The Sunday Oregonian., March 04, 1917, SECTION FIVE, Page 9, Image 71

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THE SUNDAY OltEGOXIAX, PORTLAND, MARCH 4, 1917.
REQUESTS SO MANY THAT ONLY OLD POEMS CAN BE GIVEN
Those Available at Stores or in Recent Magazines Must Be Discarded Letters Keep on Pouring In.
"V
WE have on hand now a lLst of
letters containing unpublished
requests for poems which prac
tically mounts t the top of the filing
hook, and still there come more re
quests in every mall. Just how all
f them are to be printed Is a matter
Xor the oracles to decide.
It win bo necessary for us to Ignore
requests for songs and poems recently
published. For Instance, there have
been many requests for "Wake Up,
America." which can be secured at
any music store If desired. Many
requests have been sent in for poems
by Herbert Kaufman. Klla Wheeler
Wilcox and others, which have been
published in current magazines within
the past few months. Such requests
we shall be obliged to discard.
Numerous other requests come for
poems that have been printed on this
page in previous issues, and except in
rarely opportune cases, we shall have
to refrain from reprinting such
poems.
Even with these ellml-ations. It is
to be expected that the flood of re
quests will be more than we can at
tend to out of hand.
Those who have sent in poems which
have not yet appeared are requested
to grant us their indulgence and to
accept our assurance that they will
be handled as rapidly as space is avail
able. Owing to the press of material,
we shall not be able to guarantee
the return of any contributions, and
for that reason we would advise
against sending clippings which are
treasured. It will be much better If
our contributors can arrange to make
a. copy from their clippings and send
us the copy.
Attention should be called again to
the fact that contributions which are
sent in an illegible form or written
on both sides of the paper cannot be
handled.
We note herewith a few of the re
quests that have been sent In:
Gus Krossa, of Detroit, Mich., wants
the song "My Little Black Moustache"
and the song "Bury Me Not in the
Deep. Deep Sea."
Mrs. C. A Jarvis, of Albany, sent a
request for "Belle Mahone," but this
. was printed on May 28. 1916.
Another reader requests "The Loco
. motive," which begins:
V "With a clank,
With a clamor and a clank,
. With a clamor and a clank and a
r' clang."
"Two Little Girls In Blue." a pop
". ular song about 20 years ago, is re
quested by another contributor.
In replv to a request for "The Old
Sod Shanty on the Claim," we would
i. note that this poem appeared on this
page October 8. 1916.
Mrs. M. Franklin asks for the poem
" In which occur the lines:
Til smile when you smile and I'll
weep when you weep.
" And I'll give you a kiss for a kiss:
' And all the fond promises read you
I'll keep
T.'hat more can I promise than this?"
"Mrs. A- W. N." asks for "The Belle
'. f the Mohawk. Vale," beginning:
'. Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk
gently glides.
On its clear winding way to the
; "Dearer6 than all storied streams on
earth beside.
Is that bright, rolling river to me.
C. L. Stedrnan wants a song of EO
: years ago. entitled "I Am a Hunter
Bold." ,
L. Hanna, of Ridgefleld. Wash., asks
for "The Green Flel-ds of America," in
- which occurs the line. "The landlord's
cow is grazing now where people used
t0Also the poem containing the lines,
t "Tell me. sailor, tell me true, is my
' little lad. my Elihu. a-salling on your
ship-'" And the poem containing the
. lines. "But I have still.' thank heaven.
; four 'gallant sons of sever, that my
Irish wife has given to soothe my
years' decline."
"How the Waters Came Down at
' Lodore," is also requested.
EARLY RISING.
(By J. G. Saxe, a California Poet.
' God bless the man who first Invented
sleep,
So said Sancno Panza and so eay I.
And bless him also that he didn't keep
His great discovery to himself nor
try
To make It as the lucky might,
, A close monopoly by patent right.
' God bless the man who first Invented
sleep:
(I really can't avoid the Iteration),
.' But blast the man, with curses loud
and deep.
1 Whate'er the rascal's name or age or
Who first Invented and went around
advising
That artificial cut-off early rising.
Rise with the lark, and with the lark
to bed:
Oh. he's some solemn, sentimental
owl:
Maxims like these are very cheaply
said:
VBut e're you make yourself a fool
or fowl.
Pray just Inquire about his rise and
fall.
And whether larks have any bed at all.
The time for honest folks to be a-bed
Is in the morning. If I reason right.
And he who cannot keep his precious
head
Upon his pillow 'til It's fairly light.
And so enjoy his forty-morning winks
Is up to knavery or else he drinks.
Thompson, who sings about the sea
sons, said '
It was a glorious thing to rise In
season,
But then he said It lying In his bed
At ten o'clock A. M. : the very reason
He wrote so charmingly; the simple
fact is
His preaching was not sanctioned by
his practice.
Tls doubtless wise to he sometimes
awake
Awake to duty and awake to truth;
But when, alas, a nice review we take
Of our best deeds and days, we find,
in sooth.
The hours that leave the slightest
cause to weep
Are those we passed In childhood or
asleep.
Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile
For the soft visions of the gentle
night.
And feel at ease from mortal care or
guile .
To live as only In the angels' sight.
In sleep's sweet realm, so cozily
snut In,
When at the worst we only dream of
sin.
So let us sleep and give the Maker
praise.
' I like the lad who, when his father
thought
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed
phrase
Of vagrant worm by early songs be
caught,
Cried: "Served him Tight; 'twas not at
all surprising;
The .worm was punished, for his early
rising."
Mrs. J. M. Olberman, of Slsson, Cal.,
to whom we are. Indebted for copies of
"The Festal Board" and "The Three
Warnings," has contributed also the
following.
LOSS AXD GAIN.
There are gains for all our losses
And a loss for every gain;
There are crowns for all our crosses
And a joy for every pain.
Songs and laughter, moans and sighing.
Heartaches, bitterness and fears
Fill the days forever flying
Onward with the passing years,
t
Every soul Its share of sorrow
Is by fate destined to bear:
We who laugh today, tomorrow
May be stricken with despair.
There are gains and there are losses.
Days of peace and days of strife.
And a crown for all our crosses
At the journey's end- of life.
Oh. the gladness, oh, the sadness
That combines the mighty whole.
The excessive joy and madness
Of the unfledged human soul
Oh. the losses and the crosses.
Hours of pleasure, years of pain.
As each frail bark onward tosses
O'er life's tempest-ridden main.
Every joy has sorrow in it.
Every laugh is half a sigh.
But let storms rage every minute.
There'll be sunshine by. and by.
By and by there'll be no crosses.
By and by there'll be no pain.
And for all our bitter losses
There will be eternal gain.
THE LOW-SHORE LASS.
By Virginia Woodward Cloud.
Flower of the mint stalk, tassel of the
grass.
Bent and brushed the knees of her
the Low-Shore lass;
Herbs within her homespun, arms full,
too
Rosemary, marjorem, lavender and rue.
All things that keep the earth whole
some, young and sweet
Fell about the shore lass and brushed
her bare feet.
Brake a runner through the reeds at a
fearful pace, 1
Sprang among the fair herbs, fell upon
his face
"Now In mercy cover me! Hark! They
run me down!
Weave, maid, about me green 'Stalks
and brown!
An' they question. Hast thou s.een any
pass the way?
For my life, and in God's name, tell
them nay!"
Dim mist and white sail, grim wall and
brown.
Spires burning sunwise in the gray
sea town.
Beating hoof and ringing spur; scarlet
breaking through.
Sabre gleam and red coat, and pant
ing steed, too.
Knee-high in mint flowers stood a
shore lass.
Down unto the little waves tossed her
orchard grass.
Shaken steed and tight rein, and fierce
faces bent
"Maid, hast thou a runner seen, and
which way he went?
"A prisoner at large we seek; a lord
of France Is he"
"Then fights he with my country
men!" the slim maid, spake she;
"So, had I seen thy lord of France, or
knew I his name,
Thinkest I should tell to thee hither
way he came?
I am but a shore lass. Oh," smiled and
dimpled she
"But whoso fights for my good land, he
fights for me.
I spied, sirs, but a sailor lad" she
gave smile for frown
"Who got him upward with the tide
' and then he got him down."
"The sailor lad! Now, listen, miss!
Whither hath he gone?
Mayhap he spied our prisoner all In the
early dawn!"
She gathered the sweet lavender from
out her homespun gown
"He got him up, sirs, with the tide.
-and then he got him down.
And this is all. About your war what
might a shore lass know?
Tet take these stalks, good sirs, that
from an English bush did grow."
Doffed plume and dewey herbs; passed
the fierce face:
Rang the spur and beat the hoof hard
on their chase;
Gold sun upon the spires, crimson on
the grass.
Knee-high in mint flowers stood the
shore lass;
Red-coat and sword hilt gleaming In
the sun
Faded from her watching eight, one
by one.
Up sprang that sailor lad, upon his
knee he bent
"I- am he, the lord of France prisoned,
hunted, spent!
Thou hast saved me, maiden sweet,
thine my life shall be,
And he who for their country fought,
fights now for thee!"
Fell a kiss upon her hand; wind shook
the grass
Crair as any water-bloom, that Low-
Shore lass);
Fled the runner through the leaves;
naught was there to show
Mint-stalk and lavender tossed to and
fro.
Yellow-belted honey bees In the sun
that pass.
And white arm shading her sweet eyes
a iow-fahore lass.
Mint-stalk and marjoram, lavender and
rue
Whither passed the slim maid that
once plucked you?
Yonder peers her pictured face the
fair dame and tall!
Next a gallant lord of France, In the
old hall, .
Next a gallant lord of France who,
'mid the orchard grass
Won her in a fleeting dawn the Low
Shore lass.
Contributed by Mrs. W. E. Field, of
Eugene.
SOME! DAY I'LL WAXDER BACK
AGAI.V.
Some day I'll wander back again.
To where the old home stands.
Beneath the old tree down the lane.
Afar in other lands:
Its humble cot will shelter me
From every care and pain.
And life be sweet as sweet can be.
When I am home again.
Chorus:
I'll wander back, yes baclj again.
Where childhood's home may be.
For memory in sweet refrain
Still sings its praise to me.
Some day I'll wander back again
To scenes so dear to me.
Where life's sweet infancy's refrain
ISeside a mother's knee;
To live once more the golden hours
Of joyous, merry play.
No thorn, but only sweetest flowers
There on life's merry way.
Some day I'll wander back again
To hearts so kind and true;
Whose gentle faces still remain
In memory's cherished view.
No more my wayward feet shall roam
Life's troubled pathway o'er.
But in the light and love of home
I'll rest me evermore.
Mrs. A. G. Wallace, of this city and
A contributor in Cottage Grove who
ThQsebCfli
(The following is one of the sweetest of the many beautiful lyrics
favorite song for many generations and most of the readers of this page
tune to which they sung it in their schooldays. The copy here used was
Berkeley. California.)
gives no name but we believe It Is
A. B. Wood, who has furnished us with
numerous contributions have sent in
the old favorite, "Money Musk."
MONEY Ml'SIv.
By B. F. Taylor.
In shirt of check and tallowed hair.
The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair.
Like Moses' basket stranded there
On the brink of Father Nile;
He feels the fiddle's slender neck.
Picks out the notes with thumb and
check.
And times the tune with nod and beck.
And thinks it a weary while.
All ready, now he gives the call.
Cries, "Honor to the ladies," All
The jolly tides of laughter fall
And ebb in a happy smile.
"Begin." D-o-w-n comes the bow on
every string,
"First couple join right hands and
swing."
As light as any bluebird's wing
"Swing once and a half times round."
Whirls Mary Martin all in blue
Calico gown and stockings new.
And tinted eyes that tell you true.
Dance. all to the dancing sound.
She flits about big Moses Brown
Who holds her hands to keep her down
And thinks her hair a golden crown.
And his heart turns over once
His cheek with Mary's breath is wet.
It gives a second somerset.
He means to win the maiden yet,
Alas for the awkward dunce.
"Your stoga boot has crushed my toe."
"I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe."
"You clumsy fellow." "Pass below."
And the first pair dance apart.
Then "Forward six." advance, retreat.
Like midgets gay in sunbeam street,
'Tis Money Musk by merry feet.
And the Money Musk by heart.
"Three-quarters round your' partner
swing
"Across the set." The rafters ring.
The girls and boys have taken wing
And have brought their roses out;
'Tis "Forward six" with rustic grace.
Ah, rarer far than "Swing to place."
Than golden clouds of old point lace
Then bring the dance about.
Then clasping hands all "Right and
left."
All swiftly weave the measured deft.
Across the woof in loving weft.
And the "Money Musk" is done.
Oh dancers of the rustling husk,
Goodnight, sweethearts, 'tis growing
dusk.
Goodnight for aye to "Money Musk,
For the heavy march begun.
HIS MOTHER'S SONGS.
Beneath the hot midsummer sun
The men had marched all day.
And now beside a rippling stream
Upon the grass they lay.
Tiring of games and Idle jests
As swept the hours along.
Thy called to one who moved apart.
Come, friend, give us a song.
He answered. "Nay, I cannot please;
The only songs I know
Are those my mother used to sing
For me long years ago."
"Sing one of those." a rough voice cried,
"We are all true men here.
And to each mother's son of us
A mother's songs are dear."
Then sweetly sang the strong, clear
voice.
Amid unwonted calm,
"Am 1 a soldier of the cross,
A follower of the Lamb?"
The trees hushed all their whispering
leaves,
The very stream was stilled.
And hearts that never throbbed with
fear
With tender memories filled.
Ended this song, the singer said.
As to his feet he rose,
"Thanks to you all, good night, my
friends,
God grant us sweet repose."
Out spoke the Captain, "Sing one
more";
The soldier bent his head.
Then smiling, as he glanced around,
"Y'ou'll join with me," he said.
"In singing this familiar air.
Sweet as a bugle call.
'AH hail the power of Jesus' name.
Let angels prostrate fall.' " .
Wondrous the spell the old tune
wrought
As on and on he sang,
Man after man fell into line
And loud their voices rang.
The night winds bore the grand refrain
Above the tree tops tall.
The everlasting hills called back
In answer, "Lord, of all."
The songs are done, the camp is still.
Naught but the stream is heard.
But oh! the depths of every soul
By those old hymns was stirred.
And up from many a bearded lip
Rises in murmurs low
The prayer the mother taught the boy
At home long years ago.
Author unknown. Mrs. N. E. Farns-
worth, contributor.
From Knappa, Or, John Zelruc sends
"The Gila Monster Route," a fine ex
ample of hobo balladry. One might
classify it along with the immortal
"Casey Jones."
"It is a yarn," says the contributor.
"that has often been spun by the brake-
beam tourlsu aa they sit by lonely
Those evening: bells, those evening bells.
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours have passed away,
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be, when I am gone.
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
And other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
campfires and watertanks, waiting for
freights."
THE GILA MONSTER ROUTE.
(Author unknown.) .
The lingering sunset across the plains.
Kissed the rear end of an east-bound
train
And shone on a passing track close by
Where a hobo sat on a rotten tie.
He'd been ditched by a shack and a
cruel fate:
The con high-balled, and the manifest
freight
Pulled out on the steel behind the mail
And hit the ball on a sanded rail.
Then the moon arose and the stars
came out:
He was ditched on the "Gila monster
route."
Nothing in sight but land and space.
No chance for a gink to feed his face.
Not a shack in sight to beg for a lump.
Or a henhouse to frisk for a single
gump.
And as he gazed on the solitude
He lowered his head and began to
brood. .
He thought, of the time that he'd lost
his mate
In a hostile berg on the "Nickel Plate."
They had mooched the stem and threw
their feet
And speared four bits on which to eat.
Now they knew of a joint not far away
So they hurried there and, its safe to
say.
They deprived themselves of their
daily bread
And sluffed their coin for "dago red."
Down by the track In the jungle glade.
In the cool green grass of the tule
shade, -e
They shed their coats and ditched their
shoes.
And tanked up full of that colored
booze.
Then they took a flot with their skins
plumb full
And they didn't hear the "harness bull"
Till he woke them out of their pleasant
nap.
With a husky voice and a loaded ap.
They were charged with Tag, but they
had no Kale,
So the judge said. "Ninety days In Jail."
l.ut he d had a bundle, a worker's plea.
So they gave him a floater and set him
free.
Now they'd turned him loose and
ditched his mate.
So he grabbed the guts of a passing
freight;
He kept his form on a rusty rod
Till he heard a shack cry, "Hit the sod."
Then John piled off; he waa In the
ditch
With two switch lamps and a rusty
switch :
A poor old seedy, half-starved bo
On a hostile pike without a show.
Just now In west, through the moon
light night.
He saw the gleam of a big headlight;
Twas east-bound stock that hummed
the rail:
She was due at the switch to clear the
mail.
As it drew up close the head-end shack
Threw the switch to the passing track;
The stock rolled in and off the main
And the track was clear for the east
bound train.
When it hove in sight way down the
track.
It was pumping steam with its brake
shoes slack;
It whistled once at the whistle post.
Then flittered by like a frightened
ghost
He could hear the roar of the big six
wheel As the drivers pounded ths polished
steel ;
He could hear the scream of her flange
on the rail
As she beat it east o'er the desert trail.
Then John got busy and took the risk;
He climbed aboard and becan tn frcv
He reached up high and began to feer
hot tne end door pin; then he cracked
the seal.
'Twas a double-decked, stock, loaded
with sheep.
And John crawls in and prepares to
sleep;
The engine whistled once, th- high
balled out:
John was off again on the "Gila mon
ster route.
THE LIGHT OF HOME.
The light of home is a wondrous light.
So tender is it shining.
So clear it follows through the night.
Our weary road outlining.
Though lonely and for years we roam.
Far from the ones who love us.
Yet ever shines the light of home.
Like God's grace spread above us.
The light of home is a wondrous light.
Through life It follows seeming.
And when, with age, the hair is white.
Clear in th front 1t rlMtnino.
It shines from where our loved ones are?"
U. this is love s divining.
And through the gates of heaven ajar
At last we see it shining.
Author unknown; contributed by Mrs.
J. M. Olberman.
It Is away past Christmas, but we re
print here a poem requested a short
time ago by some of our readers.
Florence Cady. or FaUbridse, Wash
of Thomas Moore. It has been a
will no doubt remember the sweet
supplied by Alice B. RusselL of
ington, and a Cottage Grove contrib
utor have furnished the copies.
HAJiO UP THE BABY'S STOCKING.
Hang up the baby's stocking, be sure
you don't forget,
The dear little dimpled darlin" she's
never seen Christmas yet;
But I've told her all about it. and she
opened her big blue eyes.
And I'm sure she understood me, for
she looked so funny and wise.
Dear, dear, what a tiny stocking. It
doesn't take much to hold.
Such little pink toes as the baby's,
away from the frost and cold:
But then for the baby's Christmas,
why, it never would do at all;
For Santa Claus never'd be looking,
for anything half so small.
I know what we'll do, dear Mother,
I've thought of the very best
plan.
I'll borrow a stocking from Grandma,
the longest that ever I can;
Now hang it by mine, dear Mother,
right here in the corner, so
And write a letter to Santa, and fasten
it on to the toe.
Write "This Is the baby's stocking:
that hangs in the corner here.
You never have seen her, Santa, for
she only came this year;
But she's just the blessedest baby, so
now before you go.
Just cram her stocking with goodies,
from the top clear down to the
toe."
Learned by heart from the "Little
Corporal Magazine," of the early "70s.
I think the writer was Mrs. Emily H.
Miller. Contributor.
DRAFTED.
1 By Mrs. H. L. Bostwick.
My son! What! Drafted? My Harry!
Why. man, 'tis a boy at his books;
No taller, I m sure, than your Annie
As delicate, too. in his looks.
Why, it seems but a day since he
helped me.
Girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks;
He drafted! Great God, can it be that
Our President knows what he asks?
He never could wrestle, this boy,
though .
In spirit as brave as the best;
Narrow-chested, a little, you notice.
like
Him who has long been at rest.
Too slender for overmuch study why
His master has made him today
Go out with his ball on the common
And you've drafted a child at his
Play.
"Not a patriot?" Fie, did I whimper
when
Robert stood up with his gun.
And the hero-blood chafed In his fore
head.
The evening we heard of Bull Run?
Pointing his finger at Harry,
But turning his eyes to the wall.
"There's a staff growing up for your
age. mother.
Said Robert, "if I am to fall."
"Eighteen?" Oh, I know! And yet
narrowly.
Just a wee babe on the day
When his father got up from a sick
bed and
Cast his last ballot for Clay;
Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he,
A new morsel of fame
We'll lay on the candidate's altar.
And christened the child with his
name.
Oh. what have I done a weak woman;
In what have I meddled with harm?
Troubling only my God for the sun
shine. And rain on my rough little farm.
That my ploughshares are beaten to
swords
And whetted before my eyes.
That my tears must cleanse a foul na
tion. My lamb be a sacrifice?
i
Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save,
man.
And 'tis true there's no appeal;
But did God see my boy's name, lying
The uppermost one in the wheel?
Five stalwart sons has my neighbor.
And never the lot upon one:
Are these things Fortune's caprices,
Or is it God's will that is done?
Are the others too precious for resting
Where Robert Is taking his rest.
With the pictured face of young Annie
Lying over the rent in his breast?
Too tender for parting with sweet
hearts? Too fair to be crippled or scarred?
My boy, thank God for these tears,
I am growing so bitter and hard!
Now read me a page In the Book,
Harry,
That goes in your knapsack tonight.
Of the eye that sees when the sparrow
Grows weary and falters in flight:
Talk of something that's nobler than
living.
Of a love that is higher than mine.
And faith which has planted its banner
Where the heavenly campfires shine.
Talk of something that watches us
softly.
As the shadows glide down In the
yard.
That shall go with my soldier to battle
- And stand with my picket on guard.
Spirits of loving and lost ones.
Watch softly with Harry tonight,'
For tomorrow he goes forth to battle
To arm him for freedom and right.
Sent by Mrs. W. B. Braden.
THE LOVERS QUARREL.
(This is the song with which Ray
mo a Moore, the Xamuus tenor ..with
fe&y gpT
Thatcher's minstrels, scored such a
success. Mrs. A. F. Krutslnger.)
I.
Mary and John lived In a distant old
village.
Fell deep in love and were engaged
to be wed.
When one fine day up went the nose
of sweet Mary
At what her John of some other girl
had said.
John only smiled, he was much given
to teasing.
And some old song softly he started
to sing.
Mary with rage every moment grew
warmer.
And at his feet she threw their en
gagement ring.
CHORUS.
I won't be your wife, said Mary.
Thank goodness for that, said John.
I hate such a brute, said Mary; -But
other girls don't, said John.
I'm going back to the dairy;
.Perhaps it s as well, said he.
But I hope you will come to the
wedding
Of Mollie Malone and me.
IL
Mary turned round and Just went a
step or two from him.
Then at her John one farewell sly
glance she gave.
Thinking, perhaps, he waa already re
penting:
But all he said was why don't you
go away?
Out came his pipe: soon clouds of
smoke he was puffing
Into the air. stretched out full length
on the green.
Mary stood by, somehow her heart was
nigh breaking.
Had John become tired of his village
queen?
CHORUS.
Am I to go? said Mary.
I don't care a rap, said John.
To spite you, I won't, .said Mary.
Well, maybe you won't, said John.
Why are you so contrary?
I'll drown myself, sir, said she.
If you do. on your way, dear Mary.
Send Mollie Malone to me.
III. '
Tears filled her eyes, as with her
apron she covered
Her pretty face, heaving a heart
rending sigh.
All now seemed o'er; what was the use
of her waiting.
Turning to John, she then, gently
said, good-bye.
Up like a shot jumped the young fel
low all smiling.
Touched to the heart by such a ten
der farewell.
Kissed all the tears from the sweet
face of his Mary,
Told her the tales fond lovers always
tell.
CHORUS.
Then Johnnie he hup-ged his Mary,
And Mary she hugged her John.
He vowed that a fairer fairy
He never had gazed upon.
And with sweet Miry iaughlnr.
Her head resting on his breast.
So with that, I conclude the story;
No doubt you can guess the rest.
William T. Stoll. of Marshfield. sends
the following entertaining bit:
THE BALLAD OK THE BOLD BO-
HEMIA.V AND, THE PHILISTINE
MAID.
She was a Philistine, spick and span;
He was a bold Bohemian.
She was flippant, fresh and fair;
He was witty and debonair.
At fetes and assembles she would
shine;
He cultivated the muses nine.
She reveled in Crockett. Corelli. Caine;
He quoted Husymans and Paul Ver
lane. She loved artifice. He loved art.
They were as far as the poles apart.
Yet Cupid with Puck is hand In
glove
They met at a crush; they fell In
love.
He hurried home to his attic den.
Do you think he seized his decadent
pen
To dash off sonnets, ballades, ron
deaux. On the charms of his lady love? Ah
no!
He seized with the scissors his flow
ing locks.
His beard and whiskers came off in
blocks.
He gazed at himself with gold-capped
smile;
He polished his long-discarded tile.
He tenderly brushed his best frock
coat;
Wound a three-inch collar around
his throat.
He blandly remarked when he got
through:
"I look like a brother to Kyrle
Bel lew."
He tore from his bosom the muses nine
And shrined there his dainty Philis
tine. And she went she back to pink teas
and such.
Daffodil luncheons, bridge parties?
Not much!
She returned to her home in the Indigo
blues:
She arrayed in the most exotic hues;
She wore a bandeau upon her hair;
She cultivated a delphlc stare.
She i used strange perfumes, and used
to sink
In a faint at the sight of some
shades of pink.
She loathed all the crude, crass world
outside; 1
She developed a Sarah Bernhardt
glide.
She cheerfully suffered Society's ban
For the sake of her dear Bohemian.
They met again, and a month had
passed. .
Their hearts beat madly: "At last!
At last!"
She gazed a moment: "Can this be he?"
He stared a moment: "Can this be
she?"
"This mould of fashion a la John
Drew?"
"This Burns-Jones maiden In pea
cock blue?"
They certainly suffered a mutual
shock.
In accents faint, they began to talk.
She talked of nuance, and minor keys.
And Ibsen'B meaning, and things like
these.
He chattered of football and ragtime
shows.
And automobiles, and George Ade's
prose.
In the realms of the abstract she vainly
soared.
He froze to the concretethey both
were bored.
The spell was broken; so was each
heart.
They knew It was up to them to
was a Philistine, spick and span;
She. a bizarre Bohemian.
And ere a year, I am grieved to state.
Each met their matrimonial fate.
He paired with a widow the worse for
wear;
She hitched to a brand-new million
aire. And what Is the moral of all this rot?
Never try to be what you know you're
not
Be true to yourself, e'en tn love's
despite.
And love in the end will treat you
white.
Attention was called by a reader re
cently to the fact that the version of
"The Days of Forty Nine," which was
published recently, was not correct, as
he read It. Contributions that have -come
in to us. indicate that there are
almost as many versions of the song,
as there are indivduala.
We reprint herewith a copy sent by
A. O. Reppeto, of Banks, when was
copied from a manuscript belonging V9
an old Argonaut in Placerville. Cal,
years ago.
THE DAYS OF FORTY-NINE.
You are gazing now at old Tom Moor
a relic of bygone days:
A bummer now they call me sure, but
I'm not fond of praise;
My heart is light, I make It so. yet
oft I do repine
For the days of old. the days of gold,
the days of forty-nine.
I then bad friends that loved me well
a Jovial, hearty crew;
There were some hard cases. I must
confess, yet they were brave and
true; l
They stood the pinch; they'd never
flinch; they'd never fret nor
whine:
Like good old bricks, they stood the
kicks, in the days of forty-nine.
There was New York Jake. the
"butcher boy." so fond of getting
tight:
And whenever Jake got on a spree, he
was spoiling for a fight;
One night Jake ran against a knife in
the hands of old Bob Cline.
And over Jake we held a wake In the
days of forty-nine.
There was Monte Pete I remember
well the luck he always had:
He'd deal for you. both night and day,
as long as you had a red.
One day a bullet laid Pete out; 'twas
his layout. In fine;
For It caught Pete sure, dead In the
door, in the days of forty-nine.
There was Buffalo Bill, who could out
roar a buffalo bull, you bet;
He'd roar all day and he'd roar all
night, and I guess he's roaring
yet.
One night Bill fell In a prospect hole;
'twas a roaring bad design.
For In that hole Bill roared up his soul.
In the days of forty-nine.
There was Poker Rob: I knew him well
so fond of a little game;
And If he lost, or if he won, to Bob
'twas all the same;
He'd rush th' buck and ante a slug,
and go a hatful blind.
But in a game with death. Bob lost his
breath. In the days of forty-nine.
There was old lame Jess, a hard old
case: he never would repent.
He never was known to miss a meal, or
ever to pay a cent.
But poor old Jess, like all the rest, to
death he did resign.
And in his bloom went up the flume in
the days of forty-nine.
Of all the friends that I had then.
there's none now left to toast.
They've left me here to wander alone,
like some poor wandering ghost:
As I go from place to place, they call
me a wandering sign.
Saying: "There's old Moore, a bummer
for sure, of the days of forty
nine." LONGFELLOW ON THE DEATH O?
HIS WIFE.
Alone I walk the peopled city.
Where each one seems happy witb,
his own;
O friends, I aBk not for your pity .
I walk, alone.
No more for me yon lake rejoices,
Though moved by loving airs of June.
O birds! your 6weet and piping voices
Are out of tune.
In vain for me the elm tree arches
Its plumes in many a feathery sprayi
In vain the evening starry marches
And sunlit day.
In vain your beauty. Summer flowers.
Ye cannot greet these cordial eyes;
They gaze on other fields than ours
On other skies.
The gold Is riffled from the coffer.
The blade is stolen from the sheath;
Life has but one more boon to offer.
And that is death.
Yet well I know the voice of duty.
And, therefore, life and health must
crave.
Though she who gave the world its
beauty
Is In her grave.
I live, O lost one; for the living
Who drew their earthly life from
thee.
And wait until with glad thankaglvlnC
I shall be free.
For life to me is as a station
Wherein apart a traveler stands
One absent long from home and nation,
In other lands.
And I. as he who stands and listens.
Amid the twilight's chill and gloom.
To hear, approaching in the distance,
A train from home.
For death shall bring another mating
Beyond the shadows of the tomb;
On yonder shore a bride is waiting
Until I conic.
In yonder fields are children playing
And there O vision of delight!
I see the child and mother straying
In robes of white.
Thou, then, the longing heart that
breakest.
Stealing the treasures one by one.
I'll call thee blessed when thou makest
The parted one.
Contributed by Mrs. N. E. Farns-wortii.
Mrs. . M. T. O'Conhell. of WInlock.
Wash, sends "The Land o' the Leai."
THE LAND O' THE LEAL.
One of the most tender strains ever
sun In Scotland Is Lady Nairne's
"Land of the Leal." The author was a
lovely Scotch woman who married
William Murray Nairne, a military
man of good position. She loved musio
and poetry, and did much to sweeten
and purify the minstrelsy of Scotland.
She was most anxious to preserve her
anonymity, and today - she is known
and loved for only this one sweet
strain. These verses were written to
console a friend of hers, a lady who
lost her only and dearly loved child;
"I'm wearin" awa. John,
Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John.
I'm wearin away'
To the land o" the leal.
There's nae sorrow there. John.
There's neither cauld nor care, John.
The daye Is aye fair
In the land o' the leal.
"Our bonnle bairn's there, John.
She was baith gude and fair, John,
And oh! we grudge her sair
To the land o' the leal.
But sorrow's set wears past, John,
And Joy's a-comlng fast, John.
The Joye that's aye to last
In the land o' the leal.
"Sae dear that Joy was bought. John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu' man e'er brought
To the land o' the leal.
Oh, dry your glistening ee, John.
My soul langs to be free. John,
And angels beckon me
To the land o' the leal.
"Oh, haud ye leal and true. John,
Your day is wearing through, John,
And I'll welcome you
To the land o" the leal.
Now fare thee weel. my aln, John,
The world's cares are vain, John,
We'll meet, and we'll fain
In tUj land o' the lcai,'!
t
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