Katydid's Poems

by Kate Slaughter McKinney

Keep a Bright Face, Darling.

KEEP a bright face, darling,

Though the task is hard,

Life holds up before you

Many a bright-faced card.

Though the clouds have gathered

And darkened all the way,

Rainbows o’er you arching

Tinge the skies of gray.

You have said what sunshine

Leaked in with the rain

Only brought new sorrow,

Brought but grief and pain.

Keep a bright face, darling,

Set your scales anew,

Weigh again the sunshine

And the raindrops, too.

And you’ll find your measure

Hitherto was wrong,

Keep a bright face, darling,

And on your lips a song.

Heaven decrees our burdens,

And our faith God tries;

But a broken spirit

He can not despise.

Keep a bright face, darling—

Even while I write,

In the fields of midnight

Blossom stars of light.

Though the morning cometh

With a streak of gray,

’Tis a hint of sunshine

And a perfect day.

Journey slow and patient

With a purpose strong.

Keep a bright face, darling,

On your lips a song.

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My Neighbor’s Mill.
TO M. BARLOW.

I love to sit here at the window-sill

When the sun falls asleep in the West,

And watch the gray Twilight walk over the hill

In garments of night partly dressed,

And see, through the rooms of my neighbor’s mill,

How she creeps like an unbidden guest.

I love the low hum of the numberless wheels—

They echo the heart-beats of time,

Each unto my pen its purpose reveals,

Like the magic of meter and rhyme;

Or, as to the soul that in penitence kneels,

Doth the sound of a slow vesper chime.

We have been friends together, this old mill and I,

Yes, friends that are true, tried, and strong;

If over us gather a gray winter sky

We faced it sometimes with a song,

Or braved it in silence, scarce knowing why,

As together we labored along.

I fancy sometimes as I sit here alone

With the calm of the night in my heart,

When from the low roof the pigeons have flown,

And the stars their sweet stories impart,

That this mill unto me in a strange undertone

Is speaking as heart unto heart.

That it bids me look into the granary room

Where the yellow wheat is packed;

And anon to glance in with the sundown’s bloom

Where the snowy flour is sacked,

So I look—and it seems in the deepening gloom

There clouds upon clouds are stacked.

What else do I scan through the moonlight’s lace

That scallops the window panes;

Why, the dear old miller’s honest face,

He’s counting his losses and gains,

And methinks on his visage I can trace

A look that my own heart pains.

Ah! think of the thousands his bounty feeds—

We beggars encircle his door,

While he scatters alike his bundle of seeds

To the humble, the rich, and the poor.

Sure there’s a reward for such generous deeds,

A reward that is brighter than ore!

But the lights have gone out of my neighbor’s mill,

And pale grows the red in the West;

The Night has crept up to my own window-sill

And pillowed my head on her breast,

While over the way—how peaceful and still!

The old mill’s asleep and at rest.

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Dripping Springs.
TO MY BROTHER—D. G. SLAUGHTER.

SOMETHING moves my pen; its former chime

I fain would drop, and gladly lose the rhyme

That lights my verse as ore lights up a mine,

If on my canvas I could curve and line

These quiet hills, and for an hour could say

I’d caught the warmth that on the landscape lay,

And that I dreamed as artists sometimes dream

Who blend their smiles with meadow, mound, and stream;

I am indeed a child worn out at play,

And weary of my game I long to stray

To other haunts, to other heights unknown,

And claim that Raphael’s brush as half my own.

Alas! forsaken by my Muse I turn

And backward glance—she beckons my return—

She floods the old familiar fields with light,

She bids me pause, take up my pen and—write.

’Tis scarce yet dawn, the leaves awake,

And in my brow the raindrops shake

The only remnant of the cloud

That pealed last night with thunder loud;

The only hint that here with flowers

Come sometimes shadows, sometimes showers.

The morning is a dream of bliss,

The breeze not unlike Love’s first kiss.

My soul expands—I drink the dew,

It gives my veins a deeper hue,

I halt where like a singing rill

The spring comes dripping o’er the hill.

I fill my cup again, again,

I drink for all—good health to men—

I hear the rising bell’s faint sound,

The porter makes his usual round.

And black-eyed Easter trips along

The kitchen porch with smile and song,

We find a poem in her churn,

An essence in her coffee urn;

We note the pale dyspeptic’s cheek

Is growing rosy, round, and sleek;

His torpid stomach forced to fast,

Here soon partakes the rich repast.

Breakfast over, ’round the springs

The guests assemble—some in swings—

And those of a romantic turn

Stroll two and two in search of fern.

For them the woods have more than speech,

A calm that to the heart doth reach,

That perfect peace of mind and soul

The sacred Book to us hath told.

I deem that morning holds more charms

Than day hides elsewhere in her arms;

But when she folds her shadowy tent,

And stars laugh in the firmament,

A newer phase doth nature take,

And in the heart new joys awake.

Some love the ball-room’s din and glare

As soft they trip some favorite air,

Some love to lounge about the spring,

Some frequent spots where hammocks swing,

And others saunter to the pool

Their tired limbs to bathe and cool.

But give me just the shady rook

That o’er the dripping spring doth look,

And let me watch the bright lamps flash,

And let me listen to the splash

Of the old spring that drips and drips,

To cool and cure the fever lips.

Who could forget the landlord’s vim

Or cottage rooms so neat and trim?

Who would not leave the city’s glare,

The heat, the dust, and stifling air—

Who would not part with all his wealth

To gain at Dripping Springs his health?

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