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About The Sunday Oregonian. (Portland, Ore.) 1881-current | View Entire Issue (Sept. 3, 1916)
TTIE SUNDAY OREGOXIAX, PORTLAND, SEPTEMBER 3, 1916. REPRINTED POE MS OF LONG AGO BRING MEMORIES WITH THEM Requests for Publication of Long-Forgotten Verses Continue to Come in and Many Are There Who Send in Copies of Old Favorites. CONTRIBUTORS In the past week have sent In two copies of "Katie Lee and Willie Gray," which, through Inadvertence, we mentioned as having appeared on this page before. Such was not the case and the poem will be printed as soon as possible. In addition to other contributors al ready acknowledged, we are Indebted to Ruth Luce and Mrs. Albert Sutton lor copies of the verses. Copies of "Lord Ullin's Daughter," which was printed last week, have been received from Irene "Welcome and Mrs. D. J. McLoughlln, of Portland. Irene Welcome has also kindly fur nished a copy of "The Cremation of Sam McGee," but we are unable to reprint this owing to the author's copyrights. We wish to acknowledge receipt of copies of the answer to "The Gipsy's Warning" from Mrs. R. E. Stanley, of Barview. and "Believe Me if All Those Kndearing Young Charms" from C. W. Castle, of Baker, and F. F. Smith, of Laurelhurst. Inadvertently we neglected to credit Mr. Smith with furnishing us the copy of Longfellow's "Psalm of Life," which was reprinted on this page a. few weeks ago. Irene Welcome asks for the poem be ginning: " 'Twas ever thus from child hood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower, hut 'twas the first to fade away." Rhodia M. Murphy, of St. Paui. from whom we received the copy of "The Lost Chord." which we are reprinting, asks for the old poem: "Bobby Shafto Has Gone to Sea." "The New Church Organ" Is re quested by Elbert Bede, of Cottage Grove. Edith White asks for "Rhoderlck Lee." which begins: "This is a wild lone valley, and the road that leads it through is the loneliest road I know of. and I've traveled not a few." She also requests "The Sisters." A request has been made for one of the old "Spoopendyke" readings, but It will be Impossible to reprint prose readings on this page. "Cid Ruy" is requested by Katherlne Kavanaugh, and also the poem that contains the lines: "I am the man who eerves the man who serves, the man who serves the King." Ethel R. Bateman wants the words to the song of the Chicago fire, which runs: "The firebells are ringing this wild Wintry night. They ask aid for district thirty-four, .nd somebody's riches are now "taking flight. On wild winds away, away they soar." Marian Stafford requested recently the poem beginning: "On a rich man's tahle, filled to the brim, there sat two glasses, rim to rim; one was crystal, etc." Mrs. H. E. Wheeler requests two poems running as follows: "Thou art gone to the grave. But we will not deplored the." And: "Where are the friends that to me were so dear, (Long, long ago, long long ago? "Whisperin' Bill" is requested by Mrs. Edward Hughey. also 'Faithless Nellie Gray." by Thomas Hood; "Kate Ketchum," by Alice Cary, and "Give the Boy a Chance" and "Silver Threads Among the Gold." A request reecived some time ago for "Darius Green" ar.d "His Fly In" Ma chine," by J. T. Trowbridge, has been met by a contribution from Ruth Luce, and the poem is reprinted herewith. A tremendous favorite in its time, it is still a delightful reading, even in the days since the dreams of poor Darius Green have been more than realized. DtfUUS GREEN AM) HIS FLYING J1ACHI.VE. BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE. -Tf ever there lived a Yankee lad Wise or otherwise, good or bad. Who seeing the birds fly. didn't jump With flapping arms from stump to stump. Or spreading the tail Of his coat for a sail. Take a soaring leap from post to rail. And wonder why He couldn't fly And flap and flutter, and wish and try; If ever you knew a country dunce Who didn't try that as often as once. All I can say is, that's a sign He never would do for a hero of mine. An aspiring genius was D. Green; The son of a farmer, age fourteen. His body was long and lank and lean Just right for (lying, as will be seen. He had two eyes, as bright as a bean. And a freckled nose that grew between, A little awry for I must mention That he had riveted his attention Upon his wonderful invention. Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings. And working his face as he worked the wings. . And with every turn of gimlet and screw Turning and screwing his mouth round too. Till his nose seemed bent To catch the scent. Around some corners, of new baked pies. And his wrinklad cheeks and squinting Grew puckered into a queer grimace That gave him a look very droll in the face. And also very wise. And wise he must have been to do more Than ever a genius did before Ecepting Daedalus of yore And his son Icarus, who wore Upon their backs Those wings of wax He had read of In the old Almanacs. Darius was cl3arly of the opinion That the air is also man's dominion And that, with paddle or fin or pinion, We soon or late shall navigate The azure as now we do the sea. The thing looked simple enought to me And if you doubt it. Hear how Darius reasoned about It. The birds can fly, an' why can't I? Jlust we give in." says he with a grin, "That the bluebird an phoebe Are smarter'n we be? Jest fold our hands and see the swaller An' cat bird and black bird beat us holler? Does the little chatterin', sassy wren Ko bigger'n my thumb know more than men? Just show me that Or prove 't the bat Ilez got more brains than's In my hat. An' I'll back down, an" not till then?" He argued further: "Nur I can't see What's the' U30 of wings to a bumble X bee Fur to git a livin with, more'n to me: Ain't my business Important's hls'n Is? That Icarus Made a pretty muss Him an' his daddy Daedarlus! They might a knowed wings made o' wax Wouldn't stand sun heat and hard wacks; I'll make mine o' luther Ur suthln ur other." And he said to himself as he tinkered and planned: "But I alnt going to show my hand To nummies that never can understand The fust idee that's big and grand." iSo he kept his secret from all the rest Safely buttoned within his vest. And in a loft above the shed Himself he locks with thimble and thread And wax and hammer and buckles and screws And all such things as geniuses use: Two bats for patterns, curious fellows! A Charcoal pot and a pair of bellows; Some wire and several old umbrellas, A carriage cover for tail and wings A piece of harness; and straps and strings; And a big strong box. In which he locks These and a hundred other things. His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon lurk Around the corner to see him work Sitting cross-legged like a Turk Drawing the waxed end through with a Jerk And boring the holes with a comical quirk Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. But vainly they mounted each other's back?. And poked through knotholes and pried through cracks; With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks He plugged the knotholes and caulked the cracks; And a dipper of water, which one would think He had brough up Into the loft to drink When he chanced to be dry. Stood always nigh. For Darius wn sly. And whenever at work he happened to spy At chink or crevice a blinking eye. He let the dipper of water fly. "Take that! an' if ever ye git a peep, Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!" And he sings as he locks His big strong box "The weasel's head is small an" trim. An' he is little an' long an' slim An' quick of motion an' strong of limb. An' ef you'll be Advised by me Keep wide awake when you're ketchln' him! So day after day He stitched and tinkered and ham mered away 'Till at last 'twas done The greatest invention under the sun! "An" now, Darius, hooray for some fun!" 'Twas the Fourth of July; The weather was dry And not a cloud was on all the sky. Save a few light fleeces, which here and there. Half mist, half air. Like foam on the ocean went floating by Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen For a nice little trip In a flying machine. Thought cunning Darius: "Now I shan't go Along "1th the fellers to see the show. I'll say I've got slch a terrible cough! An' then when the folks 'ave all gone off. I'll hev full swing fur to try the thing. An' practice a little on the wing." "Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" Says brother Nate. "No, botheration, I've got sich a cold a toothache I My gracious! feel's though I should fly!" Said Jotham, "Sho! Guess ye better go." But Darius said "No! Shouldn't wonder "f you might see me though, 'Long 'bout noon ef I get red O' this jumpin' thumpin' pain In my head." For all the while to himself he said: "I'll tell ye what I'll fly a few times around the lot To see how 't seems; then soon's I got The hang o' the thing, ez likely ez not I'll astonish the nation An' all creation By flying over the celebration. "Over their heads I'll Vail like an eagle: I'll balance myself on- my wings like a seagull; I'll dance on the chlmbleys; I'll stand on the steeple, I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people! I'll liarht on the liberty pole an' crow; An' I'll say to the gawkin' fools below: 'What world's this 'ere That I've come near?' Fur I'll make 'em believe I'm a chap from the moon; An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' baloon!" He crept from his bed; And, seeing the others were gone, he said, "I'm gittin over the cold in my head," And away he sped To open the wonderful box In the shed. His brothers had walked but a little way. When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, "What is the feller up to, hey?" "Don'o the's suthin' ur other to pay 'Ur he wouldn't a stayed to hum to day." Says Burke, "His toothache's all In his eye! He never'd miss a Foth-o'-July, Ef he hedn't got some machine to try." Then Sol. the little one spoke: "By darn! Le's hurry back an' hide in the barn. An pay him back fur tellin' us that yarn !" "Agreed." Through the orchard they creep back Along the fence behind the stack And one by one through a hole in the wall In under the dusty barn they crawl Dressed in their Sunday garments all And a very astonishing sight was that When each in their cobwebbed coat and hat ' Came up through the floor like an an cient rat. And there they hid And Reuben slid The fastenings back and the door undid. "Keep dark," said he ' "While I squint an" see what the' is to see." As knights of old put on their mall From head to foot an iron suit. Iron jacket and iron boot. Iron breeches, and on the head No hat, but an iron pot Instead (I believe they called the thing a helm)), Then sallied forth to overwhelm The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm So this modern knight Prepared for flight Put on his wings and strapped them tight. Jointed and jaunty, strong and light. Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip; Ten feet they measured from tip to tip! And a helm had he, but that he wore. Not on his "head like those of yore. But more like the helm of a ship. "Hush," Reuben said, "He's up in the shed! I see his head! He stretches it out. an' pokes it about, Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, An' nobody near. Guess he don't know who's hid in here! He's riggin' a springboard over the sill. Stop laffin'. Soloman! Burke, keep still! He's a-climbin' out now of all the things! What's he got on? I swan, it's wings. An' that tother thing? I vum. It's a tail! And there he sets like a hawk on a rail! "Steppln' careful, he travels the length Of his springboard and teeters to try its strength. Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys. I do not know what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then, But I struck one chord of music Like the sound of a great Amen. It flooded the crimson twilight Like the close of an angel's psalm, And it lay on my fevered spirit With a touch of infinite calm. It quieted pain and sorrow, Like love overcoming strife, It seemed the harmonious echo From our discordant life. It linked all perplexed meanings Into one perfect peace, And trembled away into silence As if it were loth to cease. I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost, chord divine, Which came from the soul of the organ And entered into mine. It may be that Death's bright angel Will speak in that chord again; It may be that only in heaven I shall hear that grand Amen. Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that. Fur to see 'f they's anyone passing by But the's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. They turn up at him a wonderln' eye. To see the dragon! He's going to fly! Away he goes! Jimrainy! What a Jump! Flop, flop, an' plump To the ground with a thump! Flutterin' an' flounderin", all in a lump." As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear. Heels over head, to his proper sphere. Heels over head, and head over heels. Dizzily down the abyss he wheels. So" fell Darius. Upon his crown In the midst of the barnyard he came down. In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings. Broken braces and broken springs. Broken tail and broken wings. Shooting stars and various things. Barnyard litter of straw and chaff. And much that wasn't so sweet by half. Away with a bellow fled the calf. And what was that? Did the gosling laugh? 'Tls a merry roar from the old barn door. And he hears the voice of Jotham cry ing: "Say D'rius! How do you like flying?" Slowly, ruefully, wljere he lay, Darius Just turned and looked that way. As he staunched his sorrowful nose with his cuff, "Wall, I like flyin' well enough," He said, "but the' ain't sich a thun- derin' sight O' fun in 't when ye come to light." I just have room for the moral here. And this is the moral: Stick to your - sphere. Or if you insist, as you have the right. Of spreading your wings for a loftier flight. The moral is: Take care how you light. Mrs. M. Martlneaux. of Prairie City, supplies the "Irish Emigrant's Lament." by Lady Djfferin. for which we have had many requests. THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S LAMENT. I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a briftht May morning long ago. When first you were my bride; The corn was springing fresh and green. And the lark sang loud and high; And the red was on your lip, Mary, And lihe lovelight in your eye. The place Is little changed. Mary; The day is bright as then: The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn Is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. And the breath, warm on my cheek; And I still keep lis nin' for the words You never more will speak. 'Tis b it a step down yonder lane. Ai.rt the little church stands near The church where we were wed. Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between. Mary. And m-- steps might break your rest For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep. With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, oh, they love the better still The few our father sends And you were all I had. Mary My blessln' and my pride; There's nothing left to care for now. Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good brave heart, Mary, Teat still kept hoping on. When the trust in God had left my soul. And my arms' young strength was gone. There was comfort ever on your Hp," And the kind look on your brow I bless you. Mary, for that same. Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for that patient smile. When your heart was fit to break When the hunger pain was gnawin" there And you hid it for my sake: I bless you for the pleasant word. When your heart was sad and sore Oh, I'm thankul -.ou are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more. I'm bidding you a long farewell. My Mary kind and true. But I'll not forget you. darling. In the land I'm going to; They say there's bread and work for all. And the sun shines always there But I'"l not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair. And often In those grand old woods I'll sit and shut mine eyes. And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies: And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side. And the springing corn and the bright May morn. When first you were my bride. The first responses to the request for "Katie Lee anid Willie Gray" were received, in the same mail from Mrs. yA dzcu'cz -A. Pro ' , s 1 W. J. Pennington, of Pe Ell, Washing ton; C. W. Castle, of Baker, and from Mrs. W. H. Warren, of Portland. In sending in her contributions Mrs. War ren asks for the old poem that ap peared in one of the old Barnes read ers, beginning: "Oh, good painter, tell me true Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw?" The text of "Katie Lee and Willie Gray"' is herewith reprinted: KATIE LIOK AD WILL1R GREY, BY J. H. PIXLEY. Two brown head3 with tossing curls, Red lips shutting over pearls. Bare feet, white, and wet with dew. Two eyes black, and two eyes blue, Little girl and boy were they. Katie Lee and Willie Grey. They were standing where a brook. Bending like a shepherd's crook. Flashing its silver, and thick ranks Of willow fringed its mossy banks Half In thought, and half in play, Katie Lee and Willie Grey. They had cheeks like cherries red; He was taller 'most a head; She, with arms like wreaths of snow, Swung a basket to and fro. As she loitered, half in play. Chattering to Willie Grey. "Pretty Katie," Willie said Ani there came a dash of red Through the brownness of his cheek "Boys are strong and girls are weak. And I'll carry, so I will, Katie's basket up the hill." Katie answered with a laugh, "You shall carry only half"; And then tossing back her curls. "Boys are weak as well as girls." Do you think that Katie guessed Half the wisdom she expressed? Men are only boys grown tall; Hearts don't change much after all; And when, long years from that day, Katie Lee and Willie Grey Stood again beside the brook. Bending like a shepherd's crook Is it strange that Willie said While again a slash of red Cressed the brownness of his cheek, "I am strong and you are weak; Life Is but a slippery steep, Hung with shadows cold and deep. "Will you trust me, Katie dear Walk beside me without fear? May I carry, if I will. All your burdens up the hill?" And she answered with a laugh, "No, but you may carry half." Close beside the little brook. Bending like a shepherd's crook. Washing with ite silver hands Late .and early at the sands. Is a cottage where today Katie lives with Willie Grey. In a porch she sits, and lo! Swings a basket to and fro Vastly different from the one That swung In years agone. This is long and deep and wide. And ha rockers at the side. A FLOWER FROM MY AA'GEL .MOTHER'S GRAVE. I've a casket at home That Is filled with precious gems; I have pictures of friends dear to me; I have trinkets so rare that came many years ago From a far distant land across the sea. CHORUS. Treasured In my memory like a happy dream Are the loving words she gave. And my heart fondly cleaves To those dry and withered leaves 'Tis a flower from my angel mother's grave. But there's one sweet little treasure That I'll ever dearly prize, Better far than all the wealth beneath the wave 'Tis a small jaded floweret that I plucked in childhood days, 'Tis a flower from my angel mother's grave. In a qufet, country churchyard We laid her down to sleep, Close, beside the dear old home she is at rest And the low sacred mound is en shrined within my heart By the sweet ties for ever more Is blest. Contributed to the old favorite page by Mrs. J. J. Palmateer, of Hillsboro. Mrs. Robert Graham, of Aberdeen, Washington, sends the following whim sical old poem about St. Peter and a henpecked husband: SAIXT PETER AT THE GATE. St. Peter stood guard at the golden gate. With a solemn mein and air sedate. When up to the top of the golden stair A man and a woman ascended there Applied for admission. They came and stood Before St Peter so great and good. In hopes the city of Peace to win. And asked St. Peter to, let them In. The woman was tall and lank and thin. With a scraggy beadlet on her chin; The man was short and thick and stout His stomach was built so it rounded out. at a s f His face was pleasant, and the while He wore a. kindly and genial smile. The choirs in the distance the echos woke And the man kept still while the wom an spoke. "O thou that guardest the gate," said Bra. "We two come hither beseeching thee To 'et u.i enter the heavenly land. And play our harps with the angel band. Of me, St. Peter, there Is no doubt. There's nothing In heaven to bar me out. I've been to the meeting three times a week And almost always I'd rise and speak. 'Tve told the sinners about the day When they'd repent their evil way: I'v told my neighbors, I've told them all 'B.ii t Adam and Eve, and the primal fall: I've sho.ved than) what they'd have to do If they'd pass in with the chosen few. I've marked their path of duty. clear, Told them the plan of their whole career. "I've talked and talked to 'em loud and long. For my lungs are good and my voice is strong. So good Petor. you'll clearly see The gate of heaven is open to me. But my old man. I regret to say. Hasn't walked in exactly the narrow w.-.y. He smokes and he swears, and grave faults lie s cot And I don't know whether he'll pass or not. "He never would pray with an earnest vim. Or go to revival or Join in hymn: ' So I had to leave him to sorrow there. wnne I with the chosen united in prayer. He ate what the pantry chanced to afford. While I in my purity sang to the Lord; Ana ir cucumbers were all he rot. It's a chance If he merited them or not. "liut oh, St. Peter. I love him so! To the measures of heaven please let nim go. I've done enough a saint I've been: Won't that atone? Can't you let him in? uy my grim gospel I know 'tis so That the unrepentant must fry below. But isn't there some way you can see That he may enter who's dear to me? "It's a narrow got-pel by which I pray. But the chosen expect to find some way Of coaxing, or fooling, or bribing you. So that their relations can amble through. And say. St. Peter. It seems to me This gate Isn't kept as it ought to be: You ought to stand by that opening there And never sit down In the easy chair. "And nay, St. Peter, my eyes are dimmed But I don't like the way your whis kers are trimmed. They're cut too wide and outward toss; They'd look better narrow and straight across. Well, we must be going our crowns to win So open. St. Peter, and we'll pass in." St. Peter sat and stroked his staff. But spite of his office he had to laugh. Then said, with a fiery gleam in his eye, "Whose tending this gateway, you or I?" And then he arose in his stature tall. And pressed a button upon the wall. And said to the mp who answered the bell. "Escort this lady around to helL" The man stood still as a piece of stone; Stood sadly, gloomily, thera alone. A lifelong, settled idea he had That his wife was good and he was bad. He thought if the woman went down below. He would certainly have to go That if she went to the regions dim. There wasn't a ghost of a chance for him. Slowly he turned, by habit bent. To follow wherever the woman was sent. St. Peter, standing on duty there. Observed that the top of his head was bare. He called the gentleman back and said: "Friend, how long have you been wed?" "Thirty years," (with a weary sigh). And then he thoughtfuly added. Why?" St. Peter was silent, with head bent down He raised his hand and scratched his crown. Then, seeming a different thought to take. Slowly, half to himself he spake: "Thirty years with that woman there! No wonder the man hasn't any hair! Swearing is wicked; smoke's not good. He etnoked and swore I should think he would. "Thirty years with that tongue so sharp! Ho! Angel Gabriel! give me a harp! Good sir. xpass In where the angels slngl Gabriel, bive him a seat alone One with a cushion up near the throne. Call up some angels to play their best. Let him enjoy the music and rest. 'See that on finest ambrosia he feeds; He's had about all of the hell he needs. It isn't hardly the thing to do To roast him on earth and in future too." They gave him a harp with golden strings. A glittering robe and a pair of wings. And he said, as he entered the realm of day: "Well, this beats cucumbers, anyway!" And so the scriptures shall come to pass; The last shall, be first and the first shall be last." "The Closing Scene" by T. Buchanan Reed, is sent us by Ruth Luce. THE CLOSING SCENE. Within his sober realm of leafless trees. The russet year Inhaled the dreamy air. Like some tanned reaper In his hour of ease. When all the fields are lying brown and bare.- The gray barns looking from their hazy hills O'er the dim waters widening in the vales. Sent down the air a greeting to the mills. . On the dull thunder of alternate flails. . All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low. As in a dream the distant woodman hewed This Winter log with many a muf fled blow. The embattled forests, erewhile, armed In gold. . Their banners bright with every martial hue. Now stood like some sad beaten host of old Withdrawn afar in time's remotest Dlue. On slumbrous wings the vulture tried hU flight. The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint. And like a star slow drowning; In the light. The village church vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew. Crew thrice and all was stiller than before Silent until some replying wanderer blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the Jay within the elm's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young. And where the oriole hung her sway ing nest By every light wind like a censer swung; Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves. The busy swallows circling ever near Foreboding, as the rustle mind be lieves An early harvest and a plenteous year; Where every bird, which charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn. To warn the reaper of the rosy east All now was songless, empty and forlorn. Alone from -out the stubble piped the quail And Vroaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom; Alone the pheasant drumming In the vale, M:.de echo to the distant cottage loom. There was no bud. no bloom upon the bowers, Thfj spiders their thin shrouds spun night by night. The thistledown the only ghost of flowers. Sailed slowly by passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air . And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch Its crimson leaves as if the year stood there Firing the floor with his Inverted torch. Arrid all this, the center of the scene. The white-haired matron with mo notonous tread. Plied her swift wheel and with her Joyless mien. Sat like a fate and watched the fly ing thread. She had known sorrow, he had walked with her. Or supped and broke the bitter ashen crust: And In the dead leaves still she heard the stir Of Ins dark mantle trailing in the dust. While yet her cheek was bright with Summer bloom Her country summoned, and she gave her all. And twice war bowed to her his sable plume He gave the swords to rust upon her wall. He gave the swords but not the hand that drew And struck for liberty Its dying b'ow. Nor him who to his sire and country true Fell, mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long out not loud the droning wheel went on Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; Long but not loud, the memory of the gone. Breathed through her lips a sad. and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapped her head was bowed. Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud. While death and Winter closed the Autumn scene. C. W. Castle, of Baker, sends a copy of the poem "Old." which was re quested some time ago. "OLD." By the wayside on a mossy stone. Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; Oft I marked him sitting there alone, AH the landscape, like a page, perusing; Poor unknown! By the wayside, on a mossy stone. Buckled knee and broad-brimmed hat; Coat as ancient as the form 'twas up holding; Silver buttons, queer ana crlmpled cravat; Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding There he sat! . Buckled knee, and broad-brimmed hat. Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. No one sympathizing, no one heeding. None to love him for his thin grav hair And the furrows all so mutely plead ing. Age and care: Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. It was Summer, and we went to school. Dapper country lads and little maid ens; Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool." Its grave import still my fancy lad ens,. Here's a fool! It was Summer, and we went to school. When the stranger seemed to mark our play. Some of us were Joyous, some sad hearted, I remember well, too well, that day! Oft-times the tears unbidden started. Would not stay! When the stranger seemed, to mark our play. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. O, to me her name was always Heaven! She besought him. all his grief to tell, (I was then thirteen and she eleven.) Isabel! One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. "Angel." said he sadly, "I am old; Earth no longer hath a morrow; Yet, why I Bit here shall be told." Then his eyes betrayed a pearl of sorrow. Down it rolled. "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." I have tottered here to look once more On the pleasant scenes where I de lighted In the careless, happy days of yore. Ere the garden of my heart was blighted; To the core! I have tottered here to look once more. "All the picture now to me, how dearl E'en this gray old rock where I am seated. Is a jewel, worth my Journey here: Ah, that such a scene must be com pleted With a tear! All the picture now to me, how dear!" "Old stone schoolhouse! it is the same: There's the very step I so oft mounted; There's the window creaking in its frame; And the notches that I cut and counted For the game. Old stone schoolhouse, its still the same. "In the cottage yonder I was born; Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat and corn; There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling; Oh forlorn! In the cottage yonder, I was born. Those two gateway sycamores you see. These were planted Just so far asunder That long will-pole from the path to free; And the wagon to pass safely under; Ninety-three! Those two gateway sycamores you see. "There's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys to gather. Thinking nothing of the flight of time. Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; Past its prime! There's the orchard where we used to climb. "There's the rude three-cornered chest nut rails Round the pasture where the flocks were grazingn; Where, so sottly, I used to watch for quails In the crop of buckwheat we were raising; Traps and quails! There's the three-cornered chestnut rails. "There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; Pond and river still serenely flowing; Cot there nestling in the shaded lane. Where the lily of my heart was blow ing. Mary Jane! There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. "There's the gate on which I used to swin. Brook and bridge, and barn and old red stable; But alas! No more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's table; Taken wing! There's the gate on which I used to swing. "I am fleeing. all I loved have fled. Ton green meadows was our place for playing. That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around It Jane and I were stray ing; She is dead! I am fleeing. all I love have fled. "Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. Tracing silently life's changeful story. So familiar to my dim old eyfe. Points to seven that are now in glory There on high. Ton white spire, a pencil on the sky. "Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. Guided thither by an angel mother; Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod; Sire and sisters, and my little brother. Gone to God! Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. "There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways; Bless the holy lesson! but ah! never Shall I hear again those songs of praise. Those sweet voices silent now forever! Peaceful days! There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways. "There my Mary blessed me with her hand When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing. Ere sho hastened to the spirit land Yonder turf her gentle bosom press ing: Broken band! There my Mary blessed me with her hand. "I have come to see that grave once more. And the sacred place where we de lighted Where we worshiped, in the days of yore. Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core! I have come to see that grave once more. "Angel." said he sadly. "T am old: Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now, why I sit here, hath been told. In his eye another pearl of sorrow, Down It rolled. "Angel," said he sadly. "I am old." By the wayside, on a mosjy stona Sat the hoary pilgrim sadly musing; Still I marked sitting there alone. All the landscape like a page perusing; Poor unknown! By the wayside on a mossv stone. RALPH HOYT.