POEMS
BY
CLARA A. MERRILL
“Take me back to the home
Of my youth once again—
To the dear Pine Tree State—
The Old State of Maine.”
Copyrighted 1915
CLARA A. MERRILL
MERRILL & WEBBER CO. PRS., AUBURN
CONTENTS
To my Beloved Sister Appey
This little book is lovingly dedicated
The memory of her beautiful life, and of her deep and unchanging love for me,—together with the knowledge of the interest she felt in my writings, fills me with a longing to do that which I know would be pleasing to her.
For though the dear voice of her whom I so loved can no longer cheer and guide me on, yet in spirit I hear her gently whisper bidding me resume the work I had laid aside.
Thus from my writings I have selected a few poems which, though submitted with diffidence, I hope may be kindly received by my many friends; and accepted by them with such degree of generosity as will enable them to throw the mantle of charity over the many short-comings, and to see any good that may chance to exist.
And if from any of these poems there may perchance be found one little ray of sunshine—though it beams ever so faintly—that may radiate and give pleasure to even one appreciating heart, then surely I may feel that my labor will not have been wholly in vain.
Clara A. Merrill
The Author
The Old State of Maine
Sail on gallant bark, bearing onward your freight,
Ye breezes blow briskly! her sails to inflate,—
See how her staunch prow the green billows will break,
And the path of white foam that she leaves in her wake!
Speed onward, ye courses of iron!—Swiftly steals
Away the bright rails as they fly ’neath your wheels.
Bear me onward, fleet charger, nor yet me detain,
Oh take me back home to my Old State of Maine!
When twilight’s dark shade o’er the valley impends,
And the pale crescent moon its refulgence blends;
Then fancy reverts to the long agone days,
The sweet scenes of Childhood revisit our gaze;
And hill, vale and woodland our minds will employ,
Expanding the bosom with infinite joy.
Peal on, memory sweet! Let me hear thy glad strain,
Oh take me back home to my old Old State of Maine!
Tho’ I traverse at will Old Neptune’s domain,
Or by fair country-side bounding river and plain;
In dreams I can see,—in their places once more
Kind familiar faces, long since gone before,—
And I dwell once again in the days that are past,
Nor think, for the time, that naught earthly can last.
Dream on, faithful muse, I have long sighed in vain,—
Oh, take me back home to my Old State of Maine!
From Katahdin’s proud crest, to Atlantic’s blue verge,
New lights and new scenes in succession emerge;
Silver lakes and green meads, in confusion arise
In grand panorama to gladden our eyes.
I love the old ingle, each nook, rock and knoll,
And the country’s dear flag that waves over the whole;
Take me back to the home of my youth once again,
To the dear Pine Tree State,—the Old State of Maine.
ALL THINGS SPEAK OF GOD
The stars in their infinite beauty,
And the moon in yon azure deep;
All speak of some great Duty—
Of some tireless Watch to keep.
This beautiful, beautiful world so grand—
The trees, the birds and the flowers;
All point with a beckoning hand,
To a wisdom more potent than ours.
Hear ye the Ocean speaking—
Hear ye the surges roar!
As the wild-winged winds come shrieking
From some far distant shore.
Is there not something greater
Than the power of Man alone?
Aye, the power of the Creator
Is far greater than our own.
See ye the lightning flashing—
Now, as in anger comes
Booming, rolling, crashing
Like a hundred beating drums
Peals of terrific thunder—
We stand in silence, awed;
We can but pause and wonder
At the infinite power of God!
And thou, oh mighty torrent
Flowing on, and on, through time—
Tell us, who sends thy current
O’er the cataract sublime?
And thou, gigantic mountain—
Canst tell us whence thy birth—
Sprang thou from some living fountain—
How into existence came this earth?
Could we doubt for a single hour
That these marvelous works were lent
By the high and wondrous power
Of One Omnipotent?
Nay! tho’ we seek where man ne’er trod
And traverse sea or land;
It seems that all things speak of God—
And a Loving Father’s hand.
WELCOME TO SUMMER
The south wind returns, with a gentle caress
And it kisses the lakelets’ bright waves;
And softly it moans in low musical tones
As it sighs through the mystical caves.
Sweet Summer is waiting to welcome the rose,
Who is queen of the flowery band—
In regal robes new and jewels of dew
She with majestic grace will command.
Drowsy and low is the hum of the bees
As the nectar they sip from the bloom;
The rivulet courses, all nature rejoices,
For Winter is laid in the tomb.
Gaily among the green arches the birds
Pour forth their thanksgiving in song;
Their clear, mellow notes in pure cadence floats
As the echoing gale sweeps along.
The hillside with blushes lifts up its fair head
In its verdurous beauty so proud;
And the flower-faces gleam as a loving sunbeam
Wafts down from the light fleecy cloud.
The grand, lofty mountain where hangs the white mist
Tells the brooklets of Summer’s warm glow;
And they in turn hail each glen, woodland and vale
Where the soft willow catkins bend low.
The flowerets join the harmonious strain
With the cricket, the bird and the bee;
And the rippling rill the sweet chorus will trill
On its clear winding way to the sea.
’Neath the gnarled oak tree by the silvery lake
Are the fairies all robed in white;
Awaiting their queen, for they dance at e’en
By the fireflies magical light.
Then come to the country so grand—
O come to the old oaken tree
Where mystical notes on the gentle breeze floats
And the fays dance so gay on the lea.
O come to the old oak tree
Where the ivy so lovingly twines,
And Zephyr’s warm kiss so freighted with bliss
Is perfumed by the evergreen pines.
ODE TO THE NORTHERN LIGHTS
Aurora-borealis:—Thy secret vast
Hast ne’er by Man been found—
As, through the Ages of the Past
From Times remotest bound
When Night her sable curtains fold
O’er all the earth, then high
’Mid star-gemmed canopy—behold
Thy rays illume the sky!
Canst tell—ye ice-bergs of the North—
Whence comes these waves of light
Whose golden splendor shimmers forth
To greet the Queen of Night—
Dost power that welds thy icy chain
And casts thy fetters strong
Ere thus make radiant thy domain
As the ages creep along?
Ye wavering light!—Afar on high
Shines forth, like chastening rod
That Power, reflecting on the sky
The mighty Hand of God!
Then bow, ye mortal monarchs brave
Before thy crumbling throne!
Aurora’s beams shall deck thy grave
When a hundred years are flown.
THE SONGS MY MOTHER SUNG
(Dear Mother)
Round the homestead old I wandered,
Slowly, and with silent tread;
And at last I turned my footsteps
To the chamber overhead.
There, among the broken rubbish,
Where the cobwebs thickly hung;
Something sent my thoughts far backward
To the songs my mother sung.
That old fashioned, wooden cradle
Which I slept in when a child;
As my mother sat beside me
Singing ever low and mild.
With her foot upon the rocker,
To and fro the cradle swung;
Peacefully I lay and listened
To the songs my mother sung.
Long ago was that old cradle
Banished to the dust and gloom
’Neath the dark and musty rafters
Of that unused lumber room.
Long had it remained forgotten,—
Yet fond memory quickly sprung
As I view’d the dear old relic—
To the songs my mother sung.
Oft I’ve roamed in distant places,
I have traveled far and wide;
And I know the hours most care-free
Were those spent by mother’s side.
While the bell of Time is tolling
With its harsh unfeeling tongue;
In my memory I shall cherish
All the songs my mother sung.
IN MEMORY OF APPEY M. MERRILL
Who Died Nov. 20th, 1903
Softly, sweetly she is sleeping
Where the slender grasses wave;
Daisies bright, their vigil keeping
O’er her calm and peaceful grave.
Naught can e’er disturb her slumber—
Passed all pain—from sorrow free;
Gone from earth, to join the number
O’er the silent, mystic sea.
Sweetly sleep, dear, gentle sister,
Tranquil ever be thy rest,—
Yet, ah yet, how we have missed her—
Gone from those she loved the best.
Gone from the home—and o’er her pillow
Strewn with flowers, so fair and white
Fell tears, and grief like surging billow
Touched the heart with withering blight.
Time can ne’er efface our sadness—
Still the heart’s filled with despair
For the loved one, who in gladness
Made the earth-home bright and fair.
Sad the way seems now, and lonely,
As we journey day by day
Paths through which she wandered, only
Scattering brightness o’er the way.
Memory points with beckoning finger
Through the mists of long ago
To her songs, which sweetly linger
In the hush of twilight’s glow—
Points to words of comfort, spoken
By those lips so good and true—
Tells of her love, so true, unbroken,
And we weep in grief anew.
For the gentle hands lie folded,
And the pure heart now is still;
And the brow, in beauty molded
By the Hand of Death, so chill
Is now at rest.—Yet visions brightly
Through the misty haze will bring
A joy, like whispered promise, lightly
Wafted as on Zephyr’s wing.
Visions of that promised splendor
Of a mansion fair, on high;
Where, with welcome warm and tender
She will greet us by and by.—
By and by—sweet hope, elating—
When the Voice that bid dear Appey sleep
Shall call us forth, where she is waiting,
Ne’er to part, no more to weep.
GOD IS LOVE AND WE SHALL KNOW
When the darkness seems to gather
O’er the dawn of hope and peace;
Like the storm-cloud towering upward
Which the wild winds e’er increase,—
And, like angry ocean billows
Fainting soul is fraught with woe;
And we’re longing for our loved ones—
Does the Heavenly Father know?
Though He notes the fallen sparrow—
Does He heed the child who weeps—
Does He see my tears fast falling
O’er the grave where Sister sleeps?
When the bitter sob of anguish
Mingles with the earnest prayer;
Pleading for His love and comfort
Does the Heavenly Father care?
Will He in His loving wisdom
Send that sweet peace bye and bye—
When the eye can gaze far upward
To the brighter realms on high?
As the way-worn, weary pilgrim
Turns his footsteps toward the grave;
And ’neath load of sin he falleth—
Will the Heavenly Father save?
In that home where friends await us
Shall we know them when we meet—
Will they seem the same dear loved ones
That on earth we used to greet?—
Mystic thoughts—Ah! who can tell us
All that Fancy fain would know?
“God is Love” and “We shall know then”
Faith responds in answer low.
A WINTER OUTING
Get up Sam, ’n’ harness Nancy,
Shake the hayseed from yer head;
We are goin’ on a ’s’cursion,
Goin’ on the old bob-sled;
Won’t the folks think we are handsome,
As we pass the village street;
With the old horse-blanket round us,
And a bed-quilt at our feet!
Won’t they stare with mouths wide open,
When they see our fine turn-out?
Stare away, ye duck-leg’d dandy—
Guess we know what we’re about!
Won’t they think that Sam’s a daisy,
Settin’ there so grand ’n’ straight—
Wonder what they’ll think of Phoebe
With her sleepy-lookin’ pate?
Have yer got the harness mended?
Well, go tie it with a string!
Fix it so’s ’twill hold together;
Take a rope, or anything!
Drive a nail into the fender!
It won’t wobble then, I hope,—
The thill is broken in two places?
Here—come get this other rope!
Then go brush old Nancy’s foretop,
From her mane pick off the hay;
In a knot then tie her tail up
So it won’t be in the way.
Tie a greased rag round her spavin!
To let ’er hurt it won’t be right,—
Say! d’ye spose we’ll want the larntern,
When we’re comin’ home tonight?
Wish we had a nigger driver,
Then I guess we’d go in style;
We’d make the people gaze before
We’d been a half a mile!
Come now, hurry, Jake and Lydia,—
Have ye washed yer? where’s the comb?
Come now, hurry,—let’s start early,
So we’ll find the folks at home.
Hope Aunt Hulda’ll bile some ’taters;
Won’t we ply the knife and fork?
Hope she’ll have a Injun pudd’n!
Hope she’ll have a hunk of pork!
Marm, bring out that bag o’ apples!
See them youngsters fight ’n’ scratch!
Shut the door ’n’ crawl out o’ the winder!
Stick the scissors in the latch!
Now we’re off, as sure as preachin’
Sun is in the eastern sky,—
Nancy! Nancy! don’t git frisky!
My! but aint the critter high!
Phoebe, tuck that blanket round yer,
Have ye got yer gaiters on?
Gosh—I’ve left my pipe ’n’ barker,
Clean forgot ’em sure’s yer born!
Sam, set over side of Lydia—
Marm ’n’ me will set in front,—
Thought I’d get a jug o’ ’lasses,
But I swan, I guess I won’t.
Got to stop ’n’ buy some barker—
Can’t git through the day without.
Double up yer long legs, Sammy—
Stop yer sprawlin’ like a lout!
Hold on Bill! ye’ll git a tumble—
Ye’ll be slidin’ on yer head!
Jake, SET DOWN! or I shall send ye
To the other end o’ the sled!
There, now see if ye’ll keep quiet—
Billy, Sh! shut up yer beak!
Mustn’t holler by the houses,—
Bad enough to look ’n peek.
Without a squallin’ like a ’n Injun!
Guess yer mammy was a squaw,—
What! he keeps his chin a goin’
Just the image of his Pa?
Get up Nancy! Show yer sperit!
Whoop-along thar, Nancy—climb!
Durn ye, git a wiggle on ye—
We sha’n’t be back ’fore milkin’ time.
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART DWELLS
Would I leave my home—my native hills
For the city by the sea—
Or leave the lane where the woodbine swings
And all is dear to me?
Would I leave my birds for the stately ships
That sail in the harbor blue—
Leave the flowers, fresh from the hand of God
And kissed by the morning dew?
Would I leave my cot for a mansion grand
In the city by the sea,—
Or leave the friends whom I long have loved
Who are so dear to me?
Would I leave my bower mid the roses sweet
Where the sun shines bright and fair—
Leave my pleasant strolls in the forest glade
In the country’s fragrant air?
Nay, I’d not leave my peaceful hill
For the city by the sea—
Here earliest recollection clings
And all is dear to me.—
I’d not leave my cot where the willows wave
For the city’s proudest dome!
Where e’er the heart in fondness dwells
To me is “Home Sweet Home.”
THE MYSTIC RIVER
We are sailing down Life’s river—
Sailing onward day by day,
Onward, through the misty shadows
That, so dark, obscure the way.
Soon we shall be beckoned homeward,
There to meet with those we know
In that grand and glorious city
Where no sorrows ever go.
We are drifting with the ripples,—
As they bear our barque along
We can catch in fitful accents
Echoes from the angels song.—
And we see the dim reflection
Of that bright celestial strand;
Where the bowers are ever blooming
In that peaceful, happy land.
We know not how soon we’ll anchor
Where bright gems adorn the shore—
Where the living waters murmur,
And the breakers moan no more.—
But we’ll reach the pearly portal
And we’ll lay our armor down;
Casting all our burdens from us
’Neath the shelter of a crown.
Near the Throne of Love e’er dwelling,
Sheltered safe from every woe;
No more sorrow, no more weeping,
Naught but glory shall we know.
There we shall be ever happy
In the mansion of the blest;
Blessed be the peace eternal—
Blessed is the sweet word—Rest.
LOVED ONES PASSED AWAY
Within our home so cheerful
Where all is warm and bright;
Sometimes our hearts grow tearful,
And to darkness turns the light.
We see not the joys that surround us—
We heed not our friends bright and gay;
For memories, come crowding around us
Of loved ones passed away.
Without, the old home is the same,
Yet within, there is a change;
And feelings which we cannot name
Steal o’er us, sad and strange.
We see the dear forms of long ago,
Illume the twilight gray,—
Yet the darksome silence whispers low
Of loved ones passed away.
We see them as we did of yore
In the dear old days long past;
Ere they were called to the other shore,—
But those fancies cannot last.
And though the heart in fondness seeks
To bid them longer stay—
Yonder grim churchyard mutely speaks
Of loved ones passed away.
ADVENTURE OF A LOVER
’Twas Saturday eve.—The love-lorn swain
Was hastening toward Jennie’s house;
His mien indicative of fear
For neither man nor mouse.
But ere he reached the farmhouse gate
An object he chanced to spy.—
’Twas only a table-cloth Jennie had washed
And hung on the line to dry.
But he knew it not, so there he stood
Deciding what to do,—
He dare not venture too near the spook,—
Yet the gate he must go through!—
The white cloth flapped in the gentle breeze—
’Twas too much for Jennie’s beau;
He turned and ran off down the hill
As fast as he could go!
He imagined that footsteps were following fast,—
So away like a gale ran he;
Nor did he stop, till he reached the top
Of Squire Pettigrew’s crab-apple tree!
———
Just then the moon, with a bright smiling face,
Came out from behind a black cloud,—
Little Nell, at the window, stood watching the moon,
And she uttered a cry long and loud.—
“Oh! Mamma!—come look at this queer looking bird—
An owl is perched up in our tree!—
Or is it a night-hawk just taking a rest—
What kind of a bird can it be?”
Miss Jennie came tripping along down the street,
In the hope of meeting her lover;—
Then he quietly let himself down from the tree
Before she had time to discover.
Then arm in arm they returned to the gate,—
And he blushed, as in silence stood he
And saw the white spectre, which drove him in fright
To the top of the crab-apple tree!
AS IT HAPPENED
As the circus train passed through the street
An Elephant caught the eye
Of a “rural duffer,” who remarked
As the creature lumbered by,—
While a wondering look stole o’er his phiz—
(No artist’s hand could paint it;)
“Wa-al neow, Maria,—I swan to man
That’s quite an insect, aint it?”
A city swell heard the remark,
And quickly turned his nose
Up, with an air that plainly said:
“Such horrid folks as those
May go their way—for they’ll pollute
The very atmosphere
With their uncouth ways and ignorance—
We can’t endure them here!”
———
The time rolled on,—and the city swell
Was brought to account one day
For the many bills and debts he owed—
He had not a cent to pay.
His creditors gobbled all his goods
And set them up for sale;
But the cash they brought did not suffice
So they marched him off to jail.—
———
The “duffer” shook his jolly sides
With a hearty, merry laugh;
And recalled the time when he “so shocked
The insipid city calf.”
“I pay my bills as I go along—
I owe no man,” said he;
“There’s no insect born that can compete
With a biped such as he!”
THE CAPTIVE BUTTERFLY
(A true tale)
One morn as I walked in the meadow
Where flooded the sun’s golden light
Athwart tree and shrub—mid the grasses
A butterfly gorgeous and bright
Was caught in a web which a spider
Had deftly and craftily wrought;
Aloft as a snare she had placed it
And the unwary butterfly caught.
Vainly the poor insect fluttered
To be freed from the web’s fleecy fold;
But its wings were caught fast in its meshes
And its fate could be plainly foretold.
It appealed to my heart so pathetic
Ne’er thought I to ignore its strife
It was one of God’s own little creatures
And it had a good right to its life.
So I knelt there beside the small captive
And gently the fine web I tore;
Then away on glad wings it bounded,
Rejoicing in freedom once more.
It was only a poor lowly insect,
Yet perchance, does the Good Father see
Small deeds that are wrought in the spirit of love
He would say “Ye did this unto Me.”
In the Book where all works are recorded—
In that Haven up yonder so fair;
Who knows but one mark bright and shining
Now illumines my name “over there.”
WHAT WOULD THEY DO?
’Tis true that the city is pleasant,
With its scenes ever varied and new;
But if it were not for the country
Oh, what would the city folks do?
Soon plenty would be superseded
By dearth with its train of distress;
The gaunt wolf would roam by the once happy home
Though riches untold you possess.
True, this may seem strangely in error,
But doubtless, if you will take heed
You’ll find that the sources are rural
Of that which supplies every need,
You say there are great mills and factories
By whose process rich fabrics are made;
But pause for a moment and ponder
How the material first came into trade.
Of Fashion’s apparel so dainty,
Of which our great stores are so full;
Whence comes that from which they were made—
The cotton, the silk and the wool?
’Tis not from the city—no, never!
But from the free sunshine and air
On the broad, verdant acres extending
O’er the glorious country so fair.
Tis true that the city has pleasures,
And aspirants to fashion and fame,—
But yet, should you search the world over
You’ll find it is ever the same.
’Tis the toil-harden’d hand of the farmer
By which are the multitude fed,—
Yea, the farmer—the “hard-handed” duffer,
Who supplies the vast cities with bread.
’Tis the farmer who toils on, unheeding
The mid-summer sun and the rain,
Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheat
And garners the golden grain.
From the forests afar down the valley
Or up over mountainous height
Is sent timber for use in the city,
And fuel to make the hearths bright.
The orchards, the fields and the mead lands
Fraught with richness from West to the East
Send forth to the homes in the city
Rich viands and fruits for the feast.
True, the brilliant paved streets are abounding
With wonders and charms ever new—
But, if from the country excluded
Oh! what would the city folks do?
Then have praise and respect for the farmer—
Be cordial to him when you meet—
Ne’er pass him with countenance scornful
Or gaze at the “old codger’s” feet,
Though he has not the costly apparel
Which you wear with such elegant grace—
Remember, you can’t live without him
Nor can aught in the world fill his place.
COURAGEOUSNESS
The house-wife came with smiling face,
Bearing in her hand a broom;
With thoughts intent, and purpose bent
On clearing up the room.
She spied an object on the floor,
Ne’er dreaming what it was;
But close inspection soon revealed
Its tail and head and claws!
What was the sound that pierced the air—
Was it an Indian’s yell?
Or a wandering note from some demon throat
From amidst the depths of—somewhere?
Oh, no! of a different origin
Were the tones that smote the air,—
’Twas only a frightened woman’s scream
As she mounted on a chair.
Oh dear! Oh dear! she had seen a mouse!
And it entered not her head
It would never, never do more harm
For the poor little thing was dead.
It seems the cat, in hunting, had
Caught more than she could master;
Of course old pussy never guessed
That it would cause disaster.
The mouse was in mischief, so old Puss
Had caught him in the night;
But the lady never paused to think
Whether it was wrong or right.
She knew ’twas a mouse—a horrid mouse,
And there she stood, dismayed;
What could she do, with no one near
To whom to appeal for aid?
She stood for what seemed hours to her,—
(Her weapon was the broom;)
Waiting in vain for some one to come
And take her from the room.
At last she thought of a beautiful plan,
And making good her aim;
Jumped, and landed two yards the other side
Of the animal’s prostrate frame!
———
A short time thence her hubby came.—
He saw the signs of storm;
And to his brawny bosom close
He drew her fainting form.
When he had searched, and found the cause—
So motionless and stark;
Then to himself in undertone
He ventured this remark:—
“Women may talk about their rights
And wish for a chance to vote;
Put on the airs of a gentleman
And don the vest and coat,—
They’d better be content to wait
Until it can be said
That they are brave enough to fight
A mouse when it is dead!”
TALES THAT WERE TOLD
A decanter and a crystal cup
Met in a banquet hall;
The rosy light of the sparkling wine
Shed radiance over all.
Ah, ha! old friend—and how is this—
What is your mission here?
“A pure, sweet spirit bid me come,”
Replied the water clear.
“So we have met,” said the ruby wine,
“Now let us social be,—
Let’s see who holds the greater power
O’er the nation, you or me.”
“I can boast” said he, “of mighty deeds—
I can tell you many a tale
Of woe, and folly, sin and crime,—
Can you, my friend so frail?
I have caused Old Age to droop and die—
I have caused fair Youth to fade;
I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,—
When I strike there is no aid.
I have hurled men down from their high estate—
Remorseful I’m not in the least,—
I have dragged them down, and down, until
They were level with the beast.
I have happy homes made desolate
Ha, ha! I laugh with glee
As I see the babes every comfort denied,
While the money is wasted on me!
Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray,
Of a power that is greater than mine—
Not yours—No! you are but water weak,
While I am the fiery wine!
And though I am classed in the bar-room
Under many a different name,—
No matter what liquor they call me,
My spirit is always the same.
I have sunk big ships—Yes, sank them down
In the depths of the briny deep;
And for the loved who perished there
Their kindred e’er may weep.
I have wrecked the train—I have mansions burned
—’Neath my power man’s senses flee—
I have cast proud monarchs from their throne,—
Behold! this wrought by Me!
And this I say is not the half
Of the great success I win—
But I’ll no longer take the time
So you, pale friend, begin.”
* * *
“I do not boast” the water said,
Though my power is as potent as yours;
For to all who freely drink of me
It health and strength insures.
I gently sooth the sick and the faint,
I new life in the weary imbue;
And even the roses smile sweetly and bright
As I touch them with kisses of dew.
I turn the mill which grinds the grain—
I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal;
All things rejoice with grateful breath
When my cool hand they feel.
I send the brooklet on its way—
I lift the drooping vine,—
I make all vegetation grow—
Can you do that, Sir Wine?
Of our might and power we’ll not dispute—
(The result of our deeds will show;)
For the worth of me and the curse of you
All noble minded know.
No, no! Sir Wine, Your path is death,
While mine is safely trod;
You are cursed by a demon’s hand—
I, blessed by the hand of God.
BRAVERY
A youth once went to a party
Whose sweetheart was there with the rest;
The moments that flew on swift pinions
Were enjoyed with great fervor and zest.
’Til at length came the time for dispersing,
When each went their various ways—
This fond youth escorting his sweetheart—
His heart with emotion ablaze.
On his sleeve her hand trustingly rested
As they wended their way through the wood,—
When lo! a white spectre before them
Appeared.—In their pathway it stood
Like a Goblin, with long arms extended
It swayed, while a wild, weird note
Like the wail of a disparing spirit
Came issuing from the Ghost’s throat.
’Twas too much for our hero—and turning
He ran in the wildest alarm;
And left his companion in terror—
But a word from Sir Ghost made her calm.
The echoing footsteps grew fainter
’Til at last in the distance they fade—
The rival then threw off the mystic
And boldly walked home with the maid!
THE MISSING LINK
The theory of Darwin
With evidence was bound;
But when the chain was broken
One link could not be found
Connecting Man and Monkey,—
Yet Modern Science shows
Advancement which may nearly
That missing link disclose.
The “Telephonic System”
Has spread near and afar;
Until the Way-Back County
And Town connected are.
Thus, sturdy “country Jamie,”
With hands and cheeks so brown
And heart so true and loyal,
Can call up Reg. in town—
“Dude Reggie” with the eyeglass,
And hair in “done up” curls;
With brain so weak he scarcely
Can think of aught but “Girls,”—
As at the ’phone they linger,
The line does then, I think;
Connect the Man and Monkey
And forms The Missing Link!
HE GOT LEFT
“I swan!” said farmer Joe one morn,—
“Them pesky crows shan’t have my corn!”
So he went to work, and soon he found
Two stakes, which he drove into the ground.
Then he brought to light some ragged pants
And a tattered coat soon found a chance;
While an old felt hat was perched for show
Upon the head of the old scare-crow.
One arm reached out while the other one
Held to his breast a rusty gun.
“There it is done, and now,” quoth he—
“See which will beat—them crows or me!”
So in the house the whole day he spent,
Feeling at ease and well content,—
While a broad grin o’er his features strayed
As he tho’t of the trick on the crows he’d played.
Meanwhile, two crows sat on a tree—
The young said to the old one:—“See
That horrid thing that’s standing yonder—
What is he doing here I wonder?
If he stays here what’s to be done?
For Mother, look, he’s got a gun!
Here in this tree all day I’ve stayed—
Oh, Mother! are you not afraid?
What shall we do? it takes my breath—
Must we stay here and starve to death—
Do you s’pose that old thing will hurt me?
I’m just as hungry as I can be!
But to get my grub I don’t know how—
For see, he’s looking at us now!
And what oh earth are we to do—
Oh, Mother! I’m afraid, aren’t you?”
“You foolish child,” the old crow said,
“Fret not your silly little head—
That is our Corn King good and true,
He came and stayed here last year, too.—
He has come to us, armed with a gun;
To tell us when the planting’s done.
He tells us that we need not fear,
He’ll protect us as long as he is here.
He tells us—as he did before:—
‘Fear not the farmer any more!’
Our honest Corn-King tells us right,—
Come, let us go and have a bite!
Let’s pay our respects to the Corn-King true”—
Then to the field of corn they flew.
And the rest of the crows they did invite—
Not a hill of corn was left in sight!
THE JAY AND THE FROG
A blue-jay sat on a hickory limb,
And a bullfrog sat below
On a tuft of grass, where rushes green
Were waving to and fro.
While near him lay the glassy pool
Where the tad-poles leap’d in play;
But the old frog’s face wore a troubled frown
As he thus addressed the jay:—
“Did I wear your dress of brilliant hue
Instead of this coat of green;
I could have the best the world affords,
And always live serene.
You fly away to the fields of grain
Or feast on the cherries high;
While I sit here ’neath the rushes cool,
And snap at a wary fly.”
“Then why,” said the jay, “If you wish to rise
Do you not ascend this limb?”
“I will! I will!” cried the silly frog,
I’m tired of folks that swim!”
So he hopped from the tuft of grass to the tree,
Then up where the branches divide;
Then with a grin he crawled along
And perched by the blue-jay’s side.
“I’m big as you, I’m big as you,”
Cried the frog in greatest glee;
“I wish my friends could see me now—
In this high society!”—
But his joy waned.—As a flock of jays
With one accord did rise
And, swooping down, they pecked at him
With harsh and jeering cries.
’Till he was forced to quick retreat.—
As the rushes green he seeks
He said, as he leaped in the quiet pool
And escaped their cruel beaks:—
If this is the way the ‘high class’ treats
The lowly ones, ’tis clear
’Tis best that we should be content
To stay in our native sphere!