IHE SUNDAY OREGONIAX, PORTLAND, DECEMBER 3, 191G.
MORE POETRY MEETS WITH APPROVAL FROM THE PUBLIC
Contributions From Readers of The Oregonian Show Favorites Among Writers of Verse of Past and Present Generation.
SO numerous have been the replies
to requests for poems on this page
in the past few weeks, that it has
been difficult to keep track of all the
contributions and to give proper credit
to the friends who have lent assistance
to the page.
The poem "Shells of Ocean." which
was published last Sunday, was sent in
ty scores, and even yet there are many
acknowledgments due for it. Among
those from whom we received copies,
a, few are: Airs. J. S. "Williams. Mrs.
Nellie Cronise, of Salem: Mrs. Olive JE.
Knrlght, W. L. Davis. Bertha Saun
der, Clarissa E. .Martin. Mrs. H. E.
Wheeler. C. W. Hopkins. Lottie Murphy,
of St. Paul: G. V. Prescott, of San
Francisco; Ivy D. Morgan, of Port
land. Further acklowledgments will
be made as rapidly as we are able to
unearth the other "Shells of Ocean"
from the mass of contributions that
have come in.
"Graves of a Household" was another
request that brought an Infinite flood
of contributions, from A. J. Owen, of
Pendleton: R. E. Stanley, of Barview;
Mrs. J. W. Ditrich. of Warrenton; Ger
trude E. Woodward, Mrs. George Os
borne, of Oregon City; Ella Stewart,
of Toledo (who also sent copies of
Maryland and the "September Gale ),
and George H. Greer, of Dundee, and
others. Copies of "Tom Twist" came
from Mrs. H. X. Crockett, who also sent
The September Gale, and from Mrs.
J. P. Shirley. Mrs. A. Roude was
a contributor of "Maryland." Henry
Butler sent "The STiip That Never Re
turned." Eva Hoffman, of Battle
Ground, obliged us with a copy of
"The Church and the World," and
G. C. Curtiss, of Wallowa, sent "The
Bachelor's Soliloquy."
Mary Poyns contributed "The Sep
tember Gale."
All of the poems mentioned above
have been already printed, but there
ere still acknowledgments due many
contributors who have manifested their
interest In the page by sending copies.
A recent request was made for
Perry's Victory on Lake Erie," and in
response to this request one contributor
came forward. C. C. Lewis, of Portland,
who has an exceptionally complete li
brary of clippings of old poetry.
This version was clipped from the
Toledo Blade by Mrs. Lewis. It was
contributed to the Blade some years
ago by a woman who had taken it
from a very old and badly worn copy
of verses that had passed through the
hands of several generations before
they reached her.
rRRRV'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE.
Je tars of Columbia, give ear to my
story, '
Who fought with brave Perry when
cannons did roar;
nTour valor hath gained you an Immor
tal glory,
A fame that shall last till time Is no
more.
Columbian tars are the true sons of
Mars,
They rake fore and aft when they
fight on the deep.
On the bed of Lake Erie, commanded by
Perry,
They caused many Britons to take
their last sleep.
The tenth of September, let ub all re
member. So long as the globe on her axis rolls
round.
Our tars and marines on Lake Erie
, were seen
To make the proud flag of Great
Britain come down.
The van of our fleet, the British to
meet.
Commanded by Perry, on the Law
rence bore down.
Her guns they did roar, with such ter
rific power.
That savages trembled, at the dread
ful sound.
The Lawrence sustained a. most dread
ful fire.
She fought three to one, for two
glasses or more:
"While Perry, undaunted, did firmly
stand by her.
The proud foe on her heavy broad
'sides did pour.
Her mast being shattered, her rigging
all tattered.
Her booms and her yards being all
shot away.
And few left on deck to manage the
wreck.
Our hero on board no longer could
stay.
In this situation the pride of our Na
tion. Sure heaven had guarded unhurt all
the while;
While many a hero maintaining his
station.
Fell close by his side and was thrown
on the pile.
But mark you and wonder when ele
ments thunder.
When leath and destruction are
striking all round.
His flag he did carry on board the Ni
aga ra.
Such valor of record was never yet
found.
There Is one gallant act of our noble
commander.
While writing my song I must notice
with pride:
While launched in the smack' that car
ried the standard,
A ball whistled through her, just
close by his side.
Bays Perry, "the rascals intend for to
drown us.
But push on, my brave boys, you need
never fear."
'And with his own coat he plugged up
the boat.
And through fire and sulphur away
he did steer.
The famed Niagara, now proud of her
Perry,
Displayed all her banners in gallant
an-ay.
And twenty-five guns on her deck she
did carry.
Which soon put an end to this bloody
affray.
The rear of our fleet was bought up
complete.
The signal was given to break
through the line.
While starboard and larboard and from
ever j- quarter ,
The lamps of Columbia did gloriously
shine.
The bold British lion roared out his
last thunder
When Perry attacked him close in
the rear:
Columbia's eagle soon made him crouch
under.
And roar out for quarter as soon you
shall hear.
Oh, had you been there, I vow and de
clare. Such a sight as you never had seen
before.
6ix red bloody flags that no .longer
could wag.
All at the feet of our brave Commo
dore. Brave Elliot, whose valor must now be
recorded.
On board the Niagara so well played
his part.
His gallant assistance to Perry af
forded. We'll place him the second on Lake
Erie's chart. j
In the midst of the battle when guns
they did rattle.
The Lawrence a wreck and the men
most all slain.
Away he did steer and brought up the
rear.
And by this maneuver the victory
was gaineu.
Oh! had you but seen those noble commanders
Embracing each other when the con
flict was o'er:
And viewing all those invincible
standards.
That never had yielded to any be
fore.
Says Perry. "Brave Ell tot, come give
me your hand. sir.
This day you have gained an immor
tal renown.
So long as Columbia, Lake Erie com
mands, sir.
Let brave Captain Elliot with laurels
be crowned."
Great Britain may boast of her con
quering heroes.
Her Rodneys, her Nelsons, and all
the whole crew;
But none in her glory have told such
a story
Nor boasted such feats as Columbians
do. 1
The whole British fleet was captured
complete.
Not one single vessel from us got
away:
And prisoners, some hundreds, Colum
bians wondered
To see them all anchored and moored
in our bay.
May heaven still smile on the shades
of our heroes.
Who fought in that conflict their
country to save.
And check the proud spirit of those
murdering bravoes
Who wish to divide us and make us
all slaves.
Columbians sing, and make the woods
ring.
And toast those brave heroes by sea
and hy land.
While Britons drink sherry, . Colum
bian's Perry,
We'll toast them about with full
glass in hand.
"The "Vacant Chair" is sent in by W.
A. Darling, of Condon:
THK VACANT CHAIR.
Thou need not close the shutters yet;
and, David, if thou will,
I've something I would say to thee,
while all the house is still.
Thou knows 'tis easier to talk in this
calm, quiet light.
Of things that in our busy days we hid
away from sight.
And home is wondrous sweet to me,
this simple home of ours.
As well I know it is to thee in all these
twilight hours.
But since the shadow on it fell, docs it
appear to thee
They are more sacred then of old, for
so it seems to me?
And, David, since beside our board has
stood Ruth's vacant chair.
I never yet have clasped my hands and
bowed my head in prayer
But I have felt the yearning strong to
see the vanished face.
And scarce, I fear, with thankfulness
have Joined the silent grace.
While often at the evening meal, with
all the children "round,
I still have pictured to myself a low
and silent mound.
Blue with the early violets or white
with Winter snow.
And felt a tender pity for the form
there lying low.
Though morning may have cast a halo
"round the vacant chair.
The sunlight only threw for me a silent
shadow there.
And, David. I have watched the stars
when thou has been asleep.
For well thou knows I could not bear
to have thee see me weep.
And yet I never have rebelled thou
, knows 1 speak the truth
Though some have said I grieved too
much for our sweet daughter
Ruth.
But with the strongest yearning, I can
i always look above
And feel the Father does not chide the
changeless human love.
I cannot put it into words I know I
need not try,
For thou has understood it all borne
with me patiently.
Thy cares and duties. It is true, are
heavier then than mine.
But of their deeper feelings men make
but slight outward sign.
And, David, thou has sometimes
thought it strange that I should
care
To wreath with flowers and evergreens
our daughter's vacant chair;
Tet I so long to keep her gentle mem
ory green and sweet
For all the children, though her name
I seldom now repeat.
I cannot seem to speak It with a quiet,
restful tone.
Though often, in their thoughtless way,
they name the absent one; .
And yet this morn I tried to tell them
in a gentle way
Ruth would have counted eighteen
years had she been here today
This bright Thanksgiving day and
then, to me all unaware.
The children placed beside our board
our daughter's vacant chair.
And now thou sees it, twined with
flowers, stand in the moonlight
' clear;
David, I could not draw it back, but
left it standing there.
And it was strange, but as I bowed
my head in silent grace,
I saw our daughter sitting in her old
accustomed place.
I did not start or speak, but only felt
a glad surprise
To see how wondrous fair she was in
all her angel's guise.
Her face was glad and glorified, as if
the joy of heaven
An added charm to that sweet smile
we loved below had given.
I know 'twas but a passing fancy filled
the vacant chair.
But when- I turned a ray of sunshine
. seemed to linger there.
r
But, David, In my heart I've kept thai
vision all day long.
While it seemed to lift me up and
make my faith more strong.
For I have felt through all, in some
mysterious way.
Ruth's silent presence may have filled
her vacant chair today.
And though I thought this early morn
I nevermore could know
A truly thankful heart for all my
blessings here below.
Since in our. home the vacant chair
stood ever in my sight,
Tet, David, that was wrong, I know
I see It air tonight.
And I shall try to picture Ruth amid
the angels now.
Not lying in that silent mound, be
neath the vain and snow.
As I perhaps too oft have done on Win
ter nights of storm.
When all the others gathered round the
Are so flushed and warm.
And well I know one thought alone
should - make me reconciled.
That I may always call my own this
sweet, pure angel child.
And David, if thou will, I yet would
twine- the vacant chair.
To keep the vision that I saw today
still sweet and fair.
In response to W. C. Painter's re
quest, W. F. Briggs, of Portland, and
JimBudsoPfd
r.
(The late John Hay. still better remembered to the raafcs of the people as a statesman than as a liter
ary man. produced two poems which have long been tremendously popular, though many of those who know
them by heart may not know who was the author. "Little Breeches," printed on this page some weeks ago,
was written as a burlesque on the school of "red-blooded" poetry headed by Bret Harte, but nobody recog
nized it as a satire, even Harte himself hailing Hay as a formidable rival. "Jim Bludso" enjoyed a like
reception, and is still recited with enthusiasm by youthful elocutionists. It appeared in "Pike County
Ballads" in 1871. The copy used here was sent by Mrs. E. M. Hardie, of Portland.)
' fcf " ft f "
Wall, no! I can't tell tvhar he lives,
.Because he don't live, you ee;
Leastways he's grot aut of the habit
Of Itvin like you and me.
Whar have you been ior the taut three year
. That you haven't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Kludso passed in his checks
The night of the Prairie Belle?
He weren't no saint them engineer
Is all pretty much alik;
One .wife in Katchez-Under-the-HUl,
And another one hre. In Pike:
A keerless man In his talk -was Jim,
And an awkward hand in a row.
But he never fluked and he never lied
I reckon he never knowed how.
And thin was all the religion he had:
To treat his engine well;
Never be paused on the river;
To mind the pilot's hell:
an anonymous contributor send the
parody on Hamlet's soliloquy.
THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQXTY.
To wed or not to wed that is the
question ;
Whether 'tis nobler in a. man to suf
fer The slings and sorrows of that blind
young archer.
Or fly to arms against a host of trou
bles. And at the altar end them. To woo
to wed
No more; and by this step to say we
end
The heartache and the thousand hopes
and fears
The single suffer 'tis a consumma
tion Devoutly to be wished. To woo to
wed
To wed perchance repent? Ay, there's
the rub;
For in that wedded state what woes
may come
When we have launched upon that un
tried sea
Must give us pause. There's the re
spect That makes, celibacy of so long life;
For who would bear the quips and
jeers of friends.
The husband's pity and the cdquette's
scorn.
The vacant hearth, the solitary cell.
The unshared sorrow and the void
withini
When he himself might his redemp
tion gain
With a fair damsel. Who would beau
ty shun.
To toil and plod over a barren path;
But that the dread of something yet
beyond
The undiscovered, country, from whose
bourne
No bachelor returns puzzles the will.
And makes us rather bear those ills
we have
Than fly to others that wo know
not of?
Thus forethought" does make cowards,
of us all.
And thus the native .hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast 01
thought.
And numberless flirtations, long pur
sued. With this regard, their current turn
awry
And lose the name of marriage.
Ivy T. Morgan contrioutes the fol
lowing example of the cleverness of
the inimitably clever Tom Hood:
A KOCTT'RX.IL SKETCH.
(A new style of blank verse.)
Even is come; and from the dark park,
hark
The signal of the setting un one gun!
And six Is sounding from the chime,
prime time
To go and see the Drury Lane Dane
slain
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout
out
Or Macbeth racing at that shade-made
' blade.
Denying to his frantic clutch much
touch
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride
ride
Four horses as no 'other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic pit sit, split .
Laughing at Llston, while you quiz his
phiz.
Anon night comes, and with her wings
brings things .
Such as. with his poetic tongue. Young
sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white
light.
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl,
growl.
About the streets, and take up Pall
Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs
fobs.
Now thieves, to enter for your cash,
smash, crash;
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep,
creep;
But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee.
And while they're going, whisper low,
"No go!"
Now puss, while folks are in their beds.
treads leads.
And sleepers, waking, grumble "Drat
that cat!"
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls,
mauls - '
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill
ill-will.
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size,
. rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar
gore poor ,
Georgy or Charley or Billy, willy-nilly;
But nursemaid, in a nightmare's rest,
chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames,
James Games.
And that she hears what faith is
man's Ann's banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice.
thrice;
White ribbons flourish, and a stout
shout out, 1
That upward goes, shows Rose knows
those bows' woes!
The following, sent by Ruth Luce,
la a sequel to the old poem. "Rock Me
And if ever th Prairie Belle took fl
A thousand times he swore
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank.
Till the laat soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mlsoissip,
And her day fame at last
Th Mofastar was a better boat,
Kut the Btlle. she wouldn't be passed.
And so flh come tearin along that night
The oldest craft on the line
With a nigger quat on her safety valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
"The fire bust out as she clared the bar.
And burnt a hole In the night.
And quick as a flash she turned and made
For the wilier bank on the right.
There was runnin and curst n' but Jim
yelled, out.
Over all tne infernal roar.
to Sleep," which was published several
weeks ago.
IN HKAVEX 1-1,1, ROCK THEE TO
SLEEP.
Yes. darling one. I'll rock thee to sleep!
Stay not to mourn or sadly to weep:
Smile, though the pathway be rugged
and cold.
Soon shall I greet thee in Heaven's
sweet fold.
Cease thy repining, for trouble must
come
Where'er on earth thou shalt find thee
a home: .
Over life's desert the shadows will
In realms of Joy I will rock; thee to
sleep!
No love like that of thy mother thou'lt
find:
No hand to guide thee, no ties that
will bind: 1
No eyes to watch thee, and no heart
to love.
As love the angels in mansions above:
Still doth my heart sweetly roam to
my child.
When tempests come and when life's
night is wild
Over. my darling my fond watch I'll
keep.
'Till, when in Heaven, I rock thee to
1 sleep.
Soon wilt thou cross the dark river of
death,
Kre long thou'lt feel the great reaper's
cold breath:
Angels shall bear thee from life's
cheerless shore.
To realms where beauty shall fade
never more.
Sweet songs shall greet thee, and
bright forms appear.
Never more care and grief's shadows
thou'lt fear:
But where dwells happiness lasting
and deep
Gladly, my loved one, I'll rock thee to
sleep! t
"Just Tell Them That You Saw Me"
was a popular song in the early "90s.
Copies of it have been sent in answer
to the request of a few weeks ago by
Miss Myrtle Jones and another con
tributor who does not give his name.
"JtST TELL THEM THAT YOU SAW
ME."
While strolling down the street one
upon mere pleasure bent,
'Twas after business worries of the
day,
I met a girl who shrank, from me In
whom I reedgntzed ,
. My schoolmate in a village far
away.
"is that you, Madge?" I said to her.
She quickly turned away. ,
"Don't turn away, Madge, I am still
your friend.
Next week I'm going back to fee the
old folks, and I thought
Perhaps some- message you would
like to send."
Chorus
"Just tell them that you saw me," she
said "they'll know the rest.
Just tell them I was looking well,
you know.
And whisper. If you get a chance, to
mother dear, and say ,
I love her as I did long years ago."
"Your cheeks are pale, your face Is
thing, come tell me, were you 111?
When last we met your eyes shone
clear and bright.
Come home with me when I go, Madge.
Your mother wonders where you are
tonight."
"I long to see them all again, but -not
Just yet," she said.
"'TIs pride alone that's keeping me
away.
Tell them not to worry, for I'm all
right, you know.
Tell mother that I'm coming home
some day."
Mrs. J. C. Cooper, of McMlnnville,
sends the following which she memor
ized half a century ago and has not
seen in print since:
T1MK TO DIE.
I would not die in Springtime
And miss the turnip greens.
The pretty songs of the little frogs
And the skylark's early screams.
When turkeys go a gobblering
And the taters go to sprout.
The little birds a warblering,
I would not then peg out.
I.would not die in Summer
And miss the garden sass.
Roasted lamb and buttermilk.
The cool place in the grass;
I would not die in Summer,
When everything's so hot.
And miss the whisky julip;
Oh, no, I'd rather not.
I would not die in Winter.
When hickory nuts are thick.
Oh, who could think of dying
Or even getting sick?
For these and other reasons
I would not die in Fall.
And since I've thought it over
I wouldn't die at all.
"Maelaine's Child." which' was re
quested recently and a copy of which
we have from Ivy D. Morgan, is based
on a Scotch tradition of a clansman,
who, being brutally punished by the
mm
7
'111 hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot's ashore.
Through the hot. black breath of the burnin
boat
Jim Bludso's oice was heard.
And they all had trust in his cussedness.
And knowed he would keep his word.
And sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the "smokestack fell
And Bludso's ghost went up alone.
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
Ht weren't no saint but at jedgment
I'd run my cnance wifr Jim,
'Longsfde of some pious gentleman
That wouldn't shook hands with him.
He Sf-en his duty, a dead-sure thing
And went for It tn'ar and then;
And Christ ain't a-goin to be too hard
On a man that died for men.
chief, seized his master's child, and.
running to the brink of a precipice,
held it in peril of death until his re
venge was complete, as told in the
ballad.
HACLAINE'S CHILD.
"Maclaine, you've scourged me like a
hound;
You should have struck me to the
ground:
You should have played a chieftain's
part:
You should have stabbed me to the
heart.
"And for this wrong which" you have
done
I'll wreak my vengeance on your son."
He seized the child with sudden hold
A smiling infant 3 years old;
And, leaping for its topmost ledge.
He held the infant o'er the edge.
"In vain thy wrath, they sorrow vain;
No hand shall have it, proud Maclaine!"
With flashing eye and burning brow.
The mother followed, heedless how;
But, midway up the rugged steep.
She found a chasm she could not leap;
And, kneeling on its brink, she raised
Her supplicating hands, and grazed.
"Oh, spare my child, my Joy, my pride;
Oh, give me back my child!" she cried.
"Come, Evan," said the trembling
chief
His bosom wrune with pride and
grief .
"Restore the boy; give back my son.
And I'll forgive the wrong you've
done!"
"I scorn forgiveness, haughty man!
You've injured me before the clan.
And naught but blood shall wipe away
The shame I have endured today!"
And as he spoke he raised the child
To dash it 'mid the breakers wild?
But, at the mother's piercing cry.
Drew back' a step and made .reply:
"Fair lady, if your lord will strip
And let a clansman wield the whip
Till skin shall flay and blood shall
run
I'll give you back your little son."
The lady's cheek grew pale with ire:
The chieftain's eyes flashed sudden
fire:
He drew a pistol from his breast.
Took aim. then dropped it, sore dis
. tressed.
"I might have slain my babe instead.
Come. Evan, come," the father said;
And through his heart a tremor ran,
"We'll fight our quarrel, man to man."
"You've heard my answer, proud
Maclaine:
I will not fight you think again."
The lady stood in mute despair.
With freezing blood and stiffenfng
hair.
She moved no limb; she spoke no word;
She could not look upon her lord.
He saw the quivering of her eye.
Pale lips and speechelss agony;
And, doing battle with his pride,
"Give back the boy I yield!" he cried.
Thus love prevailed, and. bending low,
He bared his shoulders to the blow.
"I emits you," said the clansman true;
"Forgive me, chief, the deed I do!
For by yon heaven that hears me speak
My dirk in Evan's heart shall reek!"
But Evan's face beamed hate and Joy:
Close to his breast he hugged the boy;
"Revenge is Just, revenge is sweet.
And mine, Maclaine, shall be complete."
Ere hand' could stir, with sudden
shock
He threw the infant o'er the rock.
Then followed with a desperate leap
Down fifty fathoms to the deep.
They found their bodies' in the tide;
And never till the day she died 1
Was that sad -mother known to smile
The Niobe of Mulla's Isle.
"Johnny's Dream" will be remembered
by many of our readers. Mrs. ticobee,
of Hood River, contributes it:
JOHNNY'S DREAM.
Last night, when I was snug in bed,
' Such fun It was for, me,
I dreamed. that 1 was grandpapa
And grandpapa was me.
I thought I wore a powdered wig.
Grand pants and gaiters buff.
And took without a single sneeze
A double pinch of snuff.
As I went walking down the street.
He ran on by my side.
And 'cause 1 walked too fast for him
The little fellow cried.
And after tea I washed his face.
And when his prayers were said
I blew the candle out and left
Poor grandpapa In bed.
Mrs. A. L. Neville's request of a short
time ago for the poem in which Is the
line. "Speet prospects, sweet birds and
sweet flowers, have all lost their
sweetness to me,'.' has. already. . been
met by the following, contributed by
Mrs. L. E. Hiatt. of Vancouver, and
Mrs. Detrich, of Warrenton:
PRKCIOUSESS OF JESUS.
How tedious and tasteless the hours
When Jesus no longer I see!
Sweet prospects, sweet birds, and sweet
flowers
Have all lost their sweetness to me.
The midsummer sun shines but dim'.
The fields strive in vain to look gay.
But when I am happy in him,
December's as pleasant as May.
His name yields the richest "perfume.
And sweeter than music his voice;
His pretence disperses my gloom;
And makes all within me rejoice:
I should, were he always thus nigh.
Have nothing to wish or to fear;
No mortal so happy as I,
My Summer would last all the year.
Content with beholding his face.
My all to his pleasure resigned;
No changes of season or place
Wrould make any change in my mind;
While blest with a sense of his love,
A palace a toy would appear.
And prisons .would palaces prove, '
If Jesus would dwell with me there.
My Lord.-if indeed J am thine.
If thou art my sun and my song;
Say, why do I languish and pine?
And why are my Winters so long?
O, drive these dark clouds from my
sky.
Thy soul-cheering presence restore;
Or take me to thee up on high.
Where Winter and clouds are no
more.
BY JOHN NEWTON.
From- Mrs. Emily Woodman, of 592
East Twentieth street, we have the fol
lowing copy of" Mrs. Sangster's "Old
Sampler." - '
THE OLD-' SAMPLER.
Out of the way. In a corner
Of our dear old attic room.
Where bunches of herbs from the hill
side. Shake ever a faint perfume.
An oaken chest is standing.
With hasp and padlock and key.
Strong as the hands that made It
On the other side of the sea.
When the Winter days are dreary.
And we're out of heart with life.
Of .its crowding cares a-weary.
And sick of its restless strife.
We take a lesson in patience
From the attic corner dim.
Where the chest still holds its treas
ures, A warden faithful and grim.
Robes of an antique fashion.
Linen and lace and silk,.
That time has tinted with saffron.
Though once they were white as milk;
Wonderful baby garments,
'Broldered with loving care
By fingers that felt the pleasure.
As they wrought the ruffles fair;
A sword with the red rust on it
That flashed in the battle tide.
When from Lexington to Yorktown
Sorely men's souls were treid;
A plumed chapeau and a buckle.
And many a relie fine.
And all by Itself the sampler, '
Framed in with berry and vine.
Faded the square of canvas.
And dim Is the silken thread.
But I think of the white hands dimpled,
And a childish, sunny head;
For here In the cross and In tent stitch.
In a wreath of berry and vine.
She worked It a hundred years ago,
"Elizabeth, aged nine."
In and out in the sunshine.
The little needle flashed.
And In and out on the rainy day.
When the merry drops down splashed.
As close she sat by her mother.
The little Puritan maid.
And did her piece in the sampler.
While the other children played.
You are safe In the beautiful heaven,
"Elizabeth, aged nine;"
But before you went you had troubles,
Sharper than any of mine.
Oh. the golden hair, turned with sorrow.
White as the drifted snow.
And your tears dropped here where I'm
standing.
On this very plumed chapeau.
When you'put It away. Its wearer
Would need It nevermore.
By a sword-thrust learning the secrets
God keeps on yonder shore:
And you wore your grief with glory,
Ycu would not yield supine.
Who wrought In your patient childhood,
"Elizabeth, aged nine."
Out of the way. In a corner.
With hasp and padlock and key.
Stands the oaken chest of my father's
That came from over the sea;
And the hillside herbs above It
Shake odors fragrant and fine.
And here on Its lid is a garland
To 'Elizabeth, 'aged nine."
For love is of the immortal.
And patience Is sublime.
And trouble a thing of every day.
And touching every time;
And childhood, sweet and sunny.
And womanly truth and grace.
Ever can light life's darkness.
And bless earth's lowliest place.
Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster.
A sweet song of other days is the fol
lowing sent in by Mrs. Scobee, of Hood
River:
DARLING NELLIE GRAY.
There's a low green valley
On de ol' Kentucky shore
Whera I've whiled many happy hours
away.
A sitting and a singing By'the little
cottage door,
Where lives my own darling Nellie
Gray.
Oh. my darling Nellie Gray,
They have taken you away,
Arfd I'll never see my darling any more.
I'm sitting by de ribber
An' I weeding all the day.
For you've gone from de ol' Iventuckj
shore.
When de moon had climbed de moun
tain An' de stars were shuiing, too.
Then I'd take my own "darling Nellie
Gray
An' we'd float down de ribber In my
little bark canoe. '
An' my banjo so sweetly I would play.
One night I went to see her
An' she's gone, the neighbors say.
The white man had bound her with his
chain.
He had taken her to Georgia for to
wear her life away,
As she tolls in de cotton an de cane.
My canoe Is under Water
And my banjo is unstrung,
I'm tired of livin" any more:
My eyes shall look downward and my
.one shall be unsung,
Whlfe I stay on de ol' Kentucky shore.
My eyes have grown blinded
And I cannot see my way;
Hark, dere's somebody knocking at de
door.
1 hear de angels calling and I see my
Nellie Gray,
Farewell to de ol' Kentucky shore.
Oh my darling Nellie Gray.
Up in heaven there they Buy
That they'R never take you from me
any more.
I am coming, coming, coming, as de
angels clear the way.
Farewell to de ol' Kentucky shore. "
Mrs. Detrick also contributes "Ring
the Bell." which cvas requested a short
time ago.
RING THE BELL.
High in the beltfry the old sexton
stands.
Grasping the rope in this thin, bony
hands:
Fixed is his gar.e as by some magic
spell.
'Till he hears the distant murmur.
"Ring, ring the bell!"
CHORUS.
Ring the bell, -watohman! Ring, ring,
ring!
Yes, yes: the good news is now on the
wing!
Yes. yes: we come and with tidings to
tell!
Glorious and blessed tidings! Ring,
ring the bell!
Baring his long, silver locks to the
breeze.
First for a moment he drops on his
knees:
Then with a vigor that few could ex
cel. Answers he the welcome bidding:
"Ring, ring, the bell!"
Hear, through the hilltops, the first
signal gun.
Thunders the -word that some great
deed is dtone;
There through the valley the long echo
swells.
'TIs the universal chorus: "Ring, ring
the bell!-
Ivy D. Morgan has also sent VSoll
tude." which was requested by Mrs.
A. L. Neville.
SOMTl'DE.
How cedlous and tasteless the hours.
When Jesus no longer see:
Sweet prospects, sweet birds and sweet
flow'rs. .
Have all lost their sweetness to me:
The Midsummeo- sun shines but dim.
The fields strtve in vain to look gay;
But when I am happy in him.
December's as pleasant as May.
His-name yield's the richest perfume.
And sweeter than music his voice;
His presence disperses my gloom, .
And makes all within me rejoice:
I should, were he always chus nigh.
Have nothing to wish or to fear;
No mortal so happy as I,
My Summer would last 'all the year.
Content with boiiolding his face.
My all to his pleasure reslgn'd;
No changes of season or place
Would make any change In my
mind;:
While bless'd with a sense of his love,
A palace a toy would appear;
And prisons would palaces prove.
If Jesus would dwell with me there.
Dear Lord, if indeed I am thine.
If thou are my sun and my song.
Say why do I languish and pine?
And why are my Winters so long?
O drive these dark clouds from my
sky;
Thy soul-cheetring presence restore;
Or take me to thee up on high, '
Where Winter and clouds are no
' more.
A wonderfully tender little lyric Is
the following from an old clipping
sent in by C. C. Lewis.
v JES' TO BE ALONG O' YOU.
By G. IL Turner.
Why, dearie, seems I couldn't tell like
how it 'pears to me
To be with you, . an' only you. 'thout
mlndin where we be.
It sort o brings a dreamy sense of
peace and comfort too.
An' a restful kind of feelin" jes' to be
along o" you!
It sets the bees a hummin', and the
birds begin to sing.
An" the clover heads to blushing, think-
1n' of the happy Spring,
It makes the roses brighter in the
mornin's early dew.
An' me as happy as the birds to be
j along o' you.
The brook laughs at the mossy banks
that o'er its edges dip.
The water lilies kiss the brook, pre-
tendin' jes' to sip.
Seems like I clear forget myself when
brook and lilies woo.
An' wonder what you're thinkin' of
when I'm along o' you!
Why, dearie, all the world grows
bright, and beautiful and fair.
An jes' to live and breathe and be is
heaven everywhere
When I'm along with you, my dear,
forgettin' where we be.
An" both are happy an' content when
you're along o me.
Mina M. Gatens contributes the poem,
"The Bigot's Creed."
. THE IlIGOT'S CREED.
Believe as I believe no more, no less;
That I am right, and no one else, con
fess :
Feel as I feel, think only as I think.
Eat what I eat. and drink what I drink.
Look as I look, do always as I do:
And then, and only then, I'll fellowship
with you.
That I am right, and always right, I
know.
Because my own convictions tell me so;
And to be right is simply this: to be.
Entirely and in all respects, like me.
To deviate a Jot. or to begin
To question, doubtt or hesitate. Is sin.
Let sink the drowning man, if he'll not
-. swim
Upon the plank that I throw out to
him:
Let starve the famishing, if he'll not eat
My kind and quantity of bread and
meat:
Let freeze the naked, too, if he'll not be
Supplied with garments such as made
for me.
'Twere better that the sick should die
than live.
Unless they take the medicine I give:
'Twere better that sinners perish than
refuse
To be conformed to my particular
views;
'Twere better that the world stood still
than move
In any other way than that which I
approve.
An anonymous reader sends in the
following:
CROWING OLDER.
A little more tired at close of day,
A little less anxious to have our way;
A little less ready to scold and blame,
A little more care of a brother's name;
And so we are nearlng the Journey's
end.
Where time and eternity meet and
blend.
A little more love for the friends of
youth,
A little less zeal for established truth:
A little more charity in our views.
A little leso thirst for the daily news:
And so we are folding our tents away.
And passing in silence at close of day.
A little less care for bonds and gold.
A little more zest in the days of old;
A broader view and a saner mind,
A little more love for all mankind;
And so we -are faring adown the wey
That leads to the gates of a better day.
A little more leisure to sit and dream,
A little more real the things unseen;
A little nearer to those ahead.
With visions of those long loved and
dead:
And so we are going, where all must go.
To the place the living may never know.