CHAPTER VII_Memories and Anecdotes

Elected to be the First President of New Hampshire Daughters in

Massachusetts and New Hampshire--Now Honorary President--Kind Words

which I Highly Value--Three, but not "of a Kind"--A Strictly Family

Affair--Two Favourite Poems--Breezy Meadows.

On May 15, 1894, I was elected to be the first president of the New

Hampshire Daughters in Massachusetts and New Hampshire, and held the

position for three years. Was then made Honorary President.

* * * * *

Some unsolicited approval:

Hers was a notable administration, and brought to the

organization a prestige which remains. Rules might fail, but

the brilliant president never. She governed a merry company,

many of them famous, but she was chief. They loved her, and

that affection and pride still exist.

A daughter of the "Granite State," who can certainly take front

rank among business women, is Kate Sanborn, the beloved

president of New Hampshire's Daughters.

Another thing that has occupied Miss Sanborn's time this

summer aside from farming and writing is the program for the

coming winter's work for the Daughters of New Hampshire. It is

all planned, and if all the women's clubs carry such a program

as the one which Miss Sanborn has planned, and that means that

it will be carried out, the winter's history of women's clubs

will be one of unprecedented prosperity.

If New Hampshire's daughters now living out of their own State

do not keep track of each other, and become acquainted into the

bargain, it will not be the fault of their president, who has

carried on correspondence with almost every one of them, and

who has planned a winter's work that will enable them to learn

something about their own State, as well as to meet for the

promoting of acquaintance.

OUR FIRST MEETING

This meeting was presided over by our much loved

First-President, Kate Sanborn, and it was the most informal,

spontaneous, and altogether enjoyable organization meeting that

could be imagined, and the happy spirit came that has guided

our way and helped us over the rough places leading us always

to the light.

Our first resolve was to enjoy to the utmost the pleasure of

being together, and with it to do everything possible to help

our native State. To these two objects we have been steadfastly

true in all the years; and how we have planned, and what we

have done has been recorded to our credit, so that we may now

say in looking back, "We have kept the faith and been true."

At this time there are so many memories, all equally precious

and worthy of mention here, but we must be brief and only a few

can be recalled.

In our early years _our_ Kate Sanborn led us through so many

pleasant paths, and with her "twin President," Julia K. Dyer,

brought the real New Hampshire atmosphere into it all.

That was a grand Dartmouth Day, when the good man, Eleazar

Wheelock, came down from his accustomed wall space to grace our

program and the Dartmouth Sons brought their flag and delighted

us with their college songs.

Since then have come to us governors, senators, judges, mayors,

and many celebrities, all glad to bring some story with the

breath of the hills to New Hampshire's Daughters. Kate

Sanborn first called for our county tributes, to renew old

acquaintances and promote rivalry among the members. We adorned

ourselves with the gold buttercup badges, and adopted the grey

and garnet as our colors.

NEW HAMPSHIRE'S DAUGHTERS

_Members of the Society Hold an Experience Meeting._

The first meeting of the season of New Hampshire's Daughters

was held at the Hotel Vendome, Boston, Saturday afternoon, and

was a most successful gathering, both in point of attendance

and of general interest. The business of the association was

transacted under the direction of the president, Miss Kate

Sanborn, whose free construction of parliamentary law and

independent adherence to common sense as against narrow

conventionality, results in satisfactory progress and rapid

action. The 150 or more ladies present were more convinced than

ever that Miss Sanborn is the right woman in the right place,

although she herself indignantly repudiates the notion that she

is fitted to the position.

The Daughters declare that the rapid growth of the organization

is due to Miss Sanborn more than to any other influence. Her

ability, brightness, wit, happy way of managing, and her strong

personality generally are undoubtedly at present the mainstays

of the Daughters' organization. She is ably assisted by an

enthusiastic corps of officers.

MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:

Your calendar about old age is simply _au fait_. After reading

it, I want to hurry up and grow old as fast as I can. It is the

best collection of sane thoughts upon old age that I know in

any language. Life coming from the Source of Life must be

glorious throughout. The last of life should be its best.

October is the king of all the year. A man should be more

wonderful at eighty than at twenty; a woman should make her

seventieth birthday more fascinating than her seventeenth.

Merit never deserts the soul. God is with His children always.

Yours for a long life and happiness,

PETER MacQUEEN.

[Illustration: PETER MacQUEEN]

DEAR KATE SANBORN:

The "Indian Summer Calendar" is the best thing you have done

yet. I have read it straight through twice, and now it lies on

my desk, and I read daily selections from it, as some of the

good people read from their "Golden Treasury of Texts."

MARY A. LIVERMORE.

DEAR MISS SANBORN:

It gives me pleasure to offer my testimonial to your unique,

original, and very picturesque lectures. The one to which I

recently listened, in the New England Conservatory of Music,

was certainly the most entertaining of any humorous lecture to

which I have ever listened, and it left the audience _talking_,

with such bright, happy faces, I can see it now in my mind. And

they _continued_ to repeat the happy things you said; at least

my own friends did. It was not a "plea for cheerfulness," it

_was_ cheerfulness. I hope you may give it, and make the world

laugh, a thousand times. "He who makes what is useful

agreeable," said old Horace of literature, "wins every vote."

You have the wit of making the useful agreeable, and the spirit

and genius of it.

Sincerely,

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

I published a little volume, _A Truthful Woman in Southern

California_, which had a large sale for many years. Women tourists

bought it to "enlarge" with their photographs. Stedman wrote me, after

I had sent him my book:

MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:

I think it especially charming that you should so remember me

and send me a gift-copy of Truthful Kate's breezy and

fascinating report of Southern California. For I had been so

taken with your adoption of that Abandoned Farm that I had

made a note of your second book. Your chapters give me as vivid

an idea of Southern California as I obtained from Miss Hazard's

watercolors, and that is saying a good deal. We all like you,

and indeed who does not? And your books, so fresh and

sparkling, make us like you even more. Believe that I am

gratified by your unexpected gift, and by the note that

convoyed it.

EDMUND C. STEDMAN.

New York Public Library,

Office of Circulation Department,

209 West 23rd Street,

February 19,1907.

MISS KATE SANBORN,

Metcalf, Mass.

DEAR MISS SANBORN:

You may be interested to know that your book on old wall-papers

is included in a list of books specially recommended for

libraries in Great Britain, compiled by the Library Association

of the United Kingdom, recently published in London. As there

seems to be a rather small proportion of American works

included in the list, I think that this may be worthy of note.

With kindest regards, I remain,

Very truly yours,

ARTHUR E. BOSTWICK.

_Chief of the Circulation Department_.

MY DEAR MISS KATE SANBORN:

How kind and generous you are to my books, and therefore, to

me! How thoroughly you understand them and know why I wrote

them!

When a book of mine is sent out into the cold world of

indifferent reviewers, I read their platitudinous words, trying

to be grateful; but waiting, waiting, knowing that ere long I

shall get a little clipping from the _Somerville Journal_,

written by Kate Sanborn; and then I shall know what the book

is. If it's good, she'll say so, and if it isn't, I think she

would say so; but that alternative never has come to me. But I

would far rather have her true words of dispraise than all

machine-made twaddle of nearly all the book columns of our

great American press.

It is such generous minds as yours that have kept me writing. I

should have stopped long ago if I had not had them.

ALICE MORSE EARLE.

It is impossible to give you a perfect pen picture of Breezy

Meadows or of its mistress, Kate Sanborn, just as it is

impossible to paint the tints of a glorious sunset stretching

across the winter sky. Breezy Meadows is an ideal country home,

and the mistress of it all is a grand woman--an honor to her

sex, and a loyal friend. Her whole life seems to be devoted to

making others happy, and a motto on one of the walls of the

house expresses better than I can, her daily endeavour:

"Let me, also, cheer a spot,

Hidden field or garden grot,

Place where passing souls may rest,

On the way, and be their best."

BARBARA GALPIN.

As a lecturer, Miss Kate Sanborn is thoroughly unique. Whatever

her topic, one is always sure there will be wit and the

subtlest humour in her discourse, bits of philosophy of life,

and the most practical common sense, flashes of laughable

personal history, and gems of scholarship. It is always certain

that the lecture will be rendered in inimitably bright and

cheery style that will enliven her audience, which, while

laughing and applauding, will listen intently throughout. No

wonder she is a favourite with lecture goers, for few can give

them so delightful an evening as she.--MARY A. LIVERMORE.

There is only one Kate Sanborn. Her position as a lecturer is

unique. In the selection and treatment of her themes she has no

rival. She touches nothing that she does not enliven and adorn.

Pathos and humour, wit and wisdom, anecdote and incident, the

foibles, fancies, freaks, and fashions of the past and present,

pen pictures of great men and famous women, illustrious poets

and distinguished authors, enrich her writings, as if the ages

had laid their wealth of love and learning at her feet, and

bidden her help herself. With a discriminating and exacting

taste, she has brought together, in book and lecture, the

things that others have overlooked, or never found. She has

been a kind of discoverer of thoughts and things in the

by-paths of literature. She also understands "the art of

putting things." But vastly more than the thought, style, and

utterance is the striking personality of the writer herself. It

is not enough to read the writings of Miss Sanborn, though you

cannot help doing this. She must be heard, if one would know

the secret of her power--subtle, magnetic, impossible of

transfer to books. The "personal equation" is everything--the

strong, gifted woman putting her whole soul into the

interpretation and transmission of her thought so that it may

inspire the hearts of those who listen; the power of

self-radiation. It is not surprising that Miss Sanborn is

everywhere greeted with enthusiasm when she speaks.--ARTHUR

LITTLE.

Miss Kate Sanborn is one of the best qualified women in this

country to lecture on literary themes. The daughter of a

Dartmouth professor, she was cradled in literature, and has

made it in a certain way the work of her life. There is

nothing, however, of the pedantic about her. She is the

embodiment of a woman's wit and humour; but her forte is a

certain crisp and lively condensation of persons and qualities

which carry a large amount of information under a captivating

cloak of vivacious and confidential talk with her audience,

rather than didactic statement.

J.C. CROLY, "Jenny June."

One of the friends I miss most at the farm is Sam Walter Foss. He was

the poet, philosopher, lecturer and "friend of man." His folk songs

touched every heart and even the sombre vein lightened with pictures

of hope and cheer. He was humorous and even funny, but in every line

there is a dignity not often reached by writers of witty verse or

prose. Mr. Foss was born in Candia, N.H., in June, 1858. Through his

ancestor, Stephen Batcheller, he had kinship with Daniel Webster, John

Greenleaf Whittier, and William Pitt Fessenden.

Mr. Foss secured an interest in the Lynn _Union_, and it was while

engaged in publishing that newspaper that he made the discovery that

he could be a "funny man." The man having charge of the funny column

left suddenly, and Mr. Foss decided to see what he could do in the way

of writing something humorous to fill the column. He had never done

anything of this kind before, and was surprised and pleased to have

some of his readers congratulate him on his new "funny man." He

continued to write for this column and for a long time his identity

was unknown, he being referred to simply as the "Lynn _Union_ funny

man." His ability finally attracted the attention of Wolcott

Balestier, the editor of _Tit-Bits_, who secured Mr. Foss's services

for that paper. Before long he became connected with _Puck_, _Judge_,

and several other New York periodicals, including the New York _Sun_.

Mr. Foss's first book was published in 1894, and was entitled _Back

Country Poems_ and has passed through several editions. _Whiffs from

Wild Meadows_ issued in 1896 has been fully as successful. Later books

are _Dreams in Homespun_, _Songs of War and Peace_, _Songs of the

Average Man_.

[Illustration: SAM WALTER FOSS]

He had charge of the Public Library at Somerville, Massachusetts,

and his influence in library matters extended all over New England.

His poems are marked by simplicity. Most of his songs are written in

New England dialect which he has used with unsurpassed effect. But

this poetry was always of the simplest kind, of the appealing nature

which reaches the heart. Of his work and his aim, he said in his first

volume:

"It is not the greatest singer

Who tries the loftiest themes,

He is the true joy bringer

Who tells his simplest dreams,

He is the greatest poet

Who will renounce all art

And take his heart and show it

To any other heart;

Who writes no learnèd riddle,

But sings his simplest rune,

Takes his heart-strings for a fiddle,

And plays his easiest tune."

Mr. Foss _always_ had to recite the following poem when he called

at Breezy Meadows

THE CONFESSIONS OF A LUNKHEAD

I'm a lunkhead, an' I know it; 'taint no use to squirm an' talk,

I'm a gump an' I'm a lunkhead, I'm a lummux, I'm a gawk,

An' I make this interduction so that all you folks can see

An' understan' the natur' of the critter thet I be.

I allus wobble w'en I walk, my j'ints are out er gear,

My arms go flappin' through the air, jest like an el'phunt's ear;

An' when the womern speaks to me I stutter an' grow weak,

A big frog rises in my throat, an' he won't let me speak.

Wall, that's the kind er thing I be; but in our neighborhood

Lived young Joe Craig an' young Jim Stump an' Hiram Underwood.

We growed like corn in the same hill, jest like four sep'rit stalks;

For they wuz lunkheads, jest like me, an' lummuxes and gawks.

Now, I knew I wuz a lunkhead; but them fellers didn't know,

Thought they wuz the biggest punkins an' the purtiest in the row.

An' I, I uster laff an' say, "Them lunkhead chaps will see

W'en they go out into the worl' w'at gawky things they be."

Joe Craig was a lunkhead, but it didn't get through his pate;

I guess you all heerd tell of him--he's governor of the state;

Jim Stump, he blundered off to war--a most uncommon gump--

Didn't know enough to know it--'an he came home General Stump.

Then Hiram Underwood went off, the bigges' gawk of all,

We hardly thought him bright enough to share in Adam's fall;

But he tried the railroad biz'ness, an' he allus grabbed his share,--

Now this gawk, who didn't know it, is a fifty millionaire.

An' often out here hoein' I set down atween the stalks,

Thinkin' how we four together all were lummuxes an' gawks,

All were gumps and lunkheads, only they didn't know, yer see;

An' I ask, "If I hadn' known it, like them other fellers there,

Today I might be settin' in the presidential chair."

We all are lunkheads--don't get mad--an' lummuxes and gawks,

But us poor chaps who know we be--we walk in humble walks.

So, I say to all good lunkheads, "Keep yer own selves in the dark;

Don't own to reckernize the fact, an' you will make your mark."

Next is the poem which is most quoted and best known:

THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

"He was a friend to man, and lived in a house

by the side of the road."--HOMER.

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn

In the peace of their self-content;

There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,

In a fellowless firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths

Where highways never ran;--

But let me live by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,

Where the race of men go by--

The men who are good and the men who are bad,

As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner's seat,

Or hurl the cynic's ban;--

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,

By the side of the highway of life,

The men who press with the ardour of hope,

The men who are faint with the strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears--

Both parts of an infinite plan;--

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead

And mountains of wearisome height;

That the road passes on through the long afternoon

And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travellers rejoice,

And weep with the strangers that moan,

Nor live in my house by the side of the road

Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

Where the race of men go by--

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish--so am I.

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat

Or hurl the cynic's ban?--

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Mr. Foss's attribution to Homer used as a motto preceding his poem,

"The House by the Side of the Road," is, no doubt, his translation of

a passage from the _Iliad_, book vi., which, as done into English

prose in the translation of Lang, Leaf and Myers, is as follows:

Then Diomedes of the loud war-cry slew Axylos, Teuthranos' son

that dwelt in stablished Arisbe, a man of substance dear to his

fellows; _for his dwelling was by the road-side and he

entertained all men_.

* * * * *

SAM WALTER FOSS

Sam Walter Foss was a poet of gentle heart. His keen wit never

had any sting. He has described our Yankee folk with as clever

humour as Bret Harte delineated Rocky Mountain life. Like

Harte, Mr. Foss had no unkindness in his make-up. He told me

that he never had received an anonymous letter in his life.

Our American nation is wonderful in science and mechanical

invention. It was the aim of Sam Walter Foss to immortalize the

age of steel. "Harness all your rivers above the cataracts'

brink, and then unharness man." He told me he thought the

subject of mechanics was as poetical as the song of the lark.

"The Cosmos wrought for a billion years to make glad for a

day," reminds us of the most resonant periods of Tennyson.

"The House by the Side of the Road," is from a text of Homer.

"The Lunkhead" shows Foss in his happiest mood: gently

satirizing the foibles and harmless, foolish fancies of his

fellow-men. There is a haunting misty tenderness in such a poem

as "The Tree Lover."

"Who loves a tree he loves the life

That springs in flower and clover;

He loves the love that gilds the cloud,

And greens the April sod;

He loves the wide beneficence,

His soul takes hold of God."

We have too little love for the tender out-of-door nature. "The

world is too much with us."

It was a loss to American life and letters when Sam Walter Foss

passed away from us at the height of his strong true manhood.

Later he will be regarded as an eminent American.

He was true to our age to the core. Whether he wrote of the

gentle McKinley, the fighting Dewey, the ludicrous schoolboy,

the "grand eternal fellows" that are coming to this world after

we have left it--he was ever a weaver at the loom of highest

thought. The world is not to be civilized and redeemed by the

apostles of steel and brute force. Not the Hannibals and Cæsars

and Kaisers but the Shelleys, the Scotts, and the Fosses are

our saviours. They will have a large part in the future of the

world to heighten and brighten life and justify the ways of God

to men.

These and such as these are our consolation in life's thorny

pathway. They keep alive in us the memory of our youth and many

a jaded traveller as he listens to their music, sees again the

apple blossoms falling around him in the twilight of some

unforgotten spring.

PETER MacQUEEN.

Peter MacQueen was brought to my house years ago by a friend when he

happened to be stationary for an hour, and he is certainly a unique

and interesting character, a marvellous talker, reciter of Scotch

ballads, a maker of epigrams, and a most unpractical, now-you-see-him

and now-he's-a-far-away-fellow. I remember his remark, "Breakfast is a

fatal habit." It was not the breakfast to which he referred but to the

gathering round a table at a stated hour, far too early, when not in a

mood for society or for conversation. And again: "I have decided never

to marry. A poor girl is a burden; a rich girl a boss." But you never

can tell. He is now a Benedict.

I wrote to Mr. MacQueen lately for some of his press notices, and a

few of the names which he called himself when I received his letters.

MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:--Yours here and I hasten to reply. Count

Tolstoi remarked to me: "Your travels have been so vast and you

have been with so many peoples and races, that an account of

them would constitute a philosophy in itself."

Theodore Roosevelt said, "No other American has travelled over our new

possessions more universally, nor observed the conditions in them so

quickly and sanely."

Kennan was _persona non grata_ to the Russians, especially after his

visit to Siberia, but Mr. MacQueen was most cordially welcomed.

What an odd scene at Tolstoi's table! The countess and her daughter in

full evening dress with the display of jewels, and at the other end

Tolstoi in the roughest sort of peasant dress and with bare feet. At

dinner Count Tolstoi said to Mr. MacQueen: "If I had travelled as much

as you have, I should today have had a broader philosophy."

Mr. MacQueen says of Russia:

During the past one hundred years the empire of the Czar has

made slow progress; but great bodies move slowly, and Russia

is colossal. Two such republics as the United States with our

great storm door called Alaska, could go into the Russian

empire and yet leave room enough for Great Britain, Germany,

and Austria.

Journeys taken by Mr. MacQueen:

1896--to Athens and Greece.

1897--to Constantinople and Asia Minor.

1898--in the Santiago Campaign with the Rough

Riders, and in Porto Rico with General

Miles.

1899--with General Henry W. Lawton to the

Philippines, returning through Japan.

1900--with DeWet, Delarey, and Botha in the

Boer Army; met Oom Paul, etc.

1901--to Russia and Siberia on pass from the Czar,

visiting Tolstoi, etc.

1902--to Venezuela, Panama, Cuba, and Porto

Rico.

1903--to Turkey, Macedonia, Servia, Hungary,

Austria, etc.

In the meantime Mr. MacQueen has visited every country in Europe,

completing 240,000 miles in ten years, a distance equal to that which

separates this earth from the moon.

Last winter he was four months in the war zone, narrowly escaping

arrest several times, and other serious dangers, as they thought him

a spy with his camera and pictures. I gave a stag dinner for him just

after his return from his war experiences, and the daily bulletins of

war's horrors seemed dull reading after his stories.

Here is an extract from a paper sent by Peter MacQueen from Iowa,

where he long ago was in great demand as a lecturer, which contained

several of the best anecdotes told by this irresistible _raconteur_,

which may be new to you, if not, read them again and then tell them

yourself.

Mr. MacQueen, who is to lecture at the Chautauqua here, has

many strange stories and quaint yarns that he picked up while

travelling around the globe. While in the highlands of Scotland

he met a canny old "Scot" who asked him, "Have you ever heard

of Andrew Carnegie in America?" "Yes, indeed," replied the

traveller. "Weel," said the Scot, pointing to a little stream

near-by, "in that wee burn Andrew and I caught our first trout

together. Andrew was a barefooted, bareheaded, ragged wee

callen, no muckle guid at onything. But he gaed off to America,

and they say he's doin' real weel."

While in the Philippines Mr. MacQueen was marching with some of the

colored troops who have recently been dismissed by the President. A

big coloured soldier walking beside Mr. MacQueen had his white

officer's rations and ammunition and can-kit, carrying them in the

hot tropical sun. The big fellow turned to the traveller and said:

"Say, there, comrade, this yere White Man's Burden ain't all it's

cracked up to be."

In the Boer war Mr. MacQueen, war correspondent and lecturer,

tells of an Irish Brigade man from Chicago on Sani river. The

correspondent was along with the Irish-Americans and saw them

take a hill from a force of Yorkshire men very superior in

numbers. Mr. MacQueen also saw a green flag of Ireland in the

British lines. Turning to his Irish friend, he remarked: "Isn't

it a shame to see Irishmen fighting for the Queen, and Irishmen

fighting for the Boers at the same time?" "Sorra the bit,"

replied his companion, "it wouldn't be a proper fight if there

wasn't Irishmen on both sides."

Here's hoping that during Mr. MacQueen's long vacation from sermons,

lectures, and tedious conventionalities in the outdoors of the darkest

and deepest Africa, the wild beasts, including the man-eating tiger,

may prove the correctness of Mrs. Seton Thompson's good words for them

and only approach him to have their photos taken or amiably allow

themselves to be shot. The cannibals will decide he is too thin and

wiry for a really tempting meal.

* * * * *

Doctor Edwin C. Bolles has been for fifteen years on the Faculty of

Tufts College, Massachusetts, and still continues active service at

the age of seventy-eight.

His history courses are among the popular ones in the curriculum, and

his five minutes' daily talks in Chapel have won the admiration of the

entire College.

He was for forty-five years in active pastoral service in the

Universalist ministry; was Professor of Microscopy for three years at

St. Lawrence University. Doctor Bolles was one of the pioneers in the

lecture field and both prominent and popular in this line, and the

first in the use of illustrations by the stereopticon in travel

lectures.

The perfection of the use of microscopic projection which has done so

much for the popularization of science was one of his exploits.

For several years his eyesight has been failing, an affliction which

he has borne with Christian courage and cheerfulness and keeps right

on at his beloved work.

He has been devoted to photography in which avocation he has been most

successful. His wife told me they were glad to accept his call to New

York as he had almost filled every room in their house with his

various collections. One can appreciate this when he sees a card

displayed on the door of Doctor Bolles's sanctum bearing this motto:

"A man is known by the Trumpery he keeps."

He has received many honorary degrees, but his present triumph over

what would crush the ambition of most men is greater than all else.

* * * * *

Exquisite nonsense is a rare thing, but when found how delicious it

is! I found a letter from a reverend friend who might be an American

Sidney Smith if he chose, and I am going to let you enjoy it; it was

written years ago.

Speaking of the "Purple and Gold," he says:

I should make also better acknowledgments than my thanks. But

what can I do? My volume on _The Millimetric Study of the Tail

of the Greek Delta, in the MSS. of the Sixth Century_, is

entirely out of print; and until its re-issue by the Seaside

Library I cannot forward a copy. Then my essay, "Infantile

Diseases of the Earthworm" is in Berlin for translation, as it

is to be issued at the same time in Germany and the United

States. "The Moral Regeneration of the Rat," and "Intellectual

Idiosyncracies of Twin Clams," are resting till I can get up my

Sanscrit and Arabic, for I wish these researches to be

exhaustive.

He added two poems which I am not selfish enough to keep to myself.

GOLDEN ROD

O! Golden Rod! Thou garish, gorgeous gush

Of passion that consumes hot summer's heart!

O! yellowest yolk of love! in yearly hush

I stand, awe sobered, at thy burning bush

Of Glory, glossed with lustrous and illustrious art,

And moan, why poor, so poor in purse and brain I am,

While thou into thy trusting treasury dost seem to cram

Australia, California, Sinai and Siam.

And the other such a capital burlesque of the modern English School

with its unintelligible parentheses:

ASTER

I kissed her all day on her red, red mouth

(Cats, cradles and trilobites! Love is the master!)

Too utterly torrid, a sweet, spicy South

(Of compositæ, fairest the Aster.)

Stars shone on our kisses--the moon blushed warm

(Ursa major or minor, Pollux and Castor!)

How long the homeward! And where was my arm?

(Crushed, crushed at her waist was the Aster!)

No one kisses me now--my winter has come:

(To ice turns fortune when once you have passed her.)

I long for the angels to beckon me home (hum)

(For dead, deader, deadest, the Aster!)

[Illustration: PINES AND SILVER BIRCHES]

Doctor Bolles has very kindly sent me one of his later humorous poems.

A tragic forecast of suffragette rule which is too gloomy, as almost

every woman will assure an agreeable smoker that she is "fond of the

odour of a good cigar."

DESCENSUS AD INFERNUM

When the last cigar is smoked and the box is splintered

and gone,

And only the faintest whiff of the dear old smell hangs on,

In the times when he's idle or thoughtful,

When he's lonesome, jolly or blue,

And he fingers his useless matches,

What is a poor fellow to do?

For the suffragettes have conquered, and their harvest is

gathered in;

From Texas to Maine they've voted tobacco the deadliest sin;

A pipe sends you up for a year, a cigarette for two;

In this female republic of virtue,

What is a poor fellow to do?

He may train up his reason on bridge and riot on afternoon tea,

And at dinner, all wineless and proper, a dress-suited guest he

may be;

But when the mild cheese has been passed, and the chocolate mint

drops are few,

And the coffee comes in and he hankers,

What is a poor fellow to do?

It's all for his good, they say; for in heaven no nicotine

grows,

And the angels need no cedar for moth-proofs to keep their

clothes;

No ashes are dropped, no carpets are singed, by all the saintly

crew;

If _this_ is heaven, and he gets there,

What is a poor fellow to do?

He'll sit on the golden benches and long for a chance to break

jail,

With a shooting-star for a motor, or a flight on a comet's tail;

He'll see the smoke rise in the distance, and goaded by memory's

spell,

He'll go back on the women who saved him,

And ask for a ticket to _Hell_!

An exact description of the usual happenings at "Breezy" in the

beginning, by my only sister, Mrs. Babcock, who was devoted to me and

did more than anyone to help to develop the Farm. I feel that this

chapter must be the richer for two of her poems.

LIGHT AND SHADE AT "BREEZY MEADOWS" FARM

This charming May morning we'll walk to the grove!

And give the dear dogs all a run;

Over the meadows 'tis pleasant to rove

And bask in the light of the sun.

Last night a sly fox took off our best duck!

Run for a gun! there a hen hawk flies!

We always have the very worst of luck,

The anxious mistress of the chickens cries.

We stop to smell the lilacs at the gate,

And watch the bluebirds in the elm-tree's crest--

The finest farm it is in all the state,

Which corner of it do you like the best?

Just think! a rat has eaten ducklings two,

Now isn't that a shame! pray set a trap!

The downiest, dearest ones that ever grew,

I think this trouble will climax cap!

At "Sun Flower Rock," in joy we stand to gaze;

The distant orchard, flowering, show so fair:

Surely my dear, abandoned farming pays,

How heavenly the early morning air!

Now only see! those horrid hens are scratching!

They tear the Mountain Fringe so lately set!

Some kind of mischief they are always hatching,

Why did I ever try a hen to pet?

Here's "Mary's Circle," and the birches slender,

And Columbine which grows the rocks between,

Red blossoms showing in a regal splendour!

We must be happy in this peaceful scene.

The puppies chew the woodbine and destroy

The dainty branches sprouting on the wall!

How can the little wretches so annoy?

There's Solomon Alphonzo--worst of all!

Now we will go to breakfast--milk and cream,

Eggs from the farm, surely it is a treat!

How horrid city markets really seem

When one can have fresh things like these to eat!

What? Nickodee has taken all the hash?

And smashed the dish which lies upon the floor!

I thought just now I heard a sudden crash!

And it was he who slammed the kitchen door!

By "Scare Crow Road" we take our winding way,

Tiger and Jerry in the pasture feed.

See, Mary,--what a splendid crop of hay!

Now, don't you feel that this is joy indeed?

The incubator chickens all are dead!

Max fights with Shep, he scorns to follow me!

Some fresh disaster momently I dread;

Is that a skunk approaching?--try to see!

Come Snip and Snap and give us song and dance!

We'll have a fire and read the choicest books,

While the black horses waiting, paw and prance!

And see how calm and sweet all nature looks.

So goes the day; the peaceful landscape smiles;

At times the live stock seems to take a rest.

But fills our hearts with worry other whiles!

We think each separate creature is possessed!

MARY W. BABCOCK.

[Illustration: PADDLING IN CHICKEN BROOK]

THE OLD WOMAN

The little old woman, who wove and who spun,

Who sewed and who baked, did she have any fun?

In housewifely arts with her neighbour she'd vie,

Her triumph a turkey, her pleasure a pie!

She milked and she churned, and the chickens she fed,

She made tallow dips, and she moulded the bread.

No club day annoyed her, no program perplext,

No themes for discussion her calm slumber vexed.

By birth D.A.R. or Colonial Dame,

She sought for no record to blazon her fame--

No Swamies she knew, she cherished no fad,

Of healing by science, no knowledge she had.

She anointed with goose grease, she gave castor oil,

Strong sons and fair daughters rewarded her toil.

She studied child nature direct from the child,

And she spared not the rod, though her manner was mild.

All honour be paid her, this heroine true,

She laid the foundation for things we call new!

Her hand was so strong, and her brain was so steady,

That for the New Woman she made the world ready.

MARY W. BABCOCK.

[Illustration: THE ISLAND WHICH WE MADE]

Here is one of the several parodies written by my brother while

interned in a log camp in the woods of New Brunswick, during a severe

day's deluge of rain. It was at the time when Peary had recently

reached the North Pole, and Dr. Cook had reported his remarkable

observations of purple snows:

DON'T YOU HEAR THE NORTH A-CALLIN'?

Ship me somewhere north o' nowhere, where the worst

is like the best;

Where there aren't no p'ints o' compass, an' a man can

get a rest;

Where a breeze is like a blizzard, an' the weather at

its best;

Dogs and Huskies does the workin' and the Devil does

the rest.

On the way to Baffin's Bay,

Where the seal and walrus play,

And the day is slow a-comin', slower

Still to go away.

There I seen a walrus baskin'--bloomin' blubber to

the good;

Could I 'it 'im for the askin'? Well--I missed 'im where

he stood.

Ship me up there, north o' nowhere, where the best is like

the worst;

Where there aren't no p'ints o' compass, and the last one

gets there first.

Take me back to Baffin's Bay,

Where the seal and walrus play;

And the night is long a-comin', when it

Comes, it comes to stay.

[Illustration: TAKA'S TEA HOUSE AT LILY POND]

THE WOMAN WITH THE BROOM

_A Mate for "The Man With The Hoe."_

(Written after seeing a farmer's wife cleaning house.)

Bowed by the cares of cleaning house she leans

Upon her broom and gazes through the dust.

A wilderness of wrinkles on her face,

And on her head a knob of wispy hair.

Who made her slave to sweeping and to soap,

A thing that smiles not and that never rests,

Stanchioned in stall, a sister to the cow?

Who loosened and made shrill this angled jaw?

Who dowered this narrowed chest for blowing up

Of sluggish men-folks and their morning fire?

Is this the thing you made a bride and brought

To have dominion over hearth and home,

To scour the stairs and search the bin for flour,

To bear the burden of maternity?

Is this the wife they wove who framed our law

And pillared a bright land on smiling homes?

Down all the stretch of street to the last house

There is no shape more angular than hers,

More tongued with gabble of her neighbours' deeds,

More filled with nerve-ache and rheumatic twinge,

More fraught with menace of the frying-pan.

O Lords and Masters in our happy land,

How with this woman will you make account,

How answer her shrill question in that hour

When whirlwinds of such women shake the polls,

Heedless of every precedent and creed,

Straight in hysteric haste to right all wrongs?

How will it be with cant of politics,

With king of trade and legislative boss,

With cobwebs of hypocrisy and greed,

When she shall take the ballot for her broom

And sweep away the dust of centuries?

EDWARD W. SANBORN.

NEW HAMPSHIRE DAUGHTERS

New Hampshire Daughters meet tonight

With joy each cup is brimmin';

We've heard for years about her men,

But why leave out her wimmin?

In early days they did their share

To git the state to goin',

And when their husbands went to war,

Could fight or take to hoein'.

They bore privations with a smile,

Raised families surprisin',

Six boys, nine gals, with twins thrown in,

O, they were enterprisin'.

Yet naught is found their deeds to praise

In any book of hist'ry,

The brothers wrote about themselves,

And--well, that solves the myst'ry.

But now our women take their place

In pulpit, court, and college,

As doctors, teachers, orators,

They equal men in knowledge.

And when another history's writ

Of what New Hampshire's done,

The women all will get their due,

But not a single son.

But no, on sober second thought,

We lead, not pose as martyrs,

We'll give fair credit to her sons,

But not forget her Darters.

KATE SANBORN.

[Illustration: THE LOOKOUT]

A little of my (not doggerel) but pupperell to complete the family

trio.

Answer to an artist friend who begged for a "Turkey dinner."

Delighted to welcome you dear;

But you can't have a Turkey dinner!

Those fowls are my friends--live here:

To eat, not be eat, you sinner!

I like their limping, primping mien,

I like their raucous gobble;

I like the lordly tail outspread,

I like their awkward hobble.

Yes, Turkey is my favourite meat,

Hot, cold, or réchauffée;

*But my own must stay, and eat and eat;

You may paint 'em, and so take away.

KATE SANBORN.

[*Metre adapted to the peculiar feet of this bird.]

SPRING IN WINTER

_A Memory of "Breezy Meadows"_

'Twas winter--and bleakly and bitterly came

The winds o'er the meads you so breezily name;

And what tho' the sun in the heavens was bright,

'Twas lacking in heat altho' lavish in light.

And cold were the guests who drew up to your door,

But lo, when they entered 'twas winter no more!

Without, it might freeze, and without, it might storm,

Within, there was welcome all glowing and warm.

And oh, but the warmth in the hostess's eyes

Made up for the lack of that same in the skies!

And fain is the poet such magic to sing:

Without, it was winter--within, it was spring!

Yea, spring--for the charm of the house and its cheer

Awoke in us dreams of the youth of the year;

And safe in your graciousness folded and furled,

How far seemed the cold and the care of the world!

So strong was the spell that your magic could fling,

We _knew_ it was winter--we _felt_ it was spring!

Yea, spring--in the glow of your hearth and your board

The springtime for us was revived and restored,

And everyone blossomed, from hostess to guest,

In story and sentiment, wisdom and jest;

And even the bard like a robin must sing--

And, sure, after that, who could doubt it was spring!

DENIS A. McCARTHY.

_New Year's Day_, 1909.

Mr. McCarthy is associate editor of _The Sacred Heart_, Boston, and a