The Sunday Oregonian., July 29, 1917, SECTION FIVE, Page 8, Image 64

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THE SUNDAY OREGOXIAX, PORTLAND, JULY 29, 1917.
REQUESTS FOR FAVORITES FAIRLY SWAMP POETRY EDITOR
No More Appeals to Be Published Until Some Are Filled by Readers.
J
THE recent request for "The Vacant
Chair" and "Just Before tHe Bat
tle, Mother," still continue to bring
copies of those two poems, although
they were both printed a week ago.
We are indebted for a copy of each
to Mrs. F. Krutsinger and also to "Mrs.
C. C. R.," of lone, and Mrs. J. E. San
ford, of Portland.
For the enlightenment of our readers
who may have overlooked our previous
announcements, we call attention once
more to the fact that we will be
obliged to receive no more requests
for publication of poems, until we
have printed on this page the requests
1 hat have accumulated nd which we
have not had space to place before our
readers heretofore. Contributors will
greatly facilitate the opening of the
page to the receipt of new requests
by helping us handle these old re
quests that have "banked up" on us,
as rapidly as possible.
A request that has been on file since
iMarch is from Mrs. Phillip Pollard,
of Oswego, for the poem which be
gins: "Now mates. I don't like stories, nor
am I going to act
A part around this campflre that Isn't
a truthful fact.
Bo fill your pipes and listen! I'll tell
you, let me see.
I think it was in fifty from that till
sixty-three,
f course you all know Bridger, I
used to run -with Jim,
iAnd many a long day's scouting I've
had. 'longside of him."
E. A. Glover, of this city asks for
the verses beginning:
"There's an old log house on my
father's farm
All silent and lonely and still:
Uo sound of mirth is ever heard now.
In that old log house on the hill."
A request comes also for ''No Occupa
tion," once printed in the Union
Signal.
Mrs. L. E. Hiatt. of Vancouver, some
time ago requested the one beginning:
"O'er the hills the sun is setting and
end another day is gone ."
Mrs. J. D. Loten. of Grass Valley,
wants "While the Dance Goes On," in
which these lines appear: "While the
music is ringing, in the grand ball
room." Mrs. H. Hoffman sent in a request
for "My Poor Heart Is Sad With Its
Dreaming."
"Where Is Heaven?" is requested by
Henrietta Huber. of Portland. It is
by Felix Marti and begins: "Poor lit
tle children weeping, shivering forms
and naked feet, etc."
"Only a Pansy Blossom" is re
quested by Mrs. Addle W. Gano.
Cora Shepherd sent in a request from
Burns, Or., for "Nuggets of Gold" and
"Waiting for the Footsteps That
Never Came."
Louise Reis, of Salem, sent In a re
quest months ago for songs her mother
used to sing, fragments of which are
as follows:
"I cannot worship idols nor pictures
made by man:
Dear mother, use your pleasure, but
pardon if you can."
Also:
"And the moon as she sails to her
home in the West,
Looks coldly and proud on the tomb
of my love ."
Also:
Willie, Willie was a gay young fellow,
Full of fun and full of joy;
But just as he was about to get mar
ried. Pressed he was and sent to the
wars ."
Also:
"I had rather hear you fiddle on the
touch of one string.
Than to see the white waters break,
or her the nightingale sing."
The request for "The Naughty Briar
IRose" has brought a response from
Ruth Luce in a complete copy of the
poem desired and we reprint it here
with: BRIAR-ROSE.
By Hjalmar Hjorth Boysen.
5aid Briar-Rose's mother to the
naughty Briar-Rose:
"What will become of you, my child,
the Lord Almighty knows.
Tou will not scrub the kettles, and you
will not touch the broom;
Tou never sit a minute still at spinning-wheel
or loom."
Thus grumbled In the morning, and
grumbled late at eve.
The good-wife as she bustled with pot
and tray and sieve.
But Briar-Rose she laughed and she
cocked her dainty head,
Why, I shall marry, mother, dear,"
full merrily she said:
Tou marry, saucy Briar-Rose! The
man he is not found
To marry such a worthless wench.
these seven leagues around."
But Briar-Rose she laughed and she
trilled a merry lay;
Perhaps he'll come, my mother, dear,
from eight leagues away."
The good-wife with a "humph" and a
sigh forsook the battle
And flung her pots and pails about
with much vindictive rattle.
"O Lord, what sin did I commit in
youthful days and mild
That thou heist punished me in age
with such a wayward child?"
Up stole the girl on tiptoe, so that none
her. steps could hear.
And lajfhing pressed an airy kiss
V ...r.d the good-wife's ear.
And she, as 'ere relenting, sighed:
"Oh Heaven only knows
What ever will become of you, my
naughty Briar-Rose!"
The sun was high and Summer sounds
were teeming in the air.
The clank of scythes and crickets whirr,
and swelling wood-notes rare.
From field and copse and meadow,
and through the open door.
Sweet fragrant whiffs of new-mown
hay the idle breezes bore.
Then Briar-Rose grew pensive, like a
bird of thoughtful mien.
Whose little life has problems among
the branches green.
She heard the river brawling where
the tide was swift and strong;
She heard the Summer singing its
strange alluring song.
And out she skipped the meadows o'er
and gazed into the sky;
Her heart o'erbrimmed with gladness,
she scarce herself knew why;
And to a merry tune she hummed
"Oh Heaven only knows
Whatever will become of the naughty
Briar-Rose!
When'er a thrifty matron this idle maid
espied.
She shook her head in warning, and
scarce her wrath could hide:
For girls were made for housewives,
for spinning-wheel and loom.
And not to drink the sunshine and
wild flowers' sweet perfume.
And oft the maidens cried, when Briar
Rose went by,
"Tou cannot knit a stocking, and you
rannot make a pie.
But Briar-Rose, as was her wont.
she cocked her curiy head:
"But I can sing a merry song," full
merrily she said.
And oft the young lads shouted when
they taw the maid at play:
"Ho, good-for-nothing Briar-Rose, how
do you do today?"
Then she shook her tiny fist; to her
cheeks the color flew:
"How ever much you coax me, I'll
never dance with you."
Thus flew the years light winged o'er
Briar-Rose's head
Till she was twenty Summers old and
yet remained unwed.
And all the parish wondered: "The
Lord Almighty knows
Whatever will become of that naughty
Briar-Rose!"
And while thev wondered came the
nir a-danrintr o'er the hills.
Her breath was warmer than of yore,
and all the mountain rills. ,
With their tinkling and their rip
pling and their rusning. filled
the air.
And the misty sound of water forth
welling everywhere.
And in the valley's depth, like a lusty
beast of prey.
The river leaped and roared aloud and
tossed its mane of spray.
Then hushed again its voice to a
softly plashing croon.
And dark it rolled beneath the sun
and white beneath the moon.
It was a merry sight to see the lumber
as It whirled
Adown the tawny eddies that hissed
and seethed and swirled.
Now shooting through the rapids and,
with a reeling swing.
Into the foam-crests diving like an
animated thing.
But in the narrows of the rocks, where
o'er a steep incline
The waters plunged and wreathed in
form the dark boughs of the pine.
The lads kept watch with shout and
song, and sent each struggling
beam
A-spinning .down the rapids, lest It
should lock the stream.
And yet rr.ethinks I hear it now wild
voices in the night,
A rush of fee;, a dog's harsh bark, a
torch's flaring light.
And wandering gusts of dampness, and
round us far and nigh,
A throbbing boom of water, like a pulse
beat in the sky.
The dawn just pierced the pallid East
with spears of gold and red,
Ab we with boathooks in our hands, to
ward the narrows sped.
And terror smote us: for we heard the
mighty treetops sway
And thunder as of chariots, and hissing
showers of spray.
"Now, lads!" the Sheriff shouted, "you
are strong, like Norway's rock.
A hundred crowns I give to him who
breaks the lumberlock!
For If another hour go by, the angry
waters' spoil
Our homes will be, and fields, and our
weary years of toil."
We looked each at the other; each
hoped his neighbor would
Brave death and danger for his home,
as valiant Norsemen should.
But at our feet the brawling tide ex
panded like a lake.
And whirling 'jeams came shooting on,
and made the firm rock quake.
"Two hundred crowns," the Sheriff
cried, and breathless stood the
cro .vd,
"Two hundred crowns, my bonnie lads,"
in anxious tones and loud.
But not a man came forward, and no
one spoke or stirred.
And nothing save the thunder of the
cataract was heard.
But as with trembling hands and with
fainting hearts we stood.
We spied a little curly head emerging
from the wood.
We heard a little snatch of a merry lit
tle song,
And saw the dainty Briar Rose come
dancing through the throng.
An angry murmur rose from the people
round about,
"Fling her into the river!" we heard
the matrons shout.
"Chase her away, the silly thing; for
God himself scarce knows
Why ever He created that worthless
Briar Rose."
Sweet Briar Rose, she heard their
cries; a little pensive smile
Across her fair face flittel that might
a stone beguile;
And then she gave her pretty head a
roguish little cock.
"Hand me a bcathook, lads!" she cried,
"I think I'll break the lock!!"
Derisive shouts of laughter broke from
throats of young and old;
"Ho! Good-for-nothing Briar Rose, your
tongue was ever bold!"
And, mockingly, a boathook into her
hands was flung.
When, lo! Into the river's midst with
daring leaps she sprung!
We saw her dimly throu-h a mist of
dense and blinding spray;
From beam to beam she skipped, like a
water sprite at play.
And now and then faint gleams were
caught of color thr'ugh the mist;
A crimson waist, a golden head, a little
dainty wrist.
In terror pressed the people to the
margin of the hill,
A hundred breaths were bated, a hun
dred hearts stood still.
For, hark! From out the rapids came
a strange and creaking sound.
And then a rash of thunder which shook
the very ground.
The waters hurled the lumber mass
down o'er the rocky steep.
We heard a muffled rumbling ana a
rolling in the deep:
We saw a tiny form which the torrent
swiftly bore.
And flung into the wild abyss, where it
was seen no more.
Ah! Naughty little Briar Rose,, thou
couldst not weave nor spin:
Yet thou couldst do a nobler deed than
all thy mocking kin;
For thou hadst courage e'en to die
and by thy death to save
A thousand farms and lives from the
fury of the wave.
And yet the adage lives in the valley
of thy birth.
When wayward children spend . tneir
days in heedless play and mirth
And mothers say, half smiling, half
siarhing, "Heaven ,-nows
Whatever will become of the naughty
Briar Rose."
JIT BONNIE.
My Bonnie lies over the ocean.
My Bonnie lies over the sea;
My Bonnie lies over the ocean.
Oh, bring back my Bonnie to
me
Chorus
Bring back, bring back, bring back my
Bonnie to me. to me:
Bring back, bring bark Oh! bring
back my Bonnie to me.
i
Oh, blow, ye winds, over the ocean,
And blow, ye winds, over the sea:
Oh. blow, ye winds, over the ocean
And bring back my Bonnie to me.
The winds have blown over the ocean
The winds have blown over the sea
The winds have blown over the ocean.
And brought back my Bonnie to me.
Alice B. Russell, contributor.
BEAUTIFUL BELC5 i
I
(Those who sang this song, with its pretty waltz melody, in the schools a generation ago, will wel
come it as an old friend. The copy used here was contributed by Alice B. Russell. The poem is by
W. F. Wellman.)
Bring
IN THE HALL.
By Marguerite Moiren.
Let us sit still on the stairs a while:
Surely our absence they cannot feel.
Who in the parlors laugh and romp.
Quite as a part of Virginia Reel.
Laughing and romping are well enough.
We did it. too, a month ago.
Little dreaming in our light hearts.
Laughter ever would hurt us so.
But It jars, tonight, as we two sit here.
Quiet at last, in the grateful dusk.
While the dancers trip lightly up and
down,
To the tuneful cadence of "Money
Musk."
We have not known what it was to
sigh.
We have laughed and jested our
romance through.
Forgive me tonight, if I dare to be sad.
Here, alone with the dark and you.
Tour arms are 'round me for the last
time.
I make to It but a faint demur.
Tour future wife can scarcely miss
The three little months I stole from
her.
So short, so sweet, our love-dream was.
So dead it lies with its grave
clothes "Tm,
And you gaze in its face and say,
"Ah , me.
It was wondrous fair to look upon."
And I whisper. "I shall try to think.
When I journey toward the setting
sun.
I go from sorrow going from you
That this sad stage of my life is
done."
We will outlive this heavy time.
And rest will come to our hearts
one day;
Soon for you for a man to forget,
is a woefully easy thing, they say.
But oh. to think, when the sun foes
down
To shine the sooner on yours and
you.
That the long miles are the smallest
part.
Of the distance laid between we two.
I shall not fail, with my woman's pride.
J.O De brave and bright the hard day
through.
But when I kneel in the dark alone.
How my heart will cry, dear love,
for you.
I ask but this: When that day shall
come
As I know, at last, it surely will
That another's head lies on your breast.
ioa tmnk on our night of parting,
still.
God bless her; the girl whom you shall
choose
To be Queen Rose of the world for
you.
I was a poor wild flower, at best;
But, darling, remember your daisy,
too.
From an old Peterson's Magazine.
FOURTH OF JULY.
BY U. C. MIDRIFF.
Ring, ye glad bells, from the steeple
ana towers:
Speak, ye loud cannon, -with thunder
ous voice'
Spread the glad news through, this
oroaa iana or ours.
Bid every heart on this day rejoice!
Known far and wide is its wonderful
story
In every land on the face of the
earth :
For 'tis the day of America's glory
ine priae or our Nation the day of
its birth!
Turn back today through our history's
pages.
Search through this record of days
fair and hrie-bt-
Many are there which in all coming
ages
Ever will shine with a radiant light.
But. midst this legion of days brightly
oeami ng
One makes all others to pale 'neath
its ctjl-v
As the fair stars, with their silver light
gleaming.
Fade in the light of the monarch of
day.
Long years ago. "midst the turmoil of
battle.
The greatest of Liberty's children
was bom;
Its lullaby song was the drum's start
ling rattle
And thunder of cannon at evening
and morn.
Reared In the school of privation and
rigor.
Brave, strong and noble our country
has grown;
Ever renowned for its progress and
vigor
Grandest of nations the world has
e'er known!
Lift up your voices in praise and ora
tions. Fling out the banner of freedom on
high;
The birthday Is here of the greatest of
nations:
Shout and rejoice, 'tis the Fourth of
July.
Contributed by Clara McKee. Junc
tion City. Or.
We are Indebted to Mrs. Nancy A.
Ball, of Oswego, and Gertrude E. Baker.
of Portland, for copies of "Just After
the Battle." the companion piece to
"Just Before the Battle, Mother." which
was published recently. We are cor
rected by Mrs. Ball, who Indicates that
the poem has been printed already on
this page, but, owing to its peculiar
timeliness, and to the numerous re
quests that are being received, we ar
Beautiful bells! O, beautiful bells!
Ringing so sweetly again and again;
Welcomes of joy, and weary farewells,
Chiming in sunlight and rain.
Long, long ago, so dear unto me,
O, happy and pure was the message you
Loud o'er the vale and soft o'er the sea
O, could 1 but hear you once more!
Beautiful bells, or merry or sad,
Telling your message of goodness to all ;
Whisper of moments hopeful and glad,
Vanished beyond our recall.
Voice of the morn and voice of the night,
Waken, O waken the mem'ries of old!
to my heart your dreams of delight,
Visions of beauty untold.
Chorus
Beautiful bells! O, beautiful bells!
Ringing so sweetly again and again;
Welcomes of joy, and weary farewells,
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful bells.
making an exception to our rule and
reprinting it agaiu lor the benefit of
our readers.
JTUST AFTER THE BATTLE.
Still upon the field of battle
I am lying, mother dear.
With my wounded comrades, waiting
For the morning to appear.
Many sleep, to awaken never
In this world of strife and death.
And many more are faintly calling
With their feeble, dying breath.
Chorus:
Mother, dear, your boy Is wounded.
And the night Is drear with pain.
But still I feel that I shall see you
And the dear, loved home again.
Oh, the first great charge was fearful,
And a thousand brave men fell.
But there amid that dreadful carnage,
1 was safe from shot and shell.
So amid the fatal shower,
I had almost passed the day.
When here the deadly minnie struck me
And I fell amid the fray.
Chorus.
Oh. the glorious cheer of triumph.
When the foemen turned and fled.
Leaving us the field of conflict.
Strewn with dying and with dead.
Oh, the torture and the anguish.
That I could not follow on,
But here, among my fallen comrades
I must wait till morning's dawn.
Chorus:
Mother, dear, your boy is wounded.
And the night is drear with pain.
But still I feel that I shall see you
And the dear, loved home again.
LONG AGO.
BY FRANK MUSGRAVE.
"Long, long ago, long, long ago,"
Do not these words recall past years.
And scarcely knowing why they flow,
Bring to the eyes unbidden tears;
Do you not feel, as back they come.
Those dim, sweet dreams of olden
days,
A yearning to your childhood's home.
Peopled with tones of love and
praise ?
Chorus:
Long, long ago; long, long ago.
In the young soul's early flow
We sang the songs of home and love,
Round the fireside's laughing glow.
Long, long ago, when many a sound
Awoke to mirth that saddens now.
And many a sparkling eye went 'round,
That weeps beneath a darkened
brow;
When with our whole young, happy
hearts.
We loved and laughed away the time.
Nor thought how quickly all departs,
So cherished in life's early prime.
"Long, long ago," the hopes we
nursed
In solitude of earthly fame.
Were bright as bubbles are that burst,
A glittering drop, an empty name;
Oh, but to be one hour again.
.Whatever that sweet hour might
cost!
Free from memory's torturing pain.
With those we loved with those we
lost.
"Long, long ago.
who breathes there
here
O'er whom the past
hath no such
power?
Young heart, if now thy sky is clear,
Beware, beware the future hour:
Perchance the tones that echo now.
In after years thou'lt hear again;
And, gazing on each faded brow.
Wilt, sighing, say, "I heard that strain
Sent in by Alice B. Russell.
SUGGESTIONS TO CONTRIBU
TORS TO THE POETRY PAGE.
We have an accumulation of
requests and cannot make pub
lic new requests received until
we have disposed of those al
ready on file.
Except in cases where there is
exceptional timeliness, it is not
possible to reprint poems which
have appeared on this page al
ready within a period of a few
months.
Copies that are sent in illegi
bly written, written on both sides
of the pages or written without
regard to the correct poetic
form, or poems which are ob
viously incorrect cafinot be han
dled on this page.
Neither can we continue to re
print songs that have been popu
lar in recent years, owing to the
vast number of genuinely old
poems that must be handled.
Unless request for the return
of clippings or manuscripts, with
an inclosure of postage or
stamped and addressed envelopes.
is made, contributions will not
be returned after they are used.
Precedence in reprinting is
given to copies of poems sent in
in response to requests printed
on this page.
In sending in manuscript, write
on one side only of the paper,
leave a fair space at the begin
ning of the first page and the
end of the last and Indicate at the
end the name of the contributor
to whom it is to be credited.
We reserve the right to reject
without comment contributions
which are inappropriate or of lit
tle value either from a sentimen
tal, historical or poetical stand
point. Note on the outside of the en
velope, "Old Poem Department."
bore,
SWEET FORGET-ME-NOT.
Fancy brings a thought to me, of flow
ers fresh and rare.
Love and beauty there combined, with
the brightest hue so fair.
'Twas like a maiden that I loved, it was
my happy lot.
As we parted. Oh. she whispered, "You'll
forget me not."
Chorus
She's graceful and as charming as the
lilies in the pond.
Time does pass so sweetly on, of her I
am so fond.
The daisies and the roses, too. they
grow around the spot.
Where we parted and she whispered.
"You'll forget me not."- n '.
We met, T really don't know how, but
still it's all the same.
For love walks in the open spots as
well as in the lane.
She placed her tiny hand In mine and
glanced at me a shot.
She dropped a flow'r, I picked it up,
'twas a sweet forget-me-not."
At length there came a happy day,
'twas something that I said.
Which caused a thought to murmur
"yes," and shortly we were wed.
Beneath the cottage by the brook, in a
little garden spot.
We grow a flow'r. they call it, Oh, the
sweet forget-me-not.
This song, which was very popular
about 30 years ago, was recently re
quested by a reader. The above copy is
as nearly correct as I can remember it,
as I had not thought ot the song since
my school days. W. E. WELLS.
W. E. Mountjoy. of Springfield, sends
the following old railway ballad:
THE HOG HEAD'S DYING REQUEST.
A boghead on his deathbed lay.
His life was ebbing fast away.
His friends around him closely pressed
To hear the hogger's last request
He said. "Before I bid adieu.
One last request I'll ask of you.
Before I soar beyond the stars
Just hook me onto ninety cars.
"Oh. let me on that engine there.
Just see how rougli I can handle air.
Oh, let me at some water tank
Make a big-hole stop and give a yank.
"Then from the corner of my eye
I'll watch the pieces as they fly; 1
Then I'll calmly sit me down
And watch the dust clouds settle round.
"Oh, let me pull a drawbar out
And take my can with its long spout
And get down upon the ground
And take ray time to oil around.
"Then far behind In that red caboose
I'll bear the conductor turning loose
A few pet names, as in days of yore
I've heard a thousand times before.
"Oh. Just once more before I'm dead
Let me stand the conductor on his
head :
Let me see him crawl from beneath
the wreck
With a window sash hung around his
neck.
"And when he comes and wants to
fight.
Then I'll appear so tnnocent-like.
And the old excuse I will proclaim:
There's a dynamiter in the train.
"And you. dear friends, I'll have to
thank.
If you'll let me die at a water tank:
Within my ears that familiar sound.
The tallow pot pulling the tank spout
down.
"Oh, let me die holding In my hand
A bunch of waste and the old oil can;
And let me die there on the ground.
As I've spent years oiling round.
"Oh. let the train with drawbar down.
Have ail the crossings blocked In town.
And when they chain those cars to
gether I hope it'll be in sloppy weather.
"And when at last In the grave Tm
laid.
Let it be In the cool of the water
tank shade.
And put within my lifeless hand
A monkeywrench and the old oil can.
"A marble slab I do not crave;
Just mark the head of my lonely grave
With a drawbar pointing toward the
skies.
Showing the spot where this hogger
lies."
Then fainter grew the hoghead's
breath :
His friends around him closely pressed.
His mind was wandering far away.
Perhaps to some other by-gone day.
When he as a hogger of great renown
Was turning cabooses upside down.
Perhaps his mind was wandering back
To a drawbar close beside the track.
While he was trying to start the train
And was doing his best to "break the
chain."
Then his face lit up with a Joyful
light.
And his soul prepared to take its
flight.
His friends bent o'er him and called
his name;
He smiled and said. "I've broken the
chain."
Then, closing his eyes, he said no more.
He was "deubllng the hill" to the other
shore.
Mrs. Theo Jeffries, of Newberg, and
Ruth Luce send copies of "Sister and
I," recently requested.
SISTER AND T.
We were hunting for wintergreen ber
ries One May-day long gone by.
Out on the rocky cliff's edge.
Little sister and I.
Sister had hair like the sunbeams;
Black as a crow's wing, mine;
Sister had blue dove's eyes;
Wicked black eyes are mine.
Why, see how my eyes are faded.
And my hair as white as snow;
And thin, too; don't you see it is?
I tear it sometimes, so.
There! Don't hold my bands, Maggie;
I don't feel like tearing it now;
But where was I In my story?
Oh. I was telling you how
We were looking for wintergreen ber
ries 'Twas one bright morning In May,
And the moss-grown rocks were slip
pery With the rains of yesterday;
But I was cross that morning.
Though the sun shone never so bright.
And when sisteY found the most berries
I was angry enough to fight.
And when she laughed at my pouting
We were little things, you know
I clenched my small fist tightl-
And struck her the biggest blow!
I struck' her. I tell you I struck her.
And she fell right over below;
There, there. Maggie. I won't run now;
You needn't hold me so.
She went right over. I tell you.
Down, down to the depths below;
'Tis dark, and deep, and horrid.
There where the waters flow.
She fell right over, moaning
"Bessie. O Bessie!" so sad
That when I looked down affrighted
It drove me mad, quite mad.
Only her golden hair streaming
Out on the rippling wave.
Only her little hand reaching
Up for someone to save.
Then she sank back In the shadows;
I never saw her again.
And this world is a chaos of blackness.
Of terror and grief since then
No more playing together
Down on the pebbly strand.
Nor building our dolls' stone castles
With halts onH nirlnn ...1-
. o - -
No more fishing with bent pins
In the little brook's clear waves.
No more holding funerals
O'er our dead canaries' graves;
No more walking together
To the big schoolhouse each morn;
No more vexing the teacher
With putting his rules to scorn.
No more feeding of white lambs
With milk from the foaming pails;
No more playing at seesaw
Over the fence of rails;
No more telling of stories
After we're gone to bed:
Telling of ghosts and goblins
Till we fairly shiver with dread;
No more whispering fearfully
And hugging each other tight;
When the shutters shake and rattle
In the middle of the night.
No more saying "Our Father,"
Kneeling by mother's knee;
For, Maggie. I think little sister
And mother are dead, you see;
Maggie, sister's an angel.
Isn't she? Isn't It true?
For angels have golden tresses.
And eyes like sister's blue.
Now my hair isn't golden.
My eyes aren't blue, you see;
Now tell me, Maggie, if I were to die.
Could they make an angel of me?
You say, "oh yes. you think so?
Well, then, when I come to die.
We'll play up there in God's garden;
We'll play there, sister and I.
Now, Maggie, you needn't eye me
Because I am talking so queer;
Because 1 am talking so strangely
You need not have the least fear.
For I'm feeling to night, dear Maggie,
As I never have felt before:
I'm sure, I'm sure of It. Maggie,
I never shall rave any more.
Maggie, you know how these long years
I've heard her calling, so sad:
"Bessie, O Bessie!" so mournful.
That It always drives me mad.
How the Winter wind shrieks down the
chimney:
"Bessie. O Bessie!" Oh. oh!"
How the south .wind wails at the case
ment: "Bessie, O Bessie!" so low.
But most of all when the May days
Come back with the flowers and sun,
How the night-bird sings so lonely:
"Bessie, O Bessie!" its moan.
You know how It sets me ravine.
For she moaned "O Bessie!" just so.
That time I struck little sister
On the May-day long ago.
Now, Maggie, I've something to tell
you:
You know May-day is here.
And this very morning at sunrise
The robins chirped "Bessie!" so clear;
All day long the wee birds singing.
Perched on the garden wall.
Called "Bessie, O Bessie!" so sweetly
I couldn't feel sorry at all.
Now, Maggie, I've something to tell
you--
Let me lean up to you, close
Do you see how the sunset has flooded
The heavens with yellow and rose?
Do you see o'er the gilded cloud moun
tain Sister's golden hair streaming out?
Do you see her little hand beckoning?
Do you hear her gentle voice shout:
Bessie. O Bessie!" sco gladly?
"Bessie. O Bessie!" come fast!"
Yes, sister. I'm coming! I'm coming
To play in God's garden at last!
ULT DALE.
By H. S. Thompson.
'Twas a calm, still night. and the
moon's pale light
Shone forth o'er hill and vale;
When friends mute with grief stood
round the death-bed
Of my poor lost Lily Dale.
Her cheeks that once glowed with the
rose tint of health.
By the hand of disease had turned
pale.
And the death damp was on the pure
white brow
Of my poor lost Lily Dale.
"I go." she said, "to the land of rest.
And ere my strength shall fall.
I must tell you where, near my own
loved home.
You must lay poor Lily Dale.
"'Neath the chestnut tree, where the
wild flowers grow.
And the stream ripples forth through
the vale.
Where the birds shall warble their
songs in Spring.
There lay poor Lily Dale."
Chorus
Oh! Lily, sweet Lily, dear Lily Dale.
Now the wild rose blossoms o'er her
little green grave,
Neath the trees in the flow'ry vale.
Alice B. Russell, contributor.
To the Editor I'm sending a copy of
the patriotic hymn. "Love. Law and
Liberty," both the words and the music
of which are by Silas G. Pratt, who was
born in 1846 in Vermont.
The hymn. I think, is very appropri-
ate to the spirit of the day. Respect
fully yours.
A HOMESTEADER IN CURRY."
LOVE. LAW AND LIBERTY.
By Silas G. Pratt.
Fair land! from the foam of the ocean!
The people must rule thy domain:
For tyrants uncrowned would possess
thee.
With fetters of gold would enchain.
Arise, then. American freemen.
The coward alone is a slave!
March on. for our children and kindred
Sweet liberty's blessings to save.
Chorus
Oh. Father. Almighty, our trust la in
Thee:
Thy will now exalting through love,
law and liberty.
Our voices ascending from vale, hill
and crag.
In this motto blending: "One country,
one speech, one flag.''
All people here freely assemble:
All tongues of the world here ara
heard,
A nation from these must be molded.
A union of thought and of word.
As mighty and vast as our country.
East, west, north or south will we
hail:
But one flag alone shall float o'er us.
One language, one government pre
vail, v
(Chorus.)
United In one common purpose.
Inspired by one common tie i
Like brothers advance then together.
Achieving a grand destiny.
Sweep on. like a torrent resistless.
To purge and to cleanse in thy might,
Corruption in arrogant splendor
Must bend to the law and the right.
(Chorus.)
We reprint here with an old poem re-i
quested by O. K. Hargrove:
THE OLD MAN DREAMS.
By C. M. Ballard.
I'm dreaming a dream this afternoon
noon
Of days accounted olden.
When laughter played a silver harjj
And youthful smiles were golden;
I'm dreaming a dream of the olden
time.
When life was smooth as the poet's
rhyme.
When my feet were bare and my cheeks
were brown.
And my heart was light as the eider
down. I'm dreaming again this evening time.
Of her whose love grew stronger
We're walking down the homestead
lane
While evening shades grow longer.
My daughters I see. and my little
boys
Those pledges of love that crown'd my
joys.
And the babe comes, too, and we all
now meet.
And 1 kiss them oft oh! my dreams
are sweet.
I'm dreaming no more this lone mid
night. For footsteps give me warnlnc-
That soon I'll hear the string latch,
raise
And angels say "Good morning."
I'm dreaming no more, in this lone
midnight.
For the embers give but a feeble
light;
And I hear a step in the outer halls.
Good night! Good night! Good nightl
for the angel calls.
Chorus:
I'm dreaming no more, this cold mid
night.
For the embers give but a feeble
light.
And I hear a step in the outer halls;
Good night! Good night! Good night!
for the angel calls.
Mrs. O. F. Hallett. Portland, con
tributor. THE KEYS OF TOMORROW.
I.
You're sighing today 'neath a burden ot
care,
'Tis more than your sad, fainting spir
it can bear.
Don't seek from the future new trouble
to borrow.
But leave In Christ's hands the keys ofi
tomorrow.
Chorus
Then lift up your head, tho' your eye
lids are wet:
The clouds may be dark, but the sun's
shining yet; .
Trust fuily in Jesus and banish your
sorrow.
And leave in his hands the keys of to
morrow.
II.
Your way may be clouded, your futurS
concealed.
And scarcely the present is clearly re
veal'd:
'Twill strengthen !n weakness and com
fort In sorrow
To leave in Christ's hands the keys oil
tomorrow.
III.
Don't take anxious thought for your
raiment and food.
Your father will give you whatever la
good :
No lines of despair on his brow will
e'er furrow
Who leaves in Christ's hands the keys
of tomorrow.
Contributed by U. F. Nelderhlsen oa
request.
YOU KISSED ME.
You kissed me.
My forehead dropped low on
breast.
With a feeling of shelter
And infinite rest.
While the holy emotions
My tongue dared not speak.
Flashed up like a flame
From my heart to my cheek.
Your arms held me fast
Oh! your arms were so bold
Heart beat against heart
In that passionate fold.
Your glances seemed drawing
My soul through my eyes.
As the sun draws the mist
From the sea to the skies.
youn
You kissed me!
My haert and my breath and my will
In delicious joy.
For the moment stood still.
Life had for me then
No temptations, no charms.
No visions of pleasure
Outside of your arms.
Recently requested and contributed
by Mrs. F. Krutsinger.
A COMMONPLACE LIFE.
BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.
"A commonplace life," we say, and wa
sigh.
But why should we sigh, as we say?
The commonplace sun in the common
place sky
Makes up the commonplace day.
The moon and the stars are common
place things:
The flowers that bloom and the blrdl
that sings:
But sad were the world, and dark our
lot. .
If the flowers failed and the sun shone
not ;
And God. who sees each separate soul.
Out of commonplace lives makes his
beautiful whole.