TTTE SUN1AY OREGOXIAX, PORTLAND, DECEMBER SM 1916.
NEW YEAR POEMS ARE GLEANED FROM DUSTY SCRAP BOOKS
'The Closing Year," by George D. Prentice, Is One of Several Favorites Contributed by Readers.
THE announcement that a page
would be opened to New Year
poems has brought several con
tributions of favorite verse of the sea
son. Owing to the necessity of sending up
material for the page early in the
week, it is probable that some contri
butions may come in too late for pub
lication and acknowledgement at this
time, in which case an effort will be
made to And a place for them later.
Responses to requests a few weeks
ago continue to come In. We are in
debted to Mildred Sadeaux Bush for a
copy of "Bingen on the Rhine" and
additional copies of the "Burial of Sir
John Moore" have been sent by W1I
lard L. Marks, of Albany; "X. Y. Z.." of
rortland. and H. F. Prink, of Aurora.
Mrs. C. W. King, of Gaston, sends a
copy of ''.My Sweetheart Went Down
With the Maine."
Mrs. Clara D. Mitchell, of Portland,
and C. H. Whitney, of Baker, have sent
In copies of the famous New Year poem
of George D. Prentice. This poem was
reprinted on this page nearly a year
ago, but is reprinted here because of
Its especial appropriateness.
THK CLOSING YEAR.
f George Denlson Prentice, born at
Preston. Conn.. December 18. 1802.
From 1830 till his death he edited the
Louisville Journal. He wrote a life of
Henry Clay and his witticisms have
been gathered In a volume entitled
Prenticlana." He was the author of
Mill f JL'll 1VII tuitll t- i i H "1 a . . li-hliili
re nf -iiirn.rli.t- . . . . 1 1 1 i ,-J 4
'Tis midnight's holy hour and silence
now
Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er
The still and pulseless world. Hark
on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling
tls the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past; yet. on the stream
and wood.
With melancholy light, the moonbeams
rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud: the air is
stirred
As by a mourner's sigh, and on yon
cloud
That floats so still and placidly through
heaven, '
The spirits of the seasons seem to
stand
Young Spring, bright Summer. Au
tumn's solemn form.
And Winter with its aged locks and
hreathe.
In mournful cadences that come abroad
Like the far wind harp's wild and
touching wall,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year.
Gone from the earth forever.
'Tis a time
For memory and for tears. Within the
deep.
Still chambers of the heart a specter
dim.
Whose tones are like the wizard's
voice of Time
Heard from the tomb of ages, points
its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions that have passed
away t7
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life. That specter
lifts
The coffin lid of Hope and Joy and
Love,
And bending mournfully above the
pale
Sweet forms that slumber there, scat
ters dead flowers '
O'er what has passed to nothingness.
The year
Has gone and with it many a glorious
throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each
brow.
Its shadow In each heart. In its swift
course
It WflVPd its si-pntnr ...... 1
i--' iifiuu :
And they are not. It laid Its pallid
hand
Upon the strong man. and the haughty
form is fallen
And the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where
thronged
The bright and joyous, and the tearful
wall
Of stricken ones is heard where erst
the song
And reckless shout resounded.
. It passed o'er
The battle plain where sword and
spear and shield
Flashed in the light of midday, and
the strength
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the
grass.
Green from the soil of carnage, waves
above
The crushed and moldering skeleton.
It came
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve
ret ere it melted in the viewless air
It heralded its millions to their home
In the dim land of dreams.
Remorseless Time!
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!
W'hat power
Can stay him in his silent course, or
melt
His iron heart to pity? pn, still on
Presses, and forever. The proud
t,Vldir of thc And. that can soar
Through heavens unfathomable depths
ArS. bathfi his t,i -n, ....... i l. - .
- mav m tllu munacr s
Furl his broad wings at nightfall and
sinks down
To rest upon his mountain crag but
Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or
weariness,
And night s deep darkness has no chain
to hind
His rushing pinions.
n. ... Evolutions sweep
Oer the earth, like troubled visions
o er the breast
Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and
sink
Like hubbies on the water; fiery Isles
fcprlng hlazing from the ocean and to
back
To their mysterious caverns; mountains
rear
To heaven their bald and blackened
cliffs and bow
ThHr tall heads to the plain; new em
pires rise.
Gathering the strength of hoary cen
tiirfew. And rush down like the Alpine ava
lanche. Startling the nations; and the verv
stars.
Yon bright and burning blazonry of
God,
A'Mit,V,1.aWhiIc in tnelr eternal depths,
And. like the Pleiades, loveliest of their
train.
Shoot from their glorious spheres and
pass away
To darkle in the trackless void yet
Time.
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce
career.
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not
Amid the mighty wrecks that .ir...
his path.
pon the fearful ruin he has wro. ,. "
"The Wnnti n r fD. . -
- - - -..... i Mut-aiea re
cently, has been sent by W. A Darling
of Condon; F. M. Wadsworth. of North
Plains: Jeanette Snipes, of The Dalles
Ruth Luce, and others.
It was written in July, 1840. under
these circumstances:
General Ogle informed Mr. Adams
that several young ladies in his district
had requested him to obtain Mr. Adams'
autograph for them. In accordance
with this request. Mr. Adams wrote the
following poem upon "The Wants of
Man." each stanza upon a sheet of note
paper:
THE WANTS OK MAN.
"Man wants but little here helnw
Nor wants that little long-."
Goldsmith's Hermit
I.
Man wants but little here below.
Nor wants that little long.
'Tls not. with me exactly so;
But 'tis so in the song.
My wants are many. and. If told,
Would muster many a score;
And were each wish a mint of gold,
I still should long for more.
II.
What first I want is daily bread.
And canvas-backs, and wine;
And all the realms of nature spread
Before me. when I dine.
Four courses scarcely can provide.
My appetite to quell;
With four choice cooks from France,
beside,
III.
To dress my dinner well.
What next I want, at princely cost.
Is elegant attire;
Black sable furs for Winter's frost.
And silks for Summer's fire.
And cashmere shawls, and Brussels
lace.
My bosom's front to deck.
And diamond rings my hands to grace.
And rubies for my neck.
IV.
And then I want a mansion fair,
. A dwelling-house in style.
Four stories high, for wholesome air,
A massive marble pile;
With halls for banquets, and for balls.
All furnished rich and fine;
With stabled studs in fifty stalls.
And cellars for my wine. '
I want a garden, and a park.
My dwelling to surround.
A thousand acres (bless the mark);
With walls encompass'd round.
Where flocks may range and herds may
low.
And kids and lambkins play.
And flowers and fruit commingled grow
All Udon to display.
VI.
I want! when Summer's foliage. falls.
And Autumn strips the trees.
A house, within the city's walls.
For comfort and for ease
But here, as space is somewhat scant.
And acres rather rare.
My house in town, I only want,
To occupy a square
VTT.
I want a steward, butler, cooks.
A coachman, footman, grooms:
I want a library of well-bound books.
And picture-garnished rooms,
Correggio's Magdalen and Night.
The Matron of the Chair:
Guide's fleet coursers in their flight.
And. Claudes, at least a pair.
VIII.
Ay! and, to stamp my form and face
1'pon the solid rock,
I want, their lineaments to trace,
Carrara's milk-white block.
And let the chisel's art sublime.
By Greenough's hand, display.
Through all the range of future time.
My features to the day.
IN".
I want a cabinet profuse
Of medals, coins and gems;
A printing-press, for private use.
Of fifty thousand ems;
And plants and minerals and shells.
Worms, insects, fishes, birds;
And every beast on earth that dwells
In solitude or herds.
X.
I want a board of burnished plate.
Of silver and of gold.
Tureens of twenty pounds in weight.
With sculpture's richest mold;
Plateaus, with chandeliers and lamps.
Plates, dishes, all the same;
And porcelain vases, with the stamps
Of Severs and Angouleme.
XI.
And maples, of fair glossy stain.
Must form my chamber doors:
And carpets, of the Wilton grain.
Must cover all my floors:
My walls, with tapestry bedeck'd
Must never be outdone;
And damask curtains must protect
Their colors from the sun.
XII.
And mirrors, of the largest pane.
From Venice must be brought;
And sandal-wood, and bamboo cane.
For chairs and tables bought:
On all the mantel-pieces, clocks
Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand
And screens of ebony and box
Invite the stranger's hand.
XIII.
I want (who does not want?) a wife.
Affectionate and fair;
To solace all the woes of life.
And all its joys to share.
Of temper sweet of yielding will.
Of fjrm. yet placid mind.
With all my faults to love me still.
With sentiments refin'd.
XIV.
And. as Time's car incessant runs.
And fortun fills my store:
I want of daughters and of sons
From eight to half a score,
I want (alas! can mortal dare
Such bliss on earth to crave?)
That all the girls be chaste and fair
The boys all wise and brave.
XV.
And when my bosom's darling sings
With melody divine,
A pedal harp, of many strings.
Must with her voice combine.
A piano, exquisitely wrought,
Must open stand apart.
That all my daughters may be taught.
To win the stranger's heart.
XVT.
My wife and daughters will daslre
Refreshment from perfumes.
Cosmetics for the skin require.
And artificial blooms.
The civet fragrance shall dispense.
And treasur'd sweets return.
Cologne revive the flagging sense.
And smoking amber burn.
XVII.
And when at night my wean head
Begins to droop and dos-.
A southern chamber holds my bed
f"'or Nature' tin ft -.-n,,..
With blankets, counterpanes, and sheets.
Mattress and bed or down.
And comfortables for my feet.
And pillows for my crown.
XVIII.
I want a warm and faithful friend
To cheer the adverse hour;
Who ne'er to flatter will descend.
Nor bend the knee to power
A friend to chide me when I'm wrong.
My Inmost soul to see;
And that my friendship proves as strong
For him. as his for me.
XIX.
I want a keen, observing eye.
An ever-listening ear.
The truth through all disguise to spy,
And wisdom's voice to hear;
A tongue to speak, at virtue's need.
In Heaven's sublimest strain:
And lips, the cause of Man to plead.
And never plead In vain.
XX.
I want uninterrupted health.
Throughout my long career;
And streams of never-failing wealtb,
(Two New Year poems of Tennyson's are famous one written In his younger years, beginning, "Full
Knee Deep Lies the Winter Snow," and "Ring Out, Wild Bells." which appears In "In Memoriam." While
both are famous, the latter Is the more powerful of the two and the more excellent In composition and
probably the more widely known.)
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying: in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow;
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress for all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
To scatter far and near
The destitute to clothe and feed.
Free bounty to bestow.
Supply the helpless orphan's need.
And soothe the -widow's woe.
XXT. -
I want the genius to conceive.
The tablets to unfold.
Designs, the vicious to retrieve.
The virutous to uphold.
Inventive power, combining skill;
A persevering soul.
Of human hearts to mold the will.
And reach from pole to pole.
X X 1 1.
1 want the seals of power and place.
The ensigns of command:
Charged by the People's grace.
To rule my native land
Nor crown, nor scepter would I ask.
But from my country's will.
By day. by night, to ply the task.
Her cup of bliss to fill.
XXTII.
I want the voice of honest praise.
To follow me behind:
And to be thought, in future days.
The friend of human-kind.
That after ages, as they rise.
Exulting may proclaim.
In choral union, to the skies.
Their blessings on my name.
XXIV.
These are the wants of mortal man,
I cannot want them long
For life itself Is but a span,
Aiffd earthly bliss a song.
My last great want, absorbing all.
Is, when beneath the sod.
And summon'd to my final call.
The mercy of my God.
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.
"X. Y. y..." of Portland, sends "The
Vanished Year." by C. T. Dodge.
THK VAMSHKI) YEAR.
By C T. Dodge.
Once again a year has vanished.
To the realm of bygones banished.
Where the past years sleep in glory
Not forgotten gone before
And th New Year comes to greet us.
On the wings of Time to meet us.
And to tell the old, old story
Of the years that are no more.
On the wings of Time, swift flying.
Lies the Old Year, sighing, dying.
Borne to Join the host that slumbers
On that distant unknown shore
Borne to Join the countless legion
That have crossed that mystic region.
And are counted with the numbers
In that land of Nevermore.
Once again the bells are ringing.
Tidings of the New Year bringing.
With the blythe and gladsome clangor
Of the bells that rang of yore.
And their glad and tuneful pealing.
Brighter, fairer skies revealing.
Bids us banish sorrow, anger.
Think of gladness yet in store.
Let us greet the New Year gladly
Though we miss the old one sadly
Let us hope for bright skies o'er us.
Let our dreams be ever fair
Let us banish care and sorrow,
Hope for gladness on the morrow
Let us build for days before us
Brighter castles in the air.
"Highland Mary," lately requested,
has come from Mrs. John B. Elston. of
Aberdeen: F. F. Smith, of Laurelhurst;
James McNamara. of Aberdeen, and W.
C. McDonald, of Independence.
HIGHLAND MARY.
By Robert Burns.
Ye banks and braes and streams around
The castle o' , Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your
flowers.
Your waters never drumlie:
There Simmer first unfauld her robes.
And there the langest tarry:
For there I took the last farewell
O' me sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green
birk.
How rich the hawthorne's blossom.
As underneath her fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom:
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me 'an my dearie.
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace.
Our parting was fu' tender:
And pledging aft to meet again.
We tore oursels asunder:
But. O. fell death's untimely frost.
That nipt my flower sae early:
Now green's the sod. and cauld's the
clay.
That wraps my Highland Mary.
O pale, pale now. those rosy lips.
I aft hae kissed sae fondly:
And closed for ajy the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
But still within mv bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
C. W. Castle, of Baker: J. S. McNa
mara, of Aberdeen. Mns. John B. Elston.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes.
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old;
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land.
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
of Aberdeen. Ida Spoor. of Portland,
and Mrs. T. J. Hammer, o.' Portland,
have sent copies of "BUigen-on-the-Rhine."
which was recently requested.
BI.VGEV ON THE RHINE.
A soldier of the Legion lay dying in
Algiers.
There was lack of woman's nursing,
there was dearth of woman's
leans.
But a comrade knelt beside him as his
life-blood ebbed away.
And bent with pitying 'glances to
hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered as he took
that comrade's hand.
And lie said. "I never more shall see
my own, my native land:
Take a message and a token to some
distant friends of mine.
For 1 was born at Bingen, at Bingen
on the Rhine."
"Tell my brothers and companions
when they meet and crowd
around.
To hear my mournful story in the
pleasant vineyard ground.
That we fought the battle bravely, and
when the day was done.
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale
beneath the setting sun.
And -midst the dead and dying were
some grown old In wars.
The death wound on their, gallant
breasts the last of many scars.
And some were young, and suddenly be
held life's morn decline.
And one had come from Bingen, from
Bingen on the Rhine.
"Tll my mother that her other sons
shall comfort her old age.
That I was, aye, a truant bird, who
thought his home a cage.
For my father was a soldier, and even
as a child
My heart leaped forth to hear him
tell of struggles fierce and w-ild:
And when he died and left us to divide
his scanty hoard.
1 let them take what e'er they would,
but kept my father's sword:
And with boyish love I hung it where
the bright light used to shine.
On the cottage wall at Bingen, dear
Bingen on the Rhine.
"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and
sob with drooping head.
When the troops come marching
home again with glad and gallant
tread.
But to look upon them proudly with a
calm and steadfast eye.
For her brother was a soldier, too,
and not afraid to die.
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask
her In my name.
To listen to him kindly, without re
gret or shame.
And to hang the old sword in its place,
my father's sword and mine.
For the honor of old Bingen, loved
Bingen on the Rhine.
"There's another, not a sister. In the
happy days gone by.
You'd have known her by the merri
ment that sparkled in her eye;
Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for
Idle scorning.
Ah. friend. I fear the lightest heart
makes sometimes heaviest
mourning.
Tell her the last night of my life (for
ere the moon be risen
My body will be out of pain, my soul
be out of prison)
I dreamed I stood with her and saw the
yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, dear
Bingen on the Rhine."
"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I
heard, or seemed to hear
The German songs we used to sing
In chorus sweet and clear.
And down the pleasant river and up'the
slanting hill
The echoing chorus sounded through
the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me as
we passed in friendly talk
Down many a path beloved of yore,
and well-remembered walk;
And her little hand lay lightly, confid
ingly In mine.
But we'll 'meet no more at Bingen.
loved Bingen on the Rhine.
His voice grew faint and hoarse, his
grasp was childish weak.
His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed
and ceased to speak;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the
spark of life had fled,
And the soldier of the Legion, in a for
eign land was dead.
Then the pale moon rose up slowly
and calmly she looked down
On the red sands of the battlefield,
with bloody corpses strewn.
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her
pale light seemed to shine
As it shone on distant Bingen. fair
Bingen on the Rhine.
Copies of "The Burial of Sir John
Moore" have been, sent by James Mc
Namara. of Aberdeen: F. F. Smith, of
Portland; Nancy A. Ball, of Oswego;
Mrs. Jennie Lusater, Ruth Luce, of
Portland, and C. W. Castle, of Baker.
Ul HIAl, OK SIR JOHN MOORK.
By Charles Wojfe.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral
note.
As his corse to the rampart we hur
ried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell
shot
O'er the grave where our hero we
buriJsl.
We buried him darkly at dead of
night.
The sods with our bayonets turning:
By thc struggling moonbeam's misty
light
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast.
Nor In sheet nor In shroud we wound
him.
But he lay like a warrior taking his
rest.
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we
said
And we spoke not a word of sorrow.
But we steadfastly gazed on the face
of the dead
And we bitterly thought of thc mor
row. We. thought, as we hollowed his nar
row bed
And smoothed down his lonely pil
low, That the foe and the stranger would
tread o'er his head.
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they-11 talk of the spirit that's
gone
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him:
But little he'll reck, if they let him
sleep on
In a grave where a Briton has laid
him.
But half of our weary task was done
When the clock struck the hour for
retiring:
And we heard the distant and random
gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down.
From the field of his fame fresh and
gory:
We carved not a line and we raised
not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.
Tennyson's earlier New Year poem,
almost as famous as "Ring Out. Wild
Bells." is sent us by Ruth Luce.
THK DEATH Of Till: OLD YKH.
Full knee-deep lies the Winter snow
And the Winter winds are wearily
sighing:
Toll ye the church-bell sad and low.
For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year you must not die;
You came to us so readily.
You lived with us so steadily;
Old year, you shall not die.
He lieth still, he doth not move;
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above;
He gave me a friend and a true, true
love.
And the New Year will take 'em away.
Old Year, you must not go.
So long as you have been with us.
Such Joy as you have seen with us:
Old Year, you shall not go.
He frothed his bumpers to the brim,
A Jollier year we shall not see.
But though his eyes are waxing dim.
And though his foes speak 111 of him.
He was a friend to me.
Old Year, you shall not die!
We did so laugh and cry with you.
I've half a mind to die with you.
Old Year, if you must die.
He was so full of joke and jest.
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die. across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste:
But he'll be dead before.
Everyone for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my
f riend.
And the New Year, blithe and bold.
my friend.
Comes up to take his own.
How hard he breathes! Over the snow
I heard Just now the crowing cock.
The shadow flickers to and fro;
'Tls nearly twelve o'clock.
Shake hands before you die.
Old Year, we'll dearly rue for you;
What is it we can do for you
Speak out before you die.
His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! Our friend Is gone.
Close up his eyes, tie up his chin;
Step from the corpse and let him In
That standeth there alone
And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot at the door, my
friend.
And a new face at the door, my
friend.
A new face at the door.
Mrs. Clara D. Mitchell sends Tenny
son's "Rims Out. Wild Bells," which "is
reprinted with a decoration on this
page, ana? also contributes Susan Cool
idge's "Begin Again."
BEGIN AGAIN.
Every day is a fresh beginning:
Every day is the world made new:
You who are weary of sorrow and
sinning.
Here's a beautiful hope for you:
A hope for me and a hope for you.
All the past things are past and over:
The tasks are done and the tears are
shed;
Yesterday's errors let yesterday cover;
Yesterday's wounds, which smarted
and bled.
Are healed with thc healing which
night had shed.
Yesterday now is a part of forever.
Bound up in a sheaf which God holds
tight;
With glad days and sad days, and bad
days which never
Shall Visit us more, with their bloom
and their blight.
Their fullness of sunshine or sorrow
ful night.
Let them go. since we cannot relieve
them.
Cannot undo and cannot atone:
God. li. his mercy, receive, forgive
them:
Only the new days are our own;
Today is ours, and today alone.
Here are the skies, all burnlsh'ed
brightly;
Here Is the spent earth, all reborn:
Here are the tired limbs, springing
lightly
To face the sun and to share with
the morn.
In the chrism of dew and the cool
of dawn.
Every day is a -fresh beginning:
Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain;
And. spite of old sorrow and older
sinning.
And puzzl-es forecasted and possible
pain.
Take heart with the day and begin
again.
"The Doctor's Story" recently re
quested is sent by Jeanette Snipes of
The Dalles, and Mrs. S. W. Curtiss". of
Grand Dalles. Wash.
THK DOCTOR'S STORY.
Good folks ever will have their wav;
Good folks ever for it must pay.
But we who are here and everywhere
The burden of their faults must" bor.
We must shoulder others' shame.
Fight their follies and take their
blame ;
Purge the body and humor the mind:
Doctor the eyes when the soul is blind;
Build the column of health erect
On the quicksands of neglect:
Always shouldering others' shame
Bearing their faults and taking the
blame.
Deacon Rogers, he came to me:
"Wife is a-goin' to die." said he.
"Doctors grat and doctors small
Haven't Improved her any at all.
Physic and blister, powders and pills.
And nothing sur- but the doctor's bills!
Twenty women, with remedies new.
Bother my wife the whole day through.
Swet as honey, or bitter as gall
Poor old woman, shu takes 'em all.
Sour or sweet, whatever they choose:
Poor old woman, she daren't refuse.
So she pleases whoe'er may call
An' Death Is suited the best of all.
Physic and blister, powder an' pill '
Bound to conquer, and sure to kill!"
Mrs. Rogers lay in her bed.
Bandaged and blistered from foot to
nead.
Blistered and bandaged from head to
toe.
Mrs. Rogers was very low.
Bottle and saucer, spoon and cup.
On the table stood brave! v up:
Physics of high and low degree
Calomel, catnip, boneset tea
Everything a body could bear.
Excepting light and water and air.
I opened the blinds: the day was bright.
And God gave Mrs. Rogers some light.
I opened the window; the day was fair.
And God gave Mrs. Rogers some air.
Bottles and blisters: powders and pills:
Catnip, boneset. syrups and squills:
Drugs and medicines, high and low.
I threw them as far as I could throw.
"What are you doing?" my patient
cried.
"Frightening Death," I coolly replied.
"Yon are crasy." a visitor said.
I flung a bottle at his head.
Deacon Rogers, he came to me:
"Wife is gettln' her health." said he.
"I really think she'll worry through:
She scolds me Just as she used to do.
All the people have poohed and slurred.
All the neighbors have had their word:
' 'Twere better to perish.' some of 'em
say.
Than to be cured in such an irregular
way."
"vour wife." said I. "had God's good
care.
And his remedies light and water and
air.
All of the doctors, without a doubt.
Couldn't have cured Mrs. Rogers wlth-
The deacon smiled and bowed his head
"Then your bill Is nothing." he said.
"God's be the glory, as you say!
God bless you. doctor! Good day!
Good day!
If ever I doctor that woman again
I'll give her medicine not made by men.
Will Carleton.
The following is sent in bv Mrs. B
H. Smith:
LOVE AND I. ATI N .
Author Unknown.
Dear girls, never marry for knowledge.
Though that, of course, should form
a part.
For often the head, while at college
Gets wise at the cost of the heart.
Let me tell you a fact that is real
I once had a beau In my youth;
The brightest and best beau ideal
Of "manliness, goodness and truth.
He talked of the Greeks and the
Romans.
Of the Normans and Saxons and Celts.
He quoted from Virgil and Homer
And Plato and somebody else;
He told of his deathless affection
By the means of a thousand strange
herbs.
And numberless words In connection
Derived from the roots of Greek
verbs.
One night, as a light innuendo.
When nature was mantled in snow.
He wrote in the frost of my window
A sweet word in Latin Amo.
Oh! It needed no word of expression.
For that I had long understood;
But there was his written confession
Present tense and indicative mood.
But, oh! how man's passions do vary!
For scarcely a year had gone by
When he changed the Amo to Amare;
But instead of an "ee" was a "y".
Yes, a Mary had certainly taken
The heart once so fondly my own.
And I, as a spinster forsaken
Was left to reflection alone.
Since then. I've a horror of Latin
And students uncommonly smart;
True love should always put that In
To balance the head with the heart.
To be a fine scholar and linguist
Is much to one's credit. I know;
But love should be said in plain Eng
lish. And not with the Latin Amo.
Bernice Jones, of Silverton: Clara Mc
Kee. of Junction City, and Mrs. Esther
Waldorf, of Portland, are the first con
tributors to send the following rc-
quested song that was all the rage In
days of the Spanish War:
MY SKKTHKRT YVEVT DIlV
WITH THK M fcllnB.
Once I had a sweetheart
Noble, brave and true.
Fearless as the sunrise
Gentle as the dew.
We had loved and waited.
He had named the day.
We were pledged to wed each other
In the month of May.
Out on the high sea he sailed.
I'nder the red. white and blue;
Faithful to country and hdme.
Faithful to captain and crew.
CHORUS:
Once I had a sweetheart
Noble, brave and true.
Fearless as the sunrise
Gentle as th dew.
We had loved and waited.
He had named the day.
had plcdced to w.i ....--. .th..
n the month of May.
Anchored at Havana.
On the Cuban shore.
Fearful or no danger
Thinking love days o'er.
Peacefully he slumbered
In his lin rtininl. v...i
Wt
I
llle the stars In v. .
Benediction said.
Th.
en came a ri.iih.Honii v.
....... . i . ii
Mrc.lkinrr the .hi., i . t
- Ill i v. t, 1 1 1 ,
uown went my sweetheart to death!
uwii weni ine Dattleshlp Maine!
Burled In a foreign land.
in an unknown cr-ov.
Wl
here the bells of lihertu
Soon shall ring to save.
Peacefully he slumbers still
'Neath the torrid sun:
Oh! this heart will bleed for him
: iica i. mis near: tie won.
Ise. ve mv cnuntrvmn .ic.i
Rlt
Let not his death be in vain!
Sti
riKe nown the nrm-' ...
no siaugntered the crew of
Maine !
the
Ruth Luce sends the following by C
D. Gardette:
THE KIRK FIEND.
(A Nightmare.)
The author of this was challenged to
produce a poem, in the manner of "The
Raven. which should be accepted bv
the general publi.- as a genuine compo
sition of Mr. Poe's. and the "Fire Fiend"
was the result It was printed as
rrom an unpublished manuscript of
the late Edgar A. Poe." and the hoax
proved sufficiently successful to de
ceive a number of critics in this coun
try and also in England.
In the deepest dearth of midnight,
c. .i u,e and solemn swell
Still was floating, faintly echoed from
the forest chapel bell
Faintly faltering, floating o'er the
sable waves of air
That were through the midnight roll
ing, chafed and billowv wit toll
ing In my chamber I lay dreaming by the
firelights fitful gleaming.
And my dreams were dreams fore
shadowed on a heart foredoomed
to care!
As the last long lingering echo of the
midnight's mystic chime
Lifting through the sable billows to the
thither shore of time.
Leaving on the starless silence not a
token nor a trace
In a quivering sigh departed, from my
couch in fear I started: 4
Started to my feet in terror, for my
dream's phantasmal error
Painted In the fitful fire, a frightful.
fiendish, flaming fuce!
On the red hearth's reddest center,
from a biasing knot of oak
Seemed to gibo and grin this phantom
when in terror 1 awoke
And my slumberous eyelids strain
ing as I staggered to the floor.
Still In that dread vision seeming,
turned my gase toward the
gleaming
Hearth, and there! Oh. God! I saw It!
and from out its flaming Jaw it
Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing,
bubbling. gurgling stream of
gore
Speechless, struck with stony silence.
frozen to the floor I stood.
Till methought my brain was hissing
from that hissing. bubbling
blood :
Till I felt my life-stream oosing. ooi
ing from those lambent Hps;
Till the demon seemed to name me
then a wondrous calm o'ereanv
me.
And my brow grew cold and dewy,
with a death-damp stiff and
gluey.
And I fell back on my pillow In ap
parent soul-eclipse!
Then as in death's seeming shadow, in
the Icy pall of fear
I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hid
eous murmur to my ear
Muttering. "Higher! Higher! High
er! I am demon of the fire!
I am arch-tlend of the fire. And each
blazing roof's my pyre.
And my sweetest Incense Is the blood!
and tears my victims weep!
"How I revel on the prairie! How I
roar among the pines!
How I laugh when from the village
o'er the snow the red flame
shines.
And I hear the shrieks of terror,
with a life In every breath!
How I scream with lambent laughter
as I hurl each crackling rafter
Down the fell abyss of fire, until high
er! higher! higher!
Leap the high-priests of my altar in
their merry dance of death!
"I am monarch of the fire! I am vassal-king
of death!
World-encircling with the shadow of
Its doom upon my breath!
With the symbol of hereafter flam
ing from my fatal face!
I command the eternal fire! Higher!
Higher! Higher!! Higher!
Leap my ministering demons. like
phantasmagoric lelnans
Hugging universal nature in their
hideous embrace!"
Tthen a sombre silence shut me in a
solemn, shrouded sleep.
And I slumbered like an infant In the
"Cradle of the deep,"
Till the belfry in the forest quivered
with the matin stroke.
And the martins from the edges of its
lichen-lidded ledges
Shimmered through the russet arches
where the light in torn files
marches
Like a routed army struggling
through the serried ranks of oak.
Through my ivy-fretted casement fil
tered In a tremulous note
From the tall and stately linden where
a robin swelled his throat
Querulous. Quakt-r-breasted robin,
calling quaintly for his mate!
Then I started up unhidden, from my
slumber nightmare ridden.
With the memory of that dire demon
in my central fire
On my eye's interior mirTor like the
shadow of a fate!
Ah! the fiendish fire had smouldered
to a white and formless heap.
And no knot of oak was flaming us It
flamed upon my sleep:
But around Its very center, whero
the demon face had shone.
Forked shadows seemed to linger jmint-
lng as with spectral flnger
To a Bible, massive, golden on a table
carved and olden
And I bowed and said. "All power Is
of God, of God alonul"
4