TIIE SUNDAY OREGOXIAX, PORTLAND, FEBRUARY Tl, 1917.
9
POEMS FOR WASHINGTON BIRTHDAY ARE DESIRED MOST
. . . - -
Principal of School Wants Contributions for Programmes to Be Given Many Offerings Are Appreciated.
WE DESIRE to acknowledge re
ceipt of copies of "The Bare
foot Boy" from Miss Catherine
Morlarty, of Lebanon, and Miss Dora
Nettleblad, of Aberdeen, which were
received too late for acknowledgement
last week.
We are also Indebted to Mrs. M. A.
Wheeler, of Tillamook, for a copy of
"Oh, Be Not the First,' which was
recently requested. From Miss Ber
nice Jones, of Silverton, and Mrs. Metta
Benefiel, of Banks, we received copies
of "After the Ball" too late for recog
nition last week, and we are also in
debted to Kathleen Parmeter for "Fall
en Leaf," who requests "The Church
Across the Way" and "Little Sister
and I."
We have received a request from the
principal of a school for the 'publica
tion as soon as possible of selections
about Washington and Lincoln, which
can be used in the public school pro
grammes in celebration of the anni
versaries of those (rreat men. It will
be too late to devote a page to Lin
coln poems, but we shall be glad to
give space to poems suitable for Wash
ington's birthday, if such copies are
received in the coming week.
Daniel Webster, of Salem, sends us
a copy of "Lprena," but this has been
reprinted already on this page. Simi
larly we have received a copy of
"Somebody's Darling," which we have
already printed, from G. C. Kissell.
Mrs. A. L. Applewhite, of Willamina,
ent copies of "The House By the Side
of the Road" and "The Barefoot Boy."
both of which have been printed. Edith
Weidman, of Eagle Point, sent a copy
of "Sweet Marie," which was recently
used, and we had a copy of "Papa's
Letter," from Mrs. Barbara Robertson,
of Albany.
V. V. rflvnnftiich. of Edeewood. Cali
fornia, sent "The Three Warnings,"!
which was recently requested and re
printed. "The Sunlight Is Beautiful, Mother"
has been sent in by Mrs. H. M. Par
ham, of Grants Pass. Mrs. Wheeler, of
Tillamook, and Mrs. B. R. Wolfe. The
latter also sends "A Flower From My
Angel Mother's Grave," which was re
cently used.
M. B. Zumwalt, of Portland, sends
a. copy of "The Sunlight Is Beautiful,"
reprinted elsewhere. We also receive
from the same contributor the follow
ing crude and Jovial old nonsense bal
lad of early days.
TIIK CALIFORNIA HCSTER,
Twas on one Monday morning
Just at the fall of snow,
I picked up my gun, sir.
And into the woods did go.
3i nd providence attended me
1 chanced upon some deer;
I tracked them through the sand, sir.
And into the water so clear.
I loaded up my gun. sir.
And into the water did go;
I fired off my gun, sir.
Like cannons they did roar.
Kind providence attended me
I chanced for to kill one.
The rest they bristled up. sir.
And at me they did come.
I. being a resolute soldier.
Determined to go through.
I flew all up in a passion;
My naked sword I drew.
And out of ten I killed fifteen.
The rest they ran away.
As I came out of the water,
Just as you've heard me say.
When I came out of the water
The deer they all had fled;
I peeped, up over the mountain top
And scarce could see one's head.
I bent my gun in a circle
And shot around the hill.
And out of four and twenty
Four score or more did I kill.
A-gathering up my venison.
All on the mountain high,
X stepped aboard of the sun, sir.
As she went passing by.
She carried me over the salt sea lakes
And over the rolling tide;
The stars they carried my venison
So merrily I did ride.
But at the set of sun, sir.
She chanced to give a whirl,
.And as I could stick no longer
I fell in another whirL
Kind providence attended me
I chanced upon the moon.
And in the speed of one-half of a day
She landed me safe home.
The money that I got for
My venisons and skins,
I stacked it into my forty-foot barn
One-half of It wouldn't go In.
Come, now, fill up the bowl, boys,
I'm getting very dry.
If you believe one-half that I've told
you
, Tou'll believe one hell of a lie.
I
From Cottage Grove we have re
ceived a collection of old poems, with
no contributors name given. Among
them is "Which Shall It Be?" which
We reprinted several months ago.
"Measuring Baby" Is also Included
and we reprint it herewith.
MEASURING THE BABY.
We measured the riotous baby
Against the cottage wall,
A lily grew at the threshold.
And the boy was just as tall; ,
A royal tiger lily.
With spots of purple and gold.
And a heart like a Jeweled chalice
The fragrant dew to hold.
Without the bluebirds whistled,
High up in the old roof-trees.
And to and fro at the window
The red rose rocked her bees;
iAnd the wee, pink fists of the baby
Were never a moment still.
Snatching at shine and shadow
That danced on the lattice-sill.
Els eyes were wide as bluebells.
His mouth like a flower unblown.
Two little bare feet like funny white
mice
Peeped out from his snowv e-owr:
And we thought with a thrill of rap
ture.
That yet had a touch of pain.
When June rolls around with her
roses
We'll measure the boy again."
Ah me! In a darkened chamber
With the sunshine shut awav.
Through tears that fell like bitter
rain.
We measured the boy today:
And the little bare feet that were
dimpled
And. sweet as a budding rose.
Lay side by side together.
In the hush of a long repose.
Up from the dainty pillow.
White as the risen dawn.
The fair little face lay smiling.
With the light of heaven thereon.
And the dear little hands like rose
leaves
Dropped from a rose, lay stllf,
Never to snatch at the sunshine
. That crept to the shrouded sill.
We measured the sleeping baby.
With ribbons white as snow.
For the shining rosewood casket
That waited him below;
And out of the darkened chamber.
We went with a childless moan.
To the light of the sinless angels
Our little one had grown.
quests that It be reprinted on this
page.
AT THE EXD OK THE DAY.
How is It with me at the end of the
day?
Is pride in my heart and Is peace In
my breast?
Can I sit in the darkness and honestly
say
That in all of my acts I have tried ,
for the best
That If profits have come to me, little
or great
No wronged one may think of me,
treasuring hate?
Can I turn at the end of the day and
be glad
That no one is poorer for aught I
have done
That no one has reason to curse or
be sad
Because of a triumph that I may
have won?
Can I go to my bed with the peace In
my heart'
That is his who has acted the praise
worthy part
Can I gaze at the stars when the
silence is deep
And say, as if God was consenting to
hear.
That no one tonight will be robbed of
sweet sleep
Because I have won a success which
was dear?
Have I crushed no fair hope, nor
spread grief on the way?
How is it with me at the end of the
day?
THE CLOWN'S BABY.
BY MARGARET VANDERGRIFT.
It was on the Western frontier;
The miners, rugged and brown.
Were gathered around the posters;
The circus had come to town!
The great tent shone in the darkness.
Like a wonderful palace of light.
And rough men crowded the entrance
Shows didn t come every night.
Not a woman's face among them;
Many a face that was bad.
And some that were only vacant.
And some that were very sad;
And behind a canvas curtain,
In a corner of the place.
The clown, with chalk and Vermillion,
Was "making up" his face.
A weary-looking woman.
With a smile that still was sweet.
Sewed on a little garment.
With a cradle at her feet.
Pantaloon stood ready and wafting.
It was time for the going on.
But the clown in vain searched wildly.
The "property baby" was gone!
He murmured, impatiently hunting:
'It's strange I cannot find-
There! I've looked In every corner;
It must have been left behind!"
The miners were stamping and shout
ing.
They were not patient men.
The clown bends over the cradle
'I must take you, little Ben!"
The mother started and shivered.
But trouble and want was near;
She lifted her baby gently:
"You'll be very careful, dear?
Careful? You foolish darlings "
How tenderly it was said.
What a smile broke through the chalk
and paint
T love each hair of his head."
The noise rose Into an uproar.
Misrule for the time was king:
The clown, with a foolish chuckle.
Bolted into the ring.
But as, with squeak and flourish.
The fiddles closed their tune.
You'll hold him as if he were made
of glass?"
Said the clown to the pantaloon.
The Jovial fellow -nodded:
"I've a couple myself." he said,
I know how to handle 'em, bless you!
Old fellow, go ahead!"
The fun grew fast and furious.
And not one of all the crowd
Had guessed that the baby was alive.
when he suddenly laughed aloud.
Oh. that baby laugh! It was echoed
From the benches with a ring.
And the roughest customer there
sprang up
With: "Boys, it's the real thing!"
The ring was Jammed in a minute.
Not a man that did not strive
For "a shot at holding the baby."
The baby that was "alive!
He was thronged by kneeling suitors,
In the midst of the dusty ring;
And he held his court right royally
The fair little baby king
Till one of the shouting courtiers.
A man with a bold hard face.
The talk, for miles, of the country.
And the terror of the place.
Raised the little king to his shoulder.
And chuckled: Look at that!"
As the chubby fingers clutched his hair,
Then: "Boys, hand round the hat.'
There never was such a hatful
, Of silver, and gold, and notes;
People are" not always penniless
Because they don't wear coats.
And then: "Three cheers for the baby!"
1 tell you those cheers were meant:
And the way in which they were given
was enough to raise the tent.
And then there was a sudden silence.
And a gruff old miner said:
Come, boys, enough of this rumpus.
It's time It was put to bed."
So. looking a little sheepish.
But with faces strangely bright.
The audience somewhat lingeringly
f iocKea out into the night:
And the bold-faced leader chuckled:
"He wasn t a bit afraid!
He's as game as he is good looking;
cojb, mat was a snow that paid."
Contributed by Ruth Luce.
James A. Wood sends from Salem
the following poem written by Colone
v. tj. u. fiercer, or England, and re
of the South," printed by Spottlswood
& Co., London, England, 1866.
CLARE G. MOREY.
A CONFEDERATE NOTE.
Representing nothing on God's earth
now.
And' naught In the water below It,
As a pledge of the Nation that's deaa
and gone.
Keep it, dear friend, and show It.
Show it to those who will lend an ear
To the tale that this paper can tell.
Of liberty born, of the patriot's dream
Of the storm-cradled Nation that fell.
Too poor to possess the precious ores
And too much of a stranger to bor
row. We Issued today our promise to pay.
And hoped to redeem on the morrow.
The days rolled on, and the weeks be
came years.
But our coffers were empty still;
Coin was so rare that the Treasury
quaked
If a dollar should drop In the till.
But the faith that was In us was
strong, indeed.
And our poverty well discerned;
And these little checks represented the
pay
That our suffering volunteers earned.
We knew it had hardly a value in gold.
Yet as gold our soldiers received it;
It gazed In our eyes with a promise to
pay.
And each patriot soldier believed It.
But our boys thought little of price or
pay.
Or of bills that were overdue:
We knew if it brought us bread today.
It was the best our poor country
could do.
Keep It, it tells our history all over.
From the birth of its dream to the
last:
Modest, and born of the angel Hope,
Like the hope of success it passed.
sends also the following poem by
Augusta Lenols Allen.
VESPERS.
The vesper bells were ringing sweet
in the sultry Summer weather.
As they climbed the mount with tired
feet to kneel and pray together.
"Our hearts, oh God, are one," they
said, "but we go two ways to
morrow; And life will linger and lovers wed.
and what can we beg -or borrow
To bridge the years, drearier than
dreariest night la,
Lying between the valley of tears and
the city where Thy delight is?"
Over their cold, crossed palms a light
struck sharp through a coal
black shadow;
And silences, not of day nor of night,
and sweets, not of morn nor of
meadow.
Folded them fast; while a voice sang
clear through the soul of the
silvery arches,
"They are true soldiers who feel no
fear. God knoweth how hard
the march is."
Only a dimming of patient eyes, a
smiling of lips that quiver.
And gray behind them the mountain
lies; blue before them the river.
Battles for both of them. Burdens for
each. And the wild and weary
ing weather;
But, further away, a paradise beaffh
and two ways winding together.
"The Forty-Acre Farm" is another
lnclosure in the list sent by an un
known Cottage Grove contributor.
THE FORTY-ACRE FARM.
I'm thinking, wife, of Neighbor Jones,
that man or stalwart arm;
He lives in peace and plenty on a forty-
acre farm:
While men are all around us, with
hands and hearts asore.
Who own two hundred acres and still
are wanting more.
His Is a pretty little farm, a pretty
little house:
He has a loving wife within as quiet
as a mouse;
His children play around the door.
their father's life to charm.
Looking as neat and tidy as the tidy
little farm.
No weeds are in the corn-fields, no
thistles in the oats:
The horses show good keeping by their
tine and glossy coats;
The cows within the meadow resting
- 'neath the beechen shade.
Learn all their gentle manners of the
gentle milking maid.
Within the fields on Saturday he
leaves no cradled grain
To be gathered on the morrow for fear
of coming rain.
He keeps the Sabbath holy, his chil
dren learn his ways.
And plenty fills his barn and bin after
the harvest days.
He never has a law-suit to take him
to the town.
For the very simple reason there are
no line fences down.
The bar-room in the village does not
have for him a charm,
I can always find my neighbor on his
forty-acre farm.
His acres are so very few he plows
them very deep:
'TJs his own hands that turn the sod
'tis his own hands that rean:
He has a place for everything and
things are in their place;
The sunshine smiles upon his fields,
contentment on his face..
May w not learn a lesson, wife, from
pruaent Neighbor Jones.
And not for what we haven't got give
vent to sighs and moans?
The rich aren't always happy, nor free
rrom life s alarms:
But blest are they who live content.
wough small may be their farms.
Mrs. Mona Porter, of Roseburg, sends
the following, recently requested:
O, BE NOT THE FIRST.
O, be not the first to discover
A blot on the name of a friend,
A flaw in the faith of a lover.
Whose heart may be true to the end.
We none of us know one another
And oft into error we fall.
So let us speak well of each other
Or speak not at alL
How often the smile of gladness
Is worn by a friend we meet
To cover a heart full of sadness
Too proud to acknowledge defeat.
How often the friends we love dearest
Their noblest actions conceal.
And bosoms the purest, sincerest.
Have secrets they cannot reveal.
How often the sigh of Rejection
Is heard from the hypocrite's breast,
To parody truth and affection
Or lull a suspicion to rest.
We none of us know one another
And oft into error we fall.
So let us speak well of each other
Or speak not at all.
To the Editor I thought you might
be interested in the following poem.
written on the back of a five-hundred
dollar Confederate note. Published in
a small book, "War Lyrics and Songs
KATIE'S SECRET.
The snnlight is beautiful, mother
And sweetly the flowers bloom to
day.
And the birds In the branches of haw
thorn
Are caroling ever so gavt
And down by the rock In the meadow
The rill ripples bv with a sonsr.
And, mother, I, too, have been sing
ing
The merriest all the day long.
Last night I was weeping, dear mother
Last night I was weepins: alone
The world was so dark and so dreary
.niy neart grew as heavy as stone.
I tho't of the lonely and loveless.
All lonely and loveless was I.
I scarcely could tell how It was.
motner.
For, Oh, I was longing to die.
Last night T was weeping, dear mother
When Willie came down bv the eate
Ana wnisperea, uome out in the moon
light.
For I've something to say to you
Kate."
Oh. mother, to him I am dearer
Than all the wide world beside:
He told me so out in the moonlleht.
And called me his darling, his bride.
And so I will gather the roses
And twine in my Iontr. braided hair-.
And Willie will come in the evening
Ana smile wiven he sees me so fair.
And out in the moonlight we'll wan
cer.
'Way down by the old hawthorne tree,
Oh, mother, I wonder if any
Were ever as happy as we.
THE WANDERER.
(By Helena Modjeska.)
Upon a mountain's height, far from
the sea.
I found a shell.
And to my curious ear this lonely thing
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing
Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.
How came this shell upon the moun
tain height?
Ah, who can say i -
Whether there dropped by some too
careless hand
Whether there cast when ocean swept
tne ian3.
Ere the Eeternal had ordained the
Day?
Strange, was It not? Far from Its na
tive sea, t
One song it sang
Sang of the mighty mysteries of the
tide.
Sang of the awful, -vast, profound and
wide.
Softly with echoes of the ocean Tang,
And as the shell upon the mountain's
height
Things of the sea.
So do I ever, leagues and leagues
, away
So do I ever, wandering where I may.
Sing, O my home, sing, O my home
of thee.
Contributed by May Fercival Emer
son.
Mary Alice Ogden contributes "The
Sunlight Is Beautiful, Mother," and
In the list of unsigned contributions
from Cottage Grove was also "Leoua."
LEON A.
Leona, the hour draws nigh.
The hour we've awaited so long.
For the angel to open a door through
the sky.
That my spirit may break from its
prison and try
Its voice in an infinite song.
Just now as the slumbers of night
Came o'er me with peace-giving
breath.
The curtain, half-lifted, revealed to
my sight
Those windows which look on the
kingdom of light.
That borders the river of death.
And a vision fell solemn and sweet.
Bringing gleams of a morning-llt-land;
I saw the white shore which the pale
waters beat.
And I heard the low lull, as they broke
at their feet.
Who walked on this beautiful strand.
And I wondered why spirits should
cling
To their clay with a struggle and
sigh.
When life's purple Autumn Is better
than Spring,
And the soul flies away like a sparrow.
to sing
In a climate where leaves never die.
Leona, come close to my bed.
And lay your dear hand on my brow;
The same touch that thrilled me In
days that are fled.
And raised the lost roses of youth
from the dead.
Can brighten the brief moments now.
We have loved from the cold world
apart;
And your trust was too generous and
true
For their hate to o'erthrow; when the
slanderer s dart
Was rankling deep in my desolate
heart,
I was dearer than ever to you.
I thank the great Father for this.
That our love is not lavished In vain;
Each germ, in the future, will blossom
to bliss.
And the form that we love, and the
lips that we kiss
Never shrink at the shadow of pain.
By the light of this faith I am taught
That my labor is only begun;
In the strength of this hope have I
struggled and fought
With the legions of wrong, till my
armor has caught
The gleam of eternity's sun.
Leona, look forth and behold.
r rom headland, from hillside and
deep.
The day-king surrenders his banners
of gold.
The twilight aBvancea through wood
land and wold.
And the dews are beginning to weep.
The moon's silver hair lies uncurled
Down the broad-breasted mountains
away;
Ere sunset's red glories again shall be
furled
On the fields of the West, o'er the
plains of the world,
I shall rise in a limitless day.
O come not In tears to my tomb.
Nor plant with frail flowers the
sod;
There is rest among roses too weet
for its gloom.
And life where the lilies eternally
bloom
In the balm-breathing gardens of
God.
Yet deeply these memories burn
Which bind me to you and to earth:
And 1 sometimes have thought that my
spirit would yearn
In the bowers of its beautiful home to
return.
And visit the land of Its birth.
Twould even be pleasant to stay, n
And walk by your side to the last
But the land-breeze of heaven is be
ginning to play
Life's shadows are meeting eternity's
day.
And its tumult is hushed In the
past.
Leona, good-hrye; should the grief
That is gathering now ever be
Too dark for your faith, you will long
for relief;
And remember the Journey though
lonesome is brief.
Over lowland and river, to me.
James G. Clark.
sung at a Sunday school convention at
Washington, in 1861.)
If you cannot on the ocean
Sail among the swiftest fleet.
Rocking on the highest billows.
Laughing at the storms you meet.
You can stand among the sailors
Anchored yet within the bay.
You can lend a hand to help them
As they launch their boats away.
If you are too weak to Journey
Up the mountain, steep and high
You can stand within the valley
While the multitude goes by;
You can chant in happy measure
As they slowly pass along;
Though they may forget the singer.
They will not forget the song.
If you have not gold and silver
EVer ready at command;
If you cannot toward the needy
Reach an ever-helping hand.
You can succor the afflicted.
O'er the erring you can weep.
You can be a true disciple.
Sitting at the Master's feet.
If you cannot in the harvest
Garner up the richest sheaves.
Many grains, both ripe and golden.
Will the careless reapers leave.
Go and glean among the briers
Growing rank against the wall.
For it may be that the shadows
Hide the heaviest wheat of all.
If you cannot in the conflict
Prove yourself a soldier true;
If where fire and smoke is thickest
There's no work for you to do:
When the battlefield is silent
You can go with careful tread;
You can bear away the wounded.
You can cover up the dead.
Do not. then, stand Idly waiting
For some greater work to do;
Fortune is a lazy goddess
She will never come to you.
Go and toil within life's vineyard.
Do not fear to do or dare
If you want a field of 4abor
You can find it anywhere.
Contributed by X. Y. Z., of Portland.
- THE OLD HOISE AT HOME.
O the old house at home, where my
forefathers dwelt.
When a child at the feet of my mother
I knelt.
Where she taught me the prayer, where
she read me the page
Which if in infancy lisped is the solace
of asre:
My heart mid all changes, wherever I
roam.
Never loses Its love for the. old house
at home;
It was there at the feet of my mother
I knelt.
In the old house at home, where my
forefathers dwelt.
CHORUS:
O the old house at home, O the old
house at home:
My heart never changes for the old
house at home.
It was not for Its splendor that dwell
ing was dear.
It was not that the gay and noble
were near:
O'er the porch the wild rose and the
woodbine entwined.
And the Jessamine fragrantly waved
in the wind
But dearer to me than proud turret
and dome
Were the halls of my father, the old
house at home:
It was there at the feet of my mother
I knelt.
In the old house at home where my
forefathers dwelt.
But the old house no more Is a dwell
ing for me.
The home of the stranger henceforth
it must De;
And I never shall view it or Tove as
e ...
O'er the ever-green fields which my
iatner possessea.
Yet still in my slumbers sweet visions
will come
Of the days that Tr passed in the old
house at home.
It was there at th feet of my mother
T Ln.tt
In the old house at home where my
forefathers dwelt.
Contributed by Mrs. Lutie Marshall
Stiles, of Walla Walla.
A VALENTINE.
(By Josephine Pollard.)
A Valentine! Ah, can it be
That some one has addressed to ma
These lines, so sweet and tender?
Name or initial is not set
Upon the page, and yet and yet
I think I know the sender.
What though the writing be disguised,
And many a little trick devised
To aid the fond deception:
St. Valentine provides the key
That spoils the little mystery
The moment of reception.
How easy we detect tne signs.
And read the words between the lines.
No other eyes discoverl
And thus the secret ne'er confessed
By word of mouth is plainly guessed
By sweetheart or by lover.
We may be right, we may be wrong;
For lack of confirmation strong
We give the rein to fancy.
And let her wonder at her will.
And her bright destiny fulfill
In fields of necromancy.
And Valentines would lose their charm
If they at once could doubt disarm
Ere yet the seal was broken:
And so the deeper the disguise
The more delightful the surprise.
And sweeter is the token.
For I confess that from a host
The one I've always prized the most
Time has new beauty lent it
Is this poor, faded Valentine;
Because I never could divine
Just who it was that sent it.
Contributed by "X. Y. Z.." of Portland.
Walla, sends "The Four-Leaved Sham
rock," recently requested.
THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK.
(The four-leaved shamrock Is so rare
that it is supposed to endue the finder
with magic power.)
I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock, in all
the fairy dell.
And if I find the charmed leaves, oh.
how I'll weave my spell.
I would not waste my magic might on
diamonds, pearl or gold.
For treasure tires the weary sense
such- triumph Is but cold:
But I would play the enchanter's part.
In casting bliss around
Oh! not a tear nor aching heart, should
in the world be found.
To worth I would give honor; I'd dry
tne mourner s tears.
And to the pallid lip recall the smile
of happier years.
And hearts that had been long es
tranged, and friends that had
grown cold.
Should meet again like parted
streams, and mingle as of old!
Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part.
thus scatter bliss around.
And not a tear nor aching heart, should
in the world be found!
The heart that had been mourning o'er
vanished dreams of love.
Should see them all returning, like
Noah's faithful dove:
And Hope should launch her blessed
bark on Sorrow's darkening sea.
And Mis'ry's children have an Ark, and
saved from sinking be.
Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part,
thus scatter bliss around.
And not a tear nor aching heart, should
in the world be found.
CASTLES I' THE AIR.
The bonnle, bonnie bairn wba sits pok-
ln . i the ase.
Glowerin at the fire wl' his wee, round
face.
Laughln' at the fuffin' lowe What sees
he there?
Ah, the young dreamer's biggin' cas
tles i- the alrl
His wee, chubby face an' his towsey.
curley pow
Are laughin' an' noddln" to the danc
in' lowe.
His brow Is brent sae braid Oh, pray
that Daddy Care
Will let the wean alane wl" his cas
ties 1' the air.
He sees mony castles, towerin' tae the
moon;
He sees little sojers pu'ln' them a'
doun ;
Warl's whomblln up and doun, bleez-
In' wi' a flare
See, how he loups as they glimmer F
the air.
For a sae sage is he. What can the lad
die ken?
He's thinkln' upon naethln', like mony
mlchty men.
A wee thing mak's us think, a sma'
thing mak s us stare:
There are mair folk than him biggin'
castles i the air.
Sic a nlcht In Winter may weel mak'
him cauld.
His cheek upon his buffy hand will
soon mak' him auld.
He'll brown his rosy cheek, an he'll
singe his sunny hair,
Laughln' at the imps, wi' their castles
1 the air.
He'll glower at the fire, an' he'll keek
at the llcht:
But mony sparklin' stars are swallowed
up by nicht.
Aulder een than his are glamoured w
a glare;
Hearts are broken, heads are turned.
wl castles i the air.
Some time ago a request was sent
In for "Castles In the Air," and In yes
terday s Oregonian were published
some patriotic Irish verses with that
title. I give above from memory an
old Scottish favorite of my childhood
I do not know which of the poems was
desired by the person sending the re
quest, but think the above worth re
printing. Very likely there are anum
ber of poems in existence under the
same title. IVY D. MORGAN.
Palmateer, of HJllsboro. and Mrs. II.
M. Palmer, of Albany.
I CANNOT CALL HER MOTHER.
The marriage rite was over.
And then I turned aside
To keep the guests from seeing
The tears I could not hide.
I wreathed my face in smiling.
And led my little brother
To greet my father's chosen
But I could not call her mother
She is a fair young creature.
With meek and gentle air.
With blue eyes soft and loving '
And sunny silken hair,
know my father gives her
The love he bore another.
But if she were an angel
I could not call her mother. .
Tonight I heard her singing
The song I used to love
When its dear notes were uttered
By her who sings above.
It grieved my heart to hear it.
My tears I could not smother.
For every tone was hallowed
By the dear voice of my mother.
My father. In the sunshine
Of happy days to come.
May half forget the shadow
That darkened our dear home;
His heart no more is lonely.
But I and little brother
Must still be orphan children
God gives us but one mother.
They've borne my mother's picture
1- rom its accustomed place.
And set beside my father
A younger, fairer face;
They've made her dear old chamber
The boudoir of another.
But I will not forget thee.
My own, my angel mother.
Mrs. C. E. Depew. of Sandy, sends
"The Slave's Dream," requested Janu
ary 7:
THE SLAVE'S DREAM.
I had a dream, a happy dream;
I dreamt that I was free!
And in the land where freedom dwelt
There was a home for me.
And Savannah's tide rolled bravely on.
And wave rolled after wave.
And when I woke in fond delight,
I found myself a slave!
I never knew a mother's love.
But happy was the day
I sat down by my father's side
And sang my simple lay. '
He died, and heartless strangers came,
And covered o'er him the grave.
They tore me. weeping, from his side
And claimed me as their slave!
And this was in a Christian land.
Where men oft kneel and pray
The vaunted home of liberty.
Where whips and lashes sway.
Oh, give me iack my Georgia cot;
It is not wealth I crave
But let me live in freedom's light.
Although I die a slave.
YOUR MISSION.
(By S. N. Grannis.)
(This is said to have been a favor
ite song of Abraham Lincoln, he en
cored it not less than 18 times when
The following English song is very
old. probabjy 100- years, according to
C. B. Page, the contributor.
REMEMBER, LOVE, REMEMBER.
'Twas ten o'clock one moonlight night,
X ever shall remember.
When every star shone twinkling bright
in frosty cold Decembe. r
When at the window, tap, tap, tap, I
beard a certain well-known rap.
With these words most sweet and
clear:
"Remember, ten o'clock, my dear. Re
member, love, remember."
My mam was dozing before' the fire, my
dad his pipe was smoking;
I for the world could not retire, now
was not that provoking?
At length the old folks fast asleep, I
flew my promised word to keep.
But, sure his absence to denote, he on
the window shutter wrote:
"Remember, ten o'clockTmy dear. Re
member, love, remember."
And did- I heed a hint so sweit? Ah, yes,
for mark the warning
Which said at church we were to meet,
at ten o'clock next morning.
And there we met, no more to part, to
Join forever, hand and heart.
And since that day in wedlock Joined,
the window shutter brings to
mind.
"Remember.' ten o'clock, my dear. Re
member, love, remember.
Mrs. Luties Marshall Stiles, of Walla
LULLABY.
"Rockaby, baby, thy cradle Is green
Father's a nobleman, mother's '
queen:"
Rockaby, lullaby, all the day long.
Down to the land of the lullaby song.
Baby land never again will be thine.
Land of all mystery, holy, divine.
Motherland, otherland.
Wonderland, underland.
Land of a time ne'er again to be seen
Flowerland. bowerland,
Alryland, fairyland,
Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.
Rockaby, baby, thy mother will keep
Gentle watch over thine azure-eyed
sleep;
Baby can't feel what the mother
heart knows.
Throbbing its fear o'er your qule
repose.
Mother-heart knows how baby must
fight
Wearily on through the fast-coming
night;
Battle unending.
Honor defending.
Baby must wage with the power tm
seen.
Sleep, now, O baby, dear,
God and thy mother near,
Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.
Rockaby. baby, the days will grow long,
Silent the voice of the mother-lov
song;
Bowed with sore burdens the man-
life must own
Sorrows that baby must bear all
alone;
Wonderland never can come back again,
Thought will come soon, and with rea
son comes pain,
Sorrowland, motherland,
Drearyland. wearyland.
Baby and heavenland lying between.
Smile, then, in motherland.
Dream in the otherland,
Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.
-Contributed by Ruth Luce.
THE VALE OF AVOCA.
There Is not in this wide world
A valley so sweet.
As that vale in whose bosom
The bright waters meet.
Oh! the last rays of feeling.
And life must depart.
Ere the bloom of that valley
Shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature
Had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystals
And brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic
Of streamlet or hill.
Oh, no. it was something
More exquisite still.
'Twas that friends the beloved
Of my bosom were near.
Who made every scene
Of enchantment more dear;
And who felt how the best charms
Of nature improve.
When we see them reflected
From looks that we love.
Sweet Vale of Avoca,
How calm could I rest
In the shade of thy bosom.
With the friends I like best.
Where the storms which we feel.
In this -cold world shall cease.
And our hearts like thy waters
Be mingled in peace.
Contributed r-y L. Hanson, of Ridge
field,, waih.
"I Cannot Call Her Mother. recent
ly requested. . is aent by. Mr a. J. J,
Rev. Alfred Bates, pastor of the War-
renton. Or., Methodist Episcopal Church,
sent us the following:
THE PRODIGAL GIRL.
We all have a heart for the Prodigal
boy.
Who was caught In sin's mad whirl.
And we welcome him back with songs
of Joy;
But what of the Prodigal girl?
For him there's ever an open door.
And a father's bounteous fare.
And, though he is wretched, sick and
poor.
He is sure of a welcome there.
But what of the girl who has tone
astray.
Who has lost in the battle with sin?
Say do we forgive in the same sweet
way
We've always forgiven him?
Does the door stand ajar, as If to say,
"Come, enter, you need not fear.
I've been open thus since you went
away.
Now close to the second year?"
Or, with a hand of hellish pride.
Do we close, and bolt the door.
And swear, "while heaven and earth
abide.
She shall enter here no more?"
O Christ. It seems we have never
learned.
The lesson writ in the sand.
For even yet the woman is spurned.
And stoned In a Christian land.
f
Down Into the slough wo hurl her
back.
Then turn around with a smile.
And welcome the boy from the sinful
track.
Though his was the life most vile.
We all have a heart for the Prodigal
boy.
Who was caught in sin's mad whirl.
And we welcome him back with songs
of Joy;
But what of the Prodigal girl?
II. J. Bryce.
"The Merchant's Daughter," an old
ballad recently requested, is sent by,
"M. H. R."
THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.
There was a rich old merchant.
In Boston he did dwell.
He had a pretty daughter
And she I loved so well
CHORUS.
Then sing, carry me away;
Then sing carry me back home;
She was courted by big lawyers
And officers so gay.
But none but poor Jackie
Could win her heart away.
She dressed herself In men's clothes.
She dressed herself so gay.
She dressed herself In men's clothes
And sailed herself away.
Your waist, it Is too slender.
Your hand. It is too small:
Your face. It is too beautiful
To face the cannon ball.
She sailed to old England.
She met her mother there.
"You look like my daughter.
My daughter, oh, so fair."
"I am not your daughter;
Your daughter I do not know,
I am the Boston captain.
My name it is Bill Roe."
She fought among big officers.
She fought among brave men.
She fought by poor Jackie,
'Till Jackie he was slain.
She called for her pistols.
. She bid her friends adieu.
She called for her sword.
And pierced her body thru.
CHORUS.
Then sing, carry me away;
Then sing, carry me back home.
NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP.
(Written by an unknown miner in a
Western camp, inspired by the light
of his camp fire and the stars.)
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
"Now I lay me down to sleepv"
Near the camp-fire's flickering light.
In my blanket bed I lie.
Gazing through the shades of night
At the twinkling stars on high.
O'er me spirits in the air
Silent vigils seem to keep.
As I breathe my childhood's prayer.
"Now I lay me down to sleep."
Sadly says the whlppoorwill.
In the boughs of yonder tree;
Laughingly the dancing rill
Swells the midnight melody;
Foemen may be lurking near.
In the canon dark and deep.
Low I breathe in Jesus' ear,
"I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
'Mid the stars one face I see.
One the saviour called away
Mother who in infancy
Taught my baby Hps to pray;
Her sweet spirit hovers near.
In the lonely mountain brake.
Take me to her, saviour dear.
"If I should die before I wake-
Fainter grows the flickering light
As each ember slowly dies.
Plaintively the birds of night
Fill the air with saddening criers;
"You may nevermore awake."
Low I lisp. "If I should die,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
Contributed by. "i li. C," of Spokane.
I