TH"E SUNDAY OPEGOmX, PORTLAMI, 7, 1916.
OLD FAVORITES ARE REVIVED BY POETRY ENTHUSIASTS
ITTLE JIM," or "The Collier's
. Dying Child," has been the
J greatest favorite among the
contributions to The Oregonian's page
of poetry, if one is to judge by the
number of responses received to the
request for its publication. '
In addition to the four copies sent
in at first, 10 contributors in various
parts of the state sent copies in the
past week. Some of the versions dif
fered siightly, but the text was, in the
main, as it appeared last week.
"We are indebted for the kindness of
contributing in response to the request
of West Hiding for the poem, three
weeks ago, to the following kind read
ers of the uage: Jewel Mackenzie, of
Portland; Miss SacUe Hendrick, of Hub- I
bard; Mrs. C. H. McKaue, of inlock,
"Wash.; Miss Masie McK.ee. of Portland;
Lucy E. Roinns, of Portland; Mrs.
Kweli, of Portland; Mrs. W. Swart, of
Portland; Lily L. Schafer, of Eugene;
liuth Luce, of Portland; Mrs. Mary A.
Klett, of Portland, and a contributor
who did not give a name.
"Absalom' by Nathaniel P. Willis.
brought forth almost as many re
sponses, copies being received from
P-uth Luce. Verne Bright, of Beaver
ton; G. H. Ward, of Tillamook; Zena C
Stwibrook, of Hood Kiver, and several
anonymous contributors.
Several copies of "All Quiet Along
the Potomac" have been received.
Among the requests for poems that
have been received in the past week,
Mr. Ward, of Tillamook, asks for the
publication of "Hell," -which apppeared
about 20 years ago, he says, in the Na
tional Tribune, of Washington, D. C.
Lucy Rollins asks for "The Wind in
the Chimney," which contains the line:
"L love the wind in the chimney."
Mrs. Juanita W. Smith asks for "The
Cremation of Sam Magee."
Miss Masie McKee writes to inform
Mrs. L. E. Hiatt, of Vancouver, that the
author of "The Children" is Charles
Dickenson.
Next in favor to "Little Jim" has
been "We Are Seven," by Wordsworth,
which was requested a short time ago.
We are indeoted for cooies to Mrs.
Josie May, of Aberdeen: Mrs. Dawson,
of Portland; Mrs. S. L. Sedvns. of Port
land; Mrs. Minnie Henrici. of Portland;
Mrs. R. H. Wisdom, of Portland; Mrs.
K. E. Tyler, of Buena Vista: Mrs. J. E.
Roselti, of Parkdale, and others who
did not give names.
VB ARB SEVEX.
A simple child
That lightly draws it breath
And feels its, life in every limb
What toiiouia it inow uca,Lh?
I met a little cottage girl.
She vvas eight years old. she said;
Her air was tbick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, wow.land air
And she was wildly clad;
Her face was fair, yea, very fair
Her beauty made me glad.
'Sifters and brothers, little maid.
How many may you boT
Ilow man ".' hoven in all," she said.
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they, I pray you tell?"
She answered, "Seven are we.
And two of us at Conway iwell
And two are gone to sea.
Two of Us in the churchyard lie.
My sister and my brother.
And in the churchyard cottage I
Dwell near them with my mother."
You say that two at Conway dwell
And two are gone to sea.
Sot ye are seven; I pray you tell.
Sweet maid, how this may be."
Then did the little maid reply.
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie.
Beneath the churchyard tree."
"You run about, my little maid.
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid
Then ye are only Ave."
Their graves are green, they may be
seen.
The little maid ..replied.
'Twelve steps or more from my moth
er's; door.
And they are side by side.
My stockings there I oftn knit.
My 'kerchief there I hem.
And there upon the ground I sit
1 tit and sing to them.
'And often after sunset, sir.
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer
And eat my supper tnere.
The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay.
Till God relieved her of her pain
And then she went away.
So in the churchyard .he was laid.
And. when the grass was dry.
Together round her grave we played.
My brother John and I.
And when the ground -was white with
snow
And 1 could run and slide.
My brother John was forced to go '
And he lies there by her side."
How- many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
The little maiden did reply.
T master, we are seven."
'But they are dead those two are
dead;
Their spirits are in heaven"
Twas throwing words away; for still
The. little maid would have her will
And said, "Nay, we are seven."
O. G. Hughson sends in a copy of 1
T-ongfellow's "Rainy Day" asking that
It be reprinted as a universal favorite
lor many vpj ts.
THE RAIN!" DAY,
The day is cold, and dark, and
dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moulder
ing wall.
But at every gust the dead leaves
fall.
And the day is dark and dreary.
My liV is cold, rnd dark, and dreary:
It rains, and the wind is never weary:
My thoughts still cling to the mould
ering past.
But the hopes of youth fall thick
in the Mast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the cloud is the sun still shin
in c:
Thy fate is the common fate of all.
Into each life some rain must fall.
Some days must be dark and dreary.
A contributor, who does not give her
Ttame, sends in the following poem
which was copied from the fly-leaf of
the memorandum book of a prominent
business man who recently parsed
away":
r.RIT.
Tis the coward who quits to mis
fortune; "Tis the knave who changes each day:
'Tis the fool who wins half the battle.
Then throws all his chances away.
There Is little in life but labor.
And tomorrow may find that a dream;
Success is the bride of Endeavor,
And Luck but a meteor's gleam.
The time to succeed is when other.
Discouraged, show traces of tire;
The battle is fought in the homestretch
And won 'twixt the flag and the wire.
"The Mountain Torrent," from the
Pacific Monthly or the Sunset of about
a-
ten years ago, is contributed by C.
L H."- It is reminiscent of Simpson's
"Beautiful Willamette" in rhythm in
many of its passages. v
THE MOUNTAIN' TORREXT.
BY E VALE EN STEIX.
Gleaming, twinkling,
Softly tinkling.
Fed from ever-lasting snows;
Rushing, flashing.
Tumbling, splashing,
Down the peak the torrent flows.
Over rocks remote and lonely.
Purple crags whence eagles only
Through the radiant ether soar;
Down bare ledges towering over
Shadowy slopes the forests cover.
Crossing trails where white clouds
hover.
Swift the eager waters pour.
Come at last where pine and pinion
Hold the height in proud dominion;
Where the silver spruces throng
And the golden aspens quiver;
Still this headlong little river.
Through the lacing branches gleaming.
Down the mossy rocks goes streaming
With a glad, unceasing song.
Down the steeps it leaps and rushes.
Past the dripping alder bushes.
Through tall, tangled grass it pushes
In its wild haste to be gone;
Then in broken silver splashes
Falls in shimmering spray and flashee
Through white sparkling foam, and
dashes
On, and on, and ever on.
Here and there the water's riot
Sinks a moment into quiet.
In some crystal pool that glasses
Columbines and tasseled grasses
O'er its mirror bending low;
And the currents as they go
Through its beauty, loiter slow
In their flow.
And the drowsy ripples dally.
In the sifted sunlight twinkling
To a musical sweet tinkling.
Dreaming of the distant valley
Where the yellow poppies grow.
Thus the stream goes dreaming so
Toward the basin's brink, when lo
With a sudden, swift commotion.
Waking, breaking into singing,
O'er the verge it plunges springing.
Down the depths its music flingm
Ever far and fainter ringing.
Speeding to the Western ocean.
Eager torrent, wild and free.
Child of ice and snowy fountains.
Poet of the purple mountains.
Pilgrim to the sunset sea.
Though my path leads far away
I-rom the singing trail today.
Yet again I glimpse the glimmer
Of a twinkling rainbow shimmer
Fleeing onward through the trees;
In mv ears thy voice is calling
And the flute-like cadence falling
Of thy happy minstrelsies!
For I love thee, little brother.
As one child may love another.
Nurselings both of the All-Mother,
Fain to worship at her knees.
And dear heart, I joy to know.
Though my song is lowly, though
All glad praise of earth and sky
On my lips shall by and by
Sink to endless silence, thou
Sweetly evermore as now
Shall go heralding the glory
Of the ancient peaks and hoary
in their everlasting white;
And thy tender ditties singing
To the fragile blossoms clinging
On thy borders, hid from sight.
From the silences eternal
Of the heights that give thee birth.
To the flowery valleys vernal
Ringing with the robin's mirth.
Still thy song shall echo voicing
tseauty s rapture, and rejoicing
In the loveliness of earth!
Mrs. Edward Hughey. of Portland,
contributes a copy of "The Independ
ence Bell.' which many will remember
as a favorite for declamation in pa
triotic programmes in the schools not
many years ago.
Til i; IDEPEDECE BKLL."
There was tumult in the city.
In the quaint. old Quaker town.
And the streets were rife with people
Pacing restless up and down;
People gathering at corners.
Where they whispered each to each.
Anl the sweat stood on their temples
With the earnestness of speech.
As the bleak Atlantic currents
Lash the wild Newfoundland shore.
So they beat against the SUate House,
. So they surged against the door.
And the mingling of their voices
Made a harmony profound.
Till the quiet street of Chesnut
Was all turbulent with sound.
"Will they do it?" "Dare they do it?"
"Who is speaking?" "What's the
news?"
"What of Adams?' "What of Sher
man?'' "Oh. God grant they won't refuse."
"Make some way there 1" "Let me
nearer!"
"1 am stifling!'' "Stifle, then!
When a Nation s life's at hazarO.
We've no time to think of men."
So they surged asamst the State-House.
While all solemnly inside
Sat the Continental Congress.
Truth and reason for their guide.
O'er a simple scroll debating.
Which, though simple it might be.
Yet should shake the cliffs of England
With the thunders of the free.
So they' beat against the portal.
Man and woman, maid and child..
And the July sun in heaven
On the scene looked down and smiled.
The same sun that saw the Spartan
Shed his patriot blood in vain.
Now beheld the soul of freedom.
All unconquered, rise again.
Far aloft in the high steeple
Sat the bellman, old and gray;
He was weary of the tyrant.
And his iron sceptered 6way.
So he sat with one hand ready
On the clapper of the bell.
When his eyes could catch the signal.
The long expected news to telL.
eer See! The dense crowd quivers
Through hll its lengthy line.
As the boy beside the portal
Looks forth to give the sign;
With his little hands uplifted.
Breezes dallying with his hair.
Hark! With ieep. clear intonation.
Breaks his young voice on the air.
Hushed the people's swelling murmur.
As the boy cries Joyfully!
"Ring!" he shouts. "Ring, grandpa.
Ring! oh ring for liberty!"
Quickly at the given signal
The old bellman lifts his hand.
Forth he sends the good news, makind
Iron music through the land.
How they shouted! What rejoicing!
.How the old bell shook the air.
Till the clang of freedom ruffled
The calmly gliding Dfllaware.
How the bonfires and the torches
Lighted up the night's repose.
And from flames like railed Phoenix,
Our glorious liberty arose.
That old State-House hell is silent.
Hushed is now its clamorous tongue;
But the spirit it awakened
Still is living ever yourg!
And when we greet the smiling sun
light. On the Fourth of each July.
We will ne'er forget the bellman.
Who. betwixt the earth and sky,
Ranir out loudly. "Independence,"
Which, please God. shall never die.
"All Quiet Along the Potomac." re
quested last week, has been sent in
by Mrs. Gudrun Dahl. in a clipping
no a
fS
. rib
containing the following story of the
poem:
AIL O.UIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.
This song has had several claimants,
but it was written oy Eythel Lynn
Beers, born 1827 at Goshen, X. Y. Hei
maiden name was Ethelinda Elliot and
her nom de plume "Ethel Lynn." Some
of her best-known poems were: "On
the Shores of Tennessee," "Weighing
the Baby." "Which Shall It Be?" She
died October, 17!.
The poem quoted originally appeared
as "The Picket Guard," and the music
for it was composed by .1. Dayton,
leader of the band of the First Con
necticut Artillery in the Civil War. In
response to an inquiry as to what sug
gested the writing of the poem, she
said that she had read so many tele
grams in the papers about it being
quiet along the Potomac, except a reg
ular addenda that a picket or two had
been shot during the day, that one
September morning in 1S61 the words
of the song came as an inspiration,
and putting them on paper she for
warded them to Harper's Weekly, in
which they appeared on the 30th of the
same month.
"All quiet along the Potomac," they
say.
"Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot as he walks on his beat to
and fro.
By a rifleman hid in the thicket,
'Tis nothing a "private or two now and
then
Will not count in the news of the
battle:
Not an officer lost only one of the
men.
Moaning out, all alone, his death rat
tle." All quiet along the Potomac tonight.
Where the soldiers are peacefully
dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear
autumn moon.
Or the light of the watch-fire, are
gleaming.
A tremulous sight of the gentle night
wind
Through the forest leaves is softly
creeping;
While stars up above, with their glit
tering eyes.
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sen
try's tread.
As he tramps from the rock to the
fountain.
And thinks of The two in the low
trundle bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack; his face, dark
and grim.
Grows gentle with memories tender.
As he mutters a prayer for the children
asleep.
For their mother, may heaven de
fend her!
The moon seems to shine just as
brightly as then.
That night, when the love unspoken
Leaped up to his lips, when low-mur-mered
vows
Were pledged ever to be unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over
his eyes, ,
He dashes off tears'that are welling.
And gathers his gun closer up to its
( As if to keep down the heart-swell
ing.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine
tree;
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes through the broad
belt of night.
toward tne snaae or me forest so
dreary.
Hark! Was it the night wind that
rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously
flashing?
It looked like a rifle "Ha!
Mary, good-bye!"
The red life-blood is ebbing and
plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac tonight;
No sound save the rush of the river:
While soft falls the dew on the face
of the dead
The picket's off duty forever!
Clara McKee contributes an interest
ing old clipping containing some of
DATIM
Ileaven is not reached at & single bound,
. But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to the summit round by round.
I count this thing to be grandly true
That a noble ueed is a step toward God,
Lifting the soul from the common sod
To the purer air and the broader view.
We rise by things that are under our feet;
By what we have mastered of good and gain.
By the pride deposed and the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.
We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust.
When the morning calls us to life and light;
But our feet grow weary, and ere the night
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.
We hope, wc aspire, we resolve, we pray,
And we think that we mount the air on wings
Beyond the recall of sensual things.
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.
Wings for the angels, but feet for men.
We may borrow the wings to find the way.
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray,
But our feet must rise or we fall again.
Only in dreams is a ladder thrown '
From the weary earth to the sapphire walls,
But the dream departs, and the vision falls,
And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.
Heaven is not reached at a single bound,
Bui ve build the ladder by which we rise
From til lowly earth to the vaulted skies.
And we raou. to the summit round by round.
the prophecies of the amous "Mother
Shipton":
JIUTIIER SHIPTON'S PROPHECY.
Mother Shipton was born at Knaves
borough, says tradition, and was gen
erally regarded as a witch, the popular
belief being that she sold her soul to
the ex'il one in return for the power of
lifting the veil shrouding the future.
Although universally believed to be a
dealer in black art. she died quietly in
her bed, and in. the churchyard near by
a headstone bore this Inscription:
Here lies she who never lied.
Whose skill often has been tried;
Her prophecies shall still survive.
And ever keep her name alive.
It is said that each morning of her
life was signalized by the utterance of
some remarkable prediction of weal or
woe to her neighbors or her country.
To Henry VIII she foretold his sup
pression of the" monasteries, .his- mar
riage with Anne Boleyn. Wolsey's
downfall and death, and the fagot tires
of Smithtield. To Elizabeth she aiso
made equally true predictions, and also
to King James. It Is recorded that tn
her last public utterance Mother Ship-
ton gave forth the following prediction.
which has been thought to nave reier-
ence to the present century:
The time shall come when seas of blood
Shall mingle with a greater flood;
Great noise shall there be heard, great
shouts and cries.
And seas shall thunder louder than the
skies.
Then shall three Hons fight with three.
and bring
Joy to a people, honor to a King.
That fiery year, as soon as o'er.
Peace shall then be as before:
Plenty shall everywhere be found.
And men with swords shall till the
ground.
The following, which is especially
known as "Mother Shlpton's Prophecy,
is said to have been first published lr
148S and republished in 1641. It will
be noticed that all the events predicted
except that of the last two lines, have
already eome to pass:
Carriages without horses shall go.
And accidents fill the world with woe:
Around the world thought shall fly
In the twinkling of an eye!
Water shall yet more wonders do.
Now strange, yet shall be true.
The world upside down shall be.
And gold be found at root of tree.
Through hills man shall ride.
And no horse or ass be at his side.
Under water man shall walk.
Shall ride, shall sleep, shall talk.
In the air men shall be seen.
In white. In black. In green.
Iron, in water shall float.
As easy as a wooden boat.
Gold shall be found and coined
In a land that's not now known.
Fire and water shall wonders do,
England shall at last admit a Jew;
And the world unto an end shall come
In eighteen hundred and eighty-one.
The following verses were sent in
for the page by Mrs. Josephine Carr.
of Portland. Ella Wheeler Wilcox Is
named as the author.
FRIENDSHIP.
The days grow shorter, the nights grow
longer;
The headstones thicken along the
way.
And life grows sadder, but love growa
stronger.
For those who walk with us day by
day.
The tear comes quicker, the laugh
comes slower;
The courage is lesser to do and dare;
And the tide of Joy in the heart falls
lower.
And seldom covers the reefs of care.
But all true things In the world seem
truer:
And the better things on earth seem
best.
And friends are dearer, as friends are
fewer.
And love is all. as our sun dips west.
Then let us clasp hands as we walk
together.
And let us speak softly in love's
sweet tone:
For no man knows on the morrow
whether
We two pass on or but one alone.
I inclose a copy ot a favorite poem
which recalls the days during the Civil
War.
A faded copy of "The Meeting of thelof Will Carlton in some of their lines.
Veterans," by Carlton, was cut out of
a copy of the Toledo Blade a good
many years ago.
BOYD M. YERGEX. Donall. Or.
THE MEETING OF THE VETERANS,
Tom:
Thank God that we have met again
old comrade you and me.
Beneath that grand old banner. John,
the emblem of the free.
But none are here to greet us now. and
few are left we know.
Of all who answered to their names
Just twenty years ago.
John:
Aye. comrade, we have older grown
our boys are men today.
Of whom both you and I are proud, for
veterans sons are they:
But oh the number mustered out we
never more will know.
Whose elbows touched upon that march
Just twenty years ago.
Tom:
Yes, on that field of Gettysburg, our
lines grew thin and light
When scattered by the rebel fire, our
men fell left and right;
And we were left almost alone to
check the charging foe
And help our comrades in distress Just
twenty years ago.
John:
Oh comrade Tom, have you forgot the
soldier on our right.
Who lost his leg by cannon shot, in
Hancock's fearful flghtT
I braced him up against a tree, his
face toward the foe.
Where firing his last shot, he died. Just
twenty years ago.
Tom:
Oh yes. and when we dug his grave
upon a knoll nearby.
And laid him gently down to rest a
tear filled every eye.
And vengeful vows were uttered there.
aye. many a one I know.
Above the tomb of that comrade. Just
twenty years ago.
John :
'Twas then our gallant captain fell, the
fav'rlte of us all:
He left at home a sweet young wife
and went at duty's call:
We tried to take him to the rear: he
would not let us go.
But bravely bled his life out there. Just
twenty years ago.
Tom:
And, John. I know you've not forgot
when we were prls'ners made.
And hurried off away down South to
Anderson stockade.
And shut up in that prison pen. oft
times my tears will flow
While thinking what we suffered there.
Just twenty years ago.
John:
Oh. well, old comrade, all is past: the
cruel war is o'er.
No more we heed the bugle blast nor
hear the cannon's roar:
But to another campflre bright. In
God's own time will go;
Not such a camp as we were in, just
twenty years ago.
Both:
So now, dear comrades, one and all, a
hearty grip once more:
We two old chums again have met and
fought our battles o'er.
It stirs our blood like trumpets' tones
In front of rebel foe.
And makes us feel as we felt then,
Just twenty years ago.
Though well we know 'tis all In vain:
no longer young are we:
But 'round our campflrea we'll meet
beneath the banner free.
And tell the conflicts once we waged
against the Southern foe
On Gettysburg's Immortal field, just
twenty years ago.
And now, good friends, we brealc our
camp, unm some future day.
Well meet again and sing our songs of
battlefield and fray:
And when our campflres gleam again.
we almost think we know.
You'll come to hear how soldiers fought
Just twenty years ago.
Mrs. H. H. Smith has also sent In the
following versea, which have the smack
and are typical of a style of verse with
a rural setting, which, la perennially
popular:
THE OLD MAX GOES TO THE FAIR.
(Author Unknown.)
I'm very dusty and tired, wife. I've
Just come home from the fair:
So give me my pipe and tobacco, tod I'll
smoke tn my easy chair;
It's tiresome work, a-playin' for feeble
old men like me;
Xt'a tiresome work a-seeln where
everyone wishes to see.
Our fairs are runnln' down: they are
not like the fairs of old.
Where you took the prises fur bread.
and butter as yellow as gold;
There were hundreds of useful thins
that were well worth seein then:
Now dozens of raciiV horses and hun
dreds of bettin' men.
What all this eportin' will lead to Is
more than I n""" can tell:
But aomehow, it seems to me like the
downward road to well.
X may be a little harsh, but I'm speakln'
the simple truth.
For bettin', racln' and drinkin' are the
foes of our noble youth.
We shall come to be a nation of gam
blers, if matters keep on this way:
Why, what do you think? a youngster
accused me of bettin today:
When I laid my hand on the head that
nadn t seen ten years yet
And called him a fine little fellow be
answered ma back: "lou bet:
"Tut. tut, little man!" said I "that thing
I have never done:
Come, stand by grandpa's knee: let me
reason with you. my son.
He straightened up in his clothes and
said, with a look so queer.
'I don't come here for preachin'. old
man; walk off on your ear."
We never heard talk like that, when
you and I were young;
My father and mother bless 'em put a
bridle upon my tongue.
I'm old and I'm gettln' blind, but a dif
ference I can see
Twist the boys of eighteen hundred and
eighteen seventy-three.
How Is It about the girls? They, too,
from the path have strayed:
I don't see one a showtn' the butler her
own hands had made;
They sat in their pony phaetons, with
woman s ease ana grace.
And shouted as loud as any when
favorite won a race.
All eyea were watchin" the track: the
race was every man s tnenie:
Ail I said to myself. "Is this a fair, or
is it only a dream. -
saw 'bout a dosen men lookin' round
at the sheeD and swine.
And the frost of seventy winters had
silvered their hair like mine.
Why on earth don't they change the
name, when the rong name n
has got?
No longer call It a fair but an Agri
cultural Trot:
Then men won't be taking things there
for sensible folks to see.
With nobody to see 'em but crippled old
men like me.
There, take my pipe and tobacco! I'll
sleep In my easy cnair;
It's tiresome work a-talk In' about
degenerate fair.
You needn't disturb me. wife, till tne
bells of the evening chime.
For I mav go back in my dreams to
the fairs of the olden time.
From Ohio Farmer.
A favorite that is still as attractive
to the nresent generation as It was to
generations that have gone hefore. Is
submitted by Mrs. J. E. Rossettl. of
Parkdale. The melody is familiar to
nearly everyone.
GRANDFATHER'S CLOCK.
My grandfather's clock was too tall for
the shelf.
So it stood 90 years on the floor.
It was taller by half, than the old man
himself.
Tho' It weighed not a pennyweight
more.
It was bought on the morn of the day
that he was born.
It was always his pleasure and pride.
But it stopped, short.
Never to go again.
When the old man died.
CHORUS,
Xinetv vears without slumbering
Tick. tick. tick. tick.
Its life's seconds numbering
Tick. tick. tick. tick.
It stopped, short.
Never to go again.
When the old man died.
In watching its pendulum swing to
and fro.
Many hours had he spent when a boy.
In boyhood and manhood the clock
seemed to know.
And to share both his grief and his
Joy.
It struck twenty-four as he entered at
the door
With a blooming and beautiful bride.
But it stopped, short.
Never to go again.
When the old man died.
CHORUS,
My grandfather said that of those he
could hire.
Not a servant so faithful he found.
The clock kept the time but it had one
desire
At the close of each week to be
wound.
It kept tn Its place, not a frown upon
its face.
And its hands never hung by its side.
But it stopped, short.
Never to go again
When the old man died.
CHORUS.
It struck an alarm in the dead of the
night.
An alarm that for years had been
dumb.
We knew that his spirit was blooming
for flight.
That the hour for departure had
come.
The clock kept the time, with a soft
and muffled chime.
As we silently watched by his side.
But it stoppea. short.
Never to go again
When the old man died.
A delightful old favorite, which has
lingered in innumerable scrapbooks in
the land, is the following, which was
contributed to our page by Mrs. Pearl
Waldrop. of Oswego:
SEVER TROUBLE TROUBLE.
Full well do I remember
My childhood's happy hour.
A child of happy days gone by.
I've played among the flowers.
I heard my grandma singing
As old folks often do:
"Oh, never trouble trouble.
Until trouble troubles you."
I've passed through days of sorrow.
And met with loss and gain.
I've parted with my dearest ones
And felt life's keenest pain;
Yet oft when shadows gather.
It lifts my courage so
To never trouble trouble
Until trouble troubles you.
The voice that sung is silent
And grandma sleeps serene;
Above her lilies lift their crest
And grasses? grow so green;
Yet oft t Jiear. In memory.
Her song so sweet and low:
"Oh. never trouble trouble
Until trouble troubles you."
Another poem by Jacob Price, which
was a few years back employe'd by
many dramatic readers, is contributed
by his son. J. B. Price:
DOOMED.
Good morning. Jailor, thank you, sir.
I do not care to eat.
But wt'.l drink the cup of coffee
Won't you And yourself a seat?
X want to say a word to you
Before before I go.
nd thank you for your kindness.
More valued than you know.
What means that sound of hammers
that 1 v heard since break of day?
What are they building? Oh! mv Godl
You turn your head awv
I understand, you need not speak:
ine -Dunuing Is for me!
How did I rest? Sly sleep last night
,Was sweet as sleep could be
And ailed with dreams. I dreamed of
nome,
A happy, peaceful dresm "
Unmixed with present horrors:
An angel, it would seem.
In pity watched my last rspose:
I woke and Ilk. a knif
Came quick and keen the piercing
thought
Tis my last day of life!
It cannot be! 'Tis still a dream!
Must I. some minutes hence.
See this bright world in blackness fade?
Blackness, eternal, dense?
And will the kindly sun still send
To this lonely cell his ray
And cheer some other hapless wretch
neu i am gone away?
And when I'm laid deep in the earth.
Then will a flood of light
Pour softly down from the old moon.
As it Poured down U.i ni,hii
And will the shrieking railway trains
mat marked the hours for tno.
Still roar and rumble as before
When I no more shall be?
And you my only friend will you
Pursue your daily round
Tomorrow as today? and I
Ana l deep in the ground?
I know I do not fear to die;
I never yet knew fear:
But. oh. life seems so wondrous sweet
As death is ilrauln, .......
My God My God! am I the man
That you thronir cnm..., . .-. . ...
This sweet, slad morn- I iu k- ,..t
It cannot, cannot be!
Good-bye. kind friend bolt hard ths
Lt no man com n i -
Leave me alone alone with c..
It is my time to die!
Jacob Price. "
Mrs. H. H. Smith, of this .-it v. h
sent in a series of Pleasing old poems,
among which the following will no
doubt tickle a responsive chord of ap
preciative humor in. many a reader:
TKOIBLE IV THE CHOIR.
By A. T. Worden.
There was something so unusual in the
singing of the choir
That the Elder looked up mildly from
the tenth of Jeremiah.
And with readjusted eyeglass looked
along the foremost row.
While a hundred necks were twisted
in a stare from all below.
As before the rolling thunder comes a
distant, wailing moan.
There was presage of disturbance in
the very organ's tone.
Just the popping of the pickets, ere the
battle's awful din.
Or the tuning of the tiddles ere the or
chestra begin.
An unprejudiced observer might have
seen with half an eye
There was waiting an explosion that
would blow them all sky-high.
Or spontaneous combustion, to accept
a modern name.
That was waiting Just a motion to
Durst forth into a flame.
fhe Soprano sat in grandeur, with her
book before her face.
Wlth her back-comb turned in anger
on the Alto and the Bass;
While the Tenor stood beside her with
an elevated nose.
And the Organist pawed madly at the
peaaia witn his toes.
How could any one but angels sing
when they were feeling so?
Though the hymns were "'Songs of
Gladness," they would make it
"Sounds of Woe."
When we sing about devotion, some de
votion we must feel.
Or our plaintive tones of worship will
partake somewhat of squeal.
But the Alto sung her solo, and then
left it to the Bass,
Who was gnawing at his mustache and
was looking for the place:
While the Organist, in anger, sung tho
leading part alone.
And the Tenor tried to follow, but it
ended in a groan.
Aa the horror-stricken people heard
the discord raising higher.
It was patent to the simplest there was
trouble In the choir.
And the Organist, in fury, closed tho
organ with a crash.
And the Alto sobbed in anguish and
the choir had gone to smash.
When the Elder went among them,
with a view to reconcile.
The Soprano told her story with a san
guinary smile:
It appears the wretched Chorister had
introduced a girl
With a brand new style of singing (and
a most distracting curl).
But. to cap the bitter climax, this
usurper wore a nat.
Just a "duck." a "gem." a beauty, and
it made the rest look flat.
And the straw that broke the camel's
back and made the wreck complete-She
came early Sunday morning and
usurped the leading seat.
When the Elder asked the Tenor why
he left he said "Because
The Soprano said his chest tones
sounded just like filing saws:
And he overheard the Alto one night
whisper to the Bass
That a man with such a mustache was
a palpable disgrace."
And the Bass informed the Elder that
he sacrificed his views
When he came and joined the Elder's
choir to help fill up his pews.
He was an Episcopalian, and if peoplo
thought he'd take
Any nonsense from a Baptist, they had
made a great mistake.
Then the Organist and Alto both put
on an Injured look;
Saying something in an undertono
about a change of book;
And the Elder overheard them, as he
gently closed the door.
Use the words "A poor old fogy" and
A sentimental bore."
Aa he scratched his poor old noddle,
as he ambled down the street.
With bis spectacles on forehead and
his slippers on his feet.
I really think the Elder has a hope of
pouring oil
On the troubled sea of music, to allay
the sad turmoil.
In the meantime service opens with the
old "China" or "Bethune."
And the Deacon with the tune fork
gives the people all the tune;
And the organ gathers cobwebs, and
the people gather grace.
While they roar out Cororatlon" to
the Deacon's hoarsest bass.
From the Union Observer.