forests deep as night.
Other lands may far outshine her, boast more charms than she can claim,
But this young land is our own land, and we love her very name.
Something sings it all the day,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Let the man born in old England love the dear old land the most,
For what spot a man is born in, of that spot he's fain to boast;
Let the Scot look back toward Scotland with a longing in his eyes,
And the exile from old Erin think her green shores paradise,
Native born are we, are we,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Well we love that sea-girt island, and we strive to understand
All the greatness, all the grandeur, of the glorious Mother Land;
And we cheer her to the skies, cheer her till the echoes start,
For the old land holds our homage, but the new land holds our heart!
Native born are we, are we,
Canada, fair Canada!
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

THE KING'S GIFT.

TO E. S. R.

The new year coming to us with swift feet
Is the King's gift,
And all that in it lies
Will make our lives more rounded and complete.
It may be laughter,
May be tear-filled eyes;
It may be gain of love,
Or loss of love;
It may be thorns, or bloom and breath of flowers,
The full fruition of these hopes that move--
It may be what will break these hearts of ours,
What matter? 'Tis the great gift of the King--
We do not need to fear what it may bring.

THE PASSAGE.

O soul on God's high seas! the way is strange and long,
Yet fling your pennons out, and spread your canvas strong;
For though to mortal eyes so small a craft you seem,
The highest star in heaven cloth lend you guiding gleam.

O soul on God's high seas! look to your course with care,
Fear most when winds are kind and skies are blue and fair.
Your helm must sway at touch of no hand save your own--
The soul that sails on God's high seas must sail alone.

O soul on God's high seas! sail on with steady aim,
Unmoved by winds of praise, untouched by seas of blame.
Beyond the lonely ways, beyond the guiding star,
There stretches out the strand and golden harbor bar.

AIR CASTLES.

I built a castle in the air--
A radiant thing made out of dreams;
Love's dear desire its golden stair--
Naught heavier than a hope was there--
A thing of mist and rainbow gleams.

But when it fell--ah! when it fell,
Though made o' dreams and mist and shine,
The mystery of it who can tell?
Its falling shook both heaven and hell,
And ground to dust this heart of mine.

YOUTH AND JUNE.

I was your lover long ago, sweet June,
Ere life grew hard; I am your lover still,
And follow gladly to the wondrous tune
You pipe on golden reeds to vale and hill.
I am your lover still--to me you seem
To hold the fragrance of the joys long dead--
The brightness and the beauty of the dream
We dreamed in youth--to hold the tears we shed,
The laughter of our lips--the faith that lies
Back in that season dear to every heart,
Life's springtime, when God's earth and God's blue skies
Are, measured by our glance, not far apart.

THE MOTHER.

As "Peace on earth!" the glad world sings one glorious Christmas morn,
"Peace, peace on earth! Good-will to men! Peace, peace! the Christ
is born!"
As through the courts, the wondrous courts, of heaven hosannas ring,
As harpers strike their harps of gold and "Glory! Glory!" sing,
Upon the City's threshold fair
A woman steps, and lingers there.