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.