Here is the cave where our clans were assembled,
Guarded by sentries, nor traitor could reach;
Ghostly and tomb-like, where heroes dissembled
Blood-chilling fears in their boldness of speech.
Bruce had a refuge here, Wallace lay wounded,
Hallowed its clammy walls, safe its retreat,
Once ’twas a labyrinth, gloomy, unsounded,
’Tis but a gravel pit, just off the street.
How things have changed in the years since we knew them,
Pirate and redskin and treasure and clan;
Men walk beside them and past them and through them,
Giving no heed that our blood there once ran;
Making no sign for the struggles that swept them,
Flintlock and scalplock, raid, warfare, and strife,
How things have changed since we cherished and kept them!
All of the romance has gone out of life!
A RAINY NIGHT
’BOUT eight o’clock first night that we
Were down at the academy
’Twas awful rainy out, and so
We both of us stayed in, you know;
But we could hear the wind and rain
Come splashing on the window-pane;
And after while, why, Henry Stout
Put up the curtain and looked out,
And said, “My! Ain’t she coming down!
I wish I was in Beaverstown.”
And then nobody spoke at all,
Just listened to the rain-drops fall;
And Henry sniffled up his nose
Because he had a cold, I s’pose.
And then he said, “I wonder how
Our folks are getting on by now.”
And I said, “Oh, I guess all right.
My! Ain’t it rainy out to-night!”
And Henry gave a great big sigh
And swallowed hard—and so did I.
And then he said, “My! Such a noise!
I guess there’s lots of homesick boys
Around tonight.” And I said, “Oh,”—
Just careless like—“Oh, I don’t know.”
And then he said, “I guess Jim Brown
Is glad he stayed in Beaverstown
And didn’t have to come down here.”
And I said, “Do your eyes feel queer?
I got a speck in mine, I guess,
They water so.” And he said, “Yes.”
And then he looked and tried to smile,
And we kept still for quite a while,
And heard it rain; and then he said,
“I s’pose our folks are gone to bed
And sound asleep by now, I guess.”
And then I swallowed and said, “Yes.”
So then we both got into bed
And heard it rain; and then he said,
“My! Ain’t she just a-pouring down!
I wish I was in Beaverstown.”
KITCHEN MIRACLES
IN Aunt Amelia’s kitchen there are many wonders done,
Such miracles are wrought as never seen beneath the sun:
A pumpkin from the garden—just a yellow sphere that lies
Beneath her skilful handling ripens quickly into pies;
The corn grows into fritters, you must marvel at the change;
The apples change to dumplings in the glowing kitchen range
She waves her hands above it, and the milk is cottage cheese.
You merely watch her, and you see such miracles as these.
She finds it easy, quite, to make blueberries into rolls;
And eggs are changed to omelets above the glowing coals;
And sometimes when she’s fixing the materials for pies
She turns cider into mince-meat right before your very eyes!
Sometimes she makes a currant roll—you would not think she could—
Or makes a peach turn over, or does something just as good;
But she says quite the hardest task that ever she has found
Is, when she has her boys at tea, to make these things go ’round!