The mad flames dart and sway
Like ruddy, fork-tongued dragons
That swift devour their prey.--
The winds sang a requiem,
And many a silent prayer
Arose. As smoke and flame illumined
The sky with lurid glare.--
Oh! friends and loving kindred--
Your hearts in grief must bow;
The proprietor of the factory
Needs not your pity now!
An Angel came and bore him
To that celestial shore
Where all from earthly trials
Shall triumph evermore.
* * * * *
Once more the scene is pleasant
O’er Turner’s hills and moors;
And peaceful lies the village
By fair Nezinscot’s shores.
Green meadows ever rolling
The pine-clad hills between
With anon interspersing
The river’s azure sheen.
And on its pebbly beaches,
Where winds the glistening curve,
Still soft, pendulous verdure
The feathered nestlings serve.
The lofty oaks primeval
Still thrust their branches wide;
Where silvery wavelets sparkle
Upon the bounding tide.
Yet by the rushing waters
That sweep adown the strand;
A silent, rugged spectre
The grim old ruins stand.
The bleak walls, rent and jagged,--
As mountain walls might frown
That thro’ convulsive earthquake
Its crest had swallowed down.
The winds, thro’ crevice wailing
In sweetly plaintive air,
A perpetual dirge descanteth
For him, who perished there.
Thro’ all the years now vanished,
Neglected and forlorn;
It stands alone, and mutely
Bespeaks of days agone.
No loom or wheel is busy--
Revolving band ne’er whirrs--
No “Factory bell” each morning
The village folk bestirs.
No structure supersedeth
Where flow these waters free;--
Tho’ none can e’er determine
What may in future be.
Yet now, as rubious sunset
In splendor gilds the waves;
And sweet, naiadic music
Is wafting from the caves--
Oft in disconsolation
The zephyrs whisper still
This tragic tale:--relating
The burning of the mill.
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_CARPE DIEM_
Pray, never search for hidden woes,
Or grievous troubles borrow;
Nor cloud the sun today--in fear
Lest it may rain tomorrow.
God makes the sunshine and the rain--
Then, if today is pleasant
Why worry o’er tomorrow’s storm--
Why not enjoy the present?
It will not make the verdant hills
Put on a brighter hue;
Nor will the canopy above
Ere be a lesser blue
If all our hours are spent in tears,--
Then let us strive alway
To see our many blessings, and
Enjoy the _present_ day.
_A BACHELOR’S COMMENTS ON WOMEN’S RIGHTS_
’Tis said the time is close at hand
Which earnest thought invites--
We’ll take up this expansive theme
And speak on “Women’s Rights.”
Methinks there’s many a questions, now,
Which worthy seems of note;
What say we, then: Will all things change
When the women have power to vote?
Will they exchange places with the men--
Tread where have trod their feet--
And dig and delve all day, to get
Things for the men to eat?
Will the men folks stay in the house all day
Dressed in their silks and laces--
Their soft white hands bedecked with rings,
And powder on their faces?
Will they play the piano, with no thought
To the morrow ever giving--
While the woman goes, and tries to find
Some way to get a living?
Will she be a carpenter,
And build houses tall and grand;
And scale with might the dizzy height
With hammer and saw in hand?
Will she be a soldier true
And fight in uniform--
Or will she be a sailor bold
And brave the tempestuous storm?
Will she like to make the mines
Down underneath the ground
And bring to light the precious gems
In those dark and deep caves found?
Will she like to dig for ore
Where the hidden metals are?
Will she take her place on a railway train
Or drive an electric car?
How many will learn the _dentist’s_ trade?
For they must learn it when
The good new time comes--and the ladies
Change places with the men.
Can she build the massive bridges
That the rushing waters span--
Can she smoke and chew tobacco
And do it like a man?
Can she even be a _farmer_--
Hold plow and drive the horse?
Should she change places with the men
Why, then she can of course!
Then the liege lords will realize
As darksome fears encroach;
Why the once fair sex in timidity
Shrank from a mouse’s approach
Yes, the time is drawing nearer,--
Yet one question still remains
Will the world be any better
When the women hold the reins?
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_WEALTH vs VIRTUE_
By devious ways and endeavors, afar
I sought, ascertaining if Gold
And _Virtue_--that fairest of gems--were at par
And in the same rank were enrolled.
And, viewed with zest keen and undaunting,
Often Gold has been found to out-weigh;
And the measure of Virtue? Found wanting!
For gold hath power mighty to sway.
For instance: Go mingle with people of style
In church--you can easily note
The smile and the shrug, as you pass down the aisle
With frayed hat and a patch on your coat.
Tho’ your heart may be kindest of any,
Time has flown since your clothing was new;
You are lacking in Wealth--ah! how many
Will bid you to enter their pew?
While precedes you a lady,--so haughty and grand,
Gaily trips she along down the aisle;
Her rosy lips wreathed in smiles sweet and bland--
She is clad in the most approved style.
You gaze on her features. Deceiver--
Is stamped plainly there on her face,--
Yet how eager are all to receive her--
How quick to share with her their place!
Go e’en on the street in your sorrow--
The wealthy and grand pass you by
In comfort, No trouble they borrow,
They see not the tear in your eye.
Were you dressed in fine raiment so neatly,
Your friendship would surely be theirs;
But now you are ignored completely,
They heed not your pleadings or prayers.
Often Riches will seek only Wealth’s favored lot
While Virtue _seeks_ Virtue, abroad--
Or in humble seclusion--In palace or cot,
Knowing _all_ are the children of God.
Down the turbulent River of Life, ever move
Misfortunes sad waifs, far from shore;
Whose struggles avail not.--Then doth it behoove
Us to cast the Life Line to the poor.
If, as it may, circumstances reverse,
And we find ourselves level with men
Who have seen, thro’ affliction, their riches disperse,--
Would we wish _them_ to turn from _us_ then?
Jesus the Saviour has taught us the way,
We will err not by following thus:
“Do unto others” as near as we may
“As we wish them to do unto us.”
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_BE MERCIFUL_
Have mercy for the poor aged horse
That has served you so faithful and true;
Be to him gentle, and treat him with care,
He can feel just as keenly as you.
Don’t try to get speed when your horse is half starved,
But let the poor creature alone;
He is patient, submissive, a slave to your will,
And obeys you with never a moan.
So eager, and willing, yet feeble and lame,
Mayhap is worn out with disease;
He is toiling along, his breath nearly gone,
He is dreadfully weak in the knees.
The harness, replete with prominent knots
E’er galls him on shoulder and breast;
His bright mournful eyes ask in vain for relief,
His anguish is mutely expressed.
You ignore his pleadings, you heed not his pain,
Nor endeavor to lighten the load
By using your own locomotion to take
Yourself up the steep rocky road.
Oh! would that the spirit of pitying love
Into these thoughtless hearts might instill,--
There’s many a man _can dance all night--
But ’twould harm him to walk up a hill_!
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_SUNSHINE ON THE HILL_
In the low-land where the shadows
Gather at the close of day;
When the sky in all its beauty
Turns from blue to sombre grey,--
Voices of the day are ceasing,
Plaintively the night-birds trill,--
In the distance, like a halo--
Lo! the sun shines on the hill!
When, like Wings of Night unfolded
Sorrow casts its chilling shade;
Causing all our joy to vanish
And our cherished hopes to fade--
When _Oppression’s_ hand shall smite us
With a wrath that bodeth ill--
Look beyond the vale’s dark shadows
To the sunshine on the hill!
Like a whispered benediction
From the Realm of Light, so blest;
Steals those sacred words, in accents
Sweet: “And I will give thee rest.”--
Would we feel that peace and comfort
In our drooping hearts instill,--
Look beyond Life’s fitful shadows
To the _Sunshine_ on the _Hill_.
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_YOUR REAL WEALTH_
Brethren, as you down life’s pathway
Pass with firm and stately tread
When success shall crown your efforts
And its glories round you shed--
There’s a truth that e’er existeth,--
Though of high or lowly birth--
When death’s Angel for you calleth
You’ll own just “six feet of earth.”
Though you’re rich in lands and mansions,--
Though you’ve gold and jewels rare--
Though your life is bright and sunny
Never knows a want or care.--
Though a brother’s life of sorrow
Different is from yours of mirth;
Yet _some day_ he’ll be your equal--
Both will own “six feet of earth.”
Turn your gaze to scenes Immortal--
Is your chance of Heaven more sure
Than the lowly one, possessing
Naught of fame, but heart most pure?
Nay, your riches ne’er can save you,
_Virtue_ is the Gem of Worth;
You your wealth can not take with you
To the last “six feet of earth.”
Jesus once was poor and lowly,
And His crown held many a thorn;
Yet His heavenly Father loved Him
As He suffered grief and scorn.--
If your _soul_ is pure and stainless
You have _Wealth_,--there’ll ne’er be dearth;
When at last the clay is sleeping
In your own “six feet of earth.”
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_CHANGEABLE_
Beneath an apple tree she sat
Amid bright leaf and flower,
Telling of what she would do,
Were it within her power:
She’d civilize the heathen poor,--
She’d meet the wary foe,
And drive them till their trackless paths
Were through eternal snow.
With strong nerve she would care for those
Who are stricken down in war
And cheer the sick and suffering ones
Without a bit of awe.
She’d soothe the fevered ones to rest
And bathe each aching head,--
And never would she shrink from pain,
But bravely work, instead.
But ah! what caused her cheek to pale
Ere she had ceased to speak--
What made her start, with fingers clenched,
And give that awful shriek?
Where is the maiden, once so brave?
Ah! nothing now can still her,--
For lo! upon her sleeve there lay
A _little caterpillar_!
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_PLEASURE_
’Twas a calm, still night and the big full moon
Looked down with smile serene;
And his watchful eye observed all things,
And he called it a curious scene.
All agreed ’twas a fine night for the dance,--
We all were so light-hearted;
Light-headed? No! but we wished to go
And dance, so off we started.
The night was fair and the watchful moon
Shone almost bright as day;
So Jack, he harnessed the old white mare
And hitched her to the sleigh.
The old horse clipped a lively time
Over the snow so cold,
Like a frisky colt,--though the old horse
Was twenty-five years old.
Oh, the pure delight of that moon-lit drive
As we dashed the plains across,--
And chung, chung, chung, went the merry bells,
The while the old white horse
Kept merry time to the tuneful bells
As over the snow we sped;
And the soft and gentle zephyrs blew,
And the moon its radiance shed.
The time flew by on rapid wings,
As it does when on pleasure bent;
And it was in the “wee small hours”
Before we homeward went.
’Twas a beautiful, beautiful, evening,
And the moon looked down so kind;
The world seemed full of music
And poetry combined.
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_TIME BRINGS CHANGES_
She sat down by the kitchen fire,
While munching bread and cheese;
With now and then a pancake hot,
Her hunger to appease.
“Ah me! how good this is,” she sighed
As a cookie she stowed away;
“I would that I a lunch could have
Like this one _every day_!”--
Next day her beau on her did call
To take her for a ride;
’Twas getting late--’twas nearly noon
When the mother her espied.
And, anxious as all mammas are,
As to how her daughter fared;
Cried, “Just you wait a moment dear--
I’ve dinner all prepared.”
“Oh! mercy! no,”--it was no use,
She could not eat a mite
She hardly ever cared for much--
She had no appetite!--
Strange, wasn’t it? that one day she
Could eat a slice of steak,
Potatoes, and a ham sandwich,
With coffee, pie and cake,--
Yet the _next_ day, when her beau was nigh
What changes it did bring!
She was _so_ dainty and _so_ frail
She could not eat a thing!
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_MAMMA’S STORY_
Come hither my children, Sue, Archie, and Nell
And listen to me as a story I tell
How “once on a time,” in the mist and the fog
Was a poor ragged boy, and a little brown dog.
The dog, while at play, fell from a high bank
Into a dark pool--and down, down it sank.
To escape it endeavor’d, but slow was its speed,
For the treacherous mud did its progress impede.
But the folks passing by took no heed of him
Excepting to say--“Just see the pup swim!”
Or, regardless of all save their own worldly pelf--
“It is only a dog--Let it care for itself.”
’Till a poor ragged urchin with pitying eye
In passing that way the poor dog chanced to spy.--
Quickly thrusting a stick within reach of its jaws
It clung to it, and, with the aid of its paws
Reached the top of the bank, with a loud joyous yelp--
Ah! none but this boy had offered it help!
Then he took it up kindly, ’neath his jacket to hold
To protect the poor creature, now shivering with cold.
As snugly it nestled ’neath the boy’s ragged frock
It said (as plainly as a poor dog can talk)
I love you, dear friend--I’ll help _you_ if I can;
For in all this vast throng there’s but _you_ that’s a _man_!
Then came the dog’s master, who found it so wet,
And he sought now to fondle his dearly loved pet
In a loving embrace.--but it clung to the boy
With many plain manifestations of joy.
While its glance towards its master said plain as it could:--
“I’ll stay with this laddie because he is good.”
“Oh! my little pet knows you are honest and true;
The dog ’s name is Gipsy, and well he loves you.
But say, little man, how came you to save
‘A poor little cur’ from a watery grave?”
“I know what it is to be friendless,” he said,--
“I’ve no friends, or home, now since Mother is dead--
I know what it is to be hungry--forlorn--
I’ve not tasted food, sir, since yesterday morn.
And at night I must sleep where I happen to be--
And I thought this poor doggie was friendless like me.
The gentleman’s head was bowed low.--And he thought
Of his sister, who married a poor drunken sot,--
Ten years it had been since he last saw her face--
And five it had been since of her he lost trace.
For a moment he prayed--with heart beating wild:
“Have mercy on _her_, as I pity this child!”
Then aloud he said--as they moved through the throng--
“My dog will not come unless I take _you_ along.
So come home with me, ’Tis not good you should roam”--
And he treated him kindly, and gave him a home.
Then he sought the boy’s kindred--here fate on him smiled,--
_The lad was his nephew,--his lost sister’s child!_
And now in his prayers he forgets not his joy--
He thanks the kind Father for sending the boy.
Now children, who think you ’twas, out in the fog?
My dears, ’twas _your Grandpa_ who saved the brown dog!
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_EVERY CLOUD HATH SILVER LINING_
(In response to “Pennies In The Box” by R. F. D. carrier No. 1,
Buckfield.)
It is said that there are sunbeams
Shining in the distant blue;
Tho’ the dark and angry storm-clouds
May obscure them from our view,
Thus, mayhaps, the seeming hardships
Of the rural carrier’s lot
Are but shadows, merely flitting
Lest the sunbeams get too hot.
Though at times, the mailman’s fingers
Are half frozen, and he talks
Language of his own invention,--
Cursing “pennies in the box.”--
Though obliged to doff his mittens
In the zero wind, intent
On opening an icy mail-box--
Struggling with a wayward “cent.”
He should ne’er let angry passions
Vex his spirit--cloud his brow,--
For, beyond the sombre cloudlet
There are sunbeams shining now!
He can breathe “health-giving ozone”
With no doctor’s fees to pay--
All distructive germs dispelling
By “Fresh-air-cure” every day!
He should count the many blessings
That around his pathway creep--
No matter if the path’s blockaded
By a snow drift hard and deep,--
He should cultivate his patience
With a fortitude most rare;
Ne’er should frown beset his features--
Never even wish to swear!
These R. F. D. chaps should be happy,
But, alas, contentment damps
When they worry that “we patrons”
Don’t lay in a stock of stamps,--
If they’d gather up our pennies
And not grumble, they would see
Each and every patron murmur
Blessings on the R. F. D.!”
_DENNIS O’NEIL’S DREAM_
Dennis O’Neil fell asleep one day
And he dreamed from this life he had passed away
And went to Heaven, where, at the Gate
’Mong other pilgrims, he had to wait
’Till came his turn to ask for grace
To pass through the gates of that Holy place.
At length the vast throng ceased to flow--
A few entered the gate--the rest went below--
And he found himself waiting where others had been
’Till St. Peter should come and usher him in.
Soon he heard the sound of hurrying feet
Echoing out from the pearly street;
And, looking up, his eyes behold
Not the Saint--but a friend of the days of old.
With joyful smile they meet, embrace,
And tenderly gaze in each others face.
“Why Pat, old friend, so it appears
You, too, have left the ‘Vale of Tears’
No more to dwell mid scenes of woe
And the din and strife of the World below.
How is it, then, do you think that I
Can gain admittance if I try?
A plea for me of course you’ll make
In my behalf for friendship’s sake.
What must I do--if there should be
A vacant place in there for me--
Tell me now, I ask of you
What is the _first_ thing I must do?”
“First,” then said Pat, “Inside the gates
A pure and spotless Book awaits
Where _you_--like each and every one
Must write your name, What you have done,
Your faults, your sins, every time you have lied,
That you can recall till the day that you died.--
Every dishonest act write out plainly and bold--
For your chances are lost if _one thing_ you withhold!
“And how long is it, I’d like to know
Pat, since _you_ left the world below?”--
“If I mistake not, it is ten
Years I’ve with patience held the pen.”--
“What errand calls you forth this morn?”
“More ink,” said Pat, “I must hasten on.”
“Ten years since you’ve been in this clime--
And you’ve been writing all the time!
Begorry then, its more than ’tis worth--
And I think, on the whole, I’ll go back to the Earth.
--For really, you see, ’tis not worthy the strife--
_Sure, ’twould kape me at work all the days of me life!_”
_A LESSON WELL TAUGHT_
Along down the street walked a dandy
Who sported more beauty than brain;
He was dressed in an elegant fashion
And carried a gold headed cane.
With nothing to do, he was strolling--
Just seeking amusement and fun.--
But his practical joke caused him sorrow,
And _this_ is the way it was done.
“Bah jove! here comes an old crone--
Now excitement I anticipate!”
And his vest was pulsative with laughter
Thus causing his cheeks to inflate.
With a jug in her hand, and a basket,
She was wending her way from the store,--
A powerful woman from Erin’s fair isle
Weighing _two hundred and ninety_--or more.
As she with quick footsteps approaches
This _intrigue_ he hastily planned:--
To jostle against her, in passing,
And knock the things out of her hand.
And alas for the basket she cherished--
He had planned but too wisely, and well,--
The jug for an instant went whizzing--
Then, broken to atoms, it fell.
But she had him fast by the collar--
She shook him, then flung him down flat;
His legs broad-cast on the pavement
Were thrown, and down on them she sat!
He writhed like a fish out of water--
But in vain, for she held him down tight,--
“Ah, me honey, I have the advantage
An’ I’m thinkin’ ye’ll stay here tonight!
What ye doin’, ye black-hearted black-guard
That ye can’t let an ould leddy alone?
Are ye meddlin’ wid business of others
Because ye have none of yer own?
Ye have broken me jug--an’ molasses
Is spattered all over me dress--
But, begorra! ’fore wid ye I’m done
Ye’ll be lookin’ like me I guess!”
She arose--and both his feet seizing
Walked on, while he struggled and yelled;
But the more he struggled and shouted--
So much the more firmly she held!
Through the pool of molasses she dragged him
Until his immaculate shirt,
His trousers, and coat of fine broad-cloth
Was a mixture of molasses and dirt.
“Ye blear-eyed spalpeen! A lesson
I’ll larn ye afore I’m content--
Ye’ll not trouble agin an ould leddy
Because she’s of Irish descent!!!
Arrah--but ye don’t get away aisy!
Will ye be done wid yer pratin’, yer jokes?
Shure there’s no more honor about yer
Than to any ould bullfrog that croaks!
An’ a right sorry figure I’m thinkin’
Ye look fer a “swate bloomin’ youth!”
Will ye show yerself to the fellers?
Will ye tell yer ould Mither the truth?
Will ye tell her ye spilled me molasses--
If ye do, will she say it was right
To deprive an ould woman of somethin’
To eat on her cold bread to night?
An’ now, me molasses-cheeked dandy--
Ye may let _this_ yer feelin’s console:--
If ye ever agin let me ketch ye
I’ll thrash ye! I will, by me soul!!!
My advise ye had better be takin’
If ye’ve got a shmall mind of yer own,--
When ye meet an ould woman that’s _Irish_
Her ye’d better be lettin’ alone!”
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_REMINISCENCE_
Tonight, of the Past I am thinking--
Of one of the Autumn’s bright days
When the beautiful hills of old Hartford
Were covered with October haze,--
When the leaves, all russet and golden
Came rustling down, and the breeze
Seemed bent upon mischief, dispelling
The radiant garb of the trees.
Where the Oak and the Elm stand, defying
The wrath of the tempest’s fierce blast--
Through the thicket, where warble the wild-birds
And the chipmunk goes scurrying past.--
To the brilliant-hued, picturesque landscape
No color could artist e’er lend
On this day, when o’er hill and thro’ valley
I wandered in search of a friend.
In search of a dear loved one, dwelling
In a quiet, suburban retreat--
The friend whose kind manner e’er charmed me--
Whom I long had been hoping to greet.
And I found her at last, my friend Emma!
As at last thro’ the garden I walk.
She was sitting quite close by the window--
And I found her there--_mending a sock!_
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_HUMOROUS_
“Oh!” said the chick
To the white hen, “Run, quick!”
(They stood in the garden patch;)
“Here’s a woman coming
Who will send us ahumming--
She’s determined she’ll not let us scratch!”
“Now if ’twere a _man_
That yonder I scan”
And her eyes she opened wide,--
“And a rock he should throw
We’d know where ’twould go
And could easily dodge it one side,--
But _this_ is a _Woman_--
A terror uncommon,
What to do I’m sure I can’t see;
If a missile _she_ throws
It will veer, and, who knows?
May by accident hit you or me!”
“You silly chick,”
Said the white hen quick--
“Much wiser I hope you’ll soon be,--
Just stand in your track
When she makes an attack
And your safety I will guarantee!”
When, as it chanced,
She firmly advanced,
Hen and chicken with diligence scratched;
No verbal command
Availed, so her hand
A stone from the dusty loam snatched.
To _Southward_ she aimed--
And hostilely proclaimed!
(’Twas just as the white hen said--)
The pebble flew forth,
And, sailing due _North,
It struck her old man on the head_!
_ONWARD FOR FREEDOM AND RIGHT_
(Written at the time of the Spanish-American War.)
“All that there is in Cuba’s lands
Is ours, and we shall reign;
Or we will fight them till they die!”
Thus comes the cry from Spain.
“They never shall their freedom have--
We will rule with iron hand;
They shall bow to us, they shall heed our laws
Or we’ll drive them from the land!”
“Ye cruel tyrants! Are ye men?”
(’Twas ‘Uncle Sam’ who spoke.)
“Desist, or ye shall see this end
In cannon roar, and fire, and smoke
Ye worse than tyrants! what have ye done?
Ye have pillaged, burned and destroyed--
Ye have starved helpless men and women to death
And the wailing of children enjoyed.
Ye have tortured them with fiendish delight,
And hundreds of people have slain;
Ye caused the death of our brave, noble men,
Who went down in the wreck of the “Maine.”
Ye can come to me if ye want to fight,--
Ye can come with your jeer and taunt;
And ye can fight to your hearts’ content.
If fighting is what ye want.
Our boys so brave, when duty calls,
Will all their strength unite;
And fight as long as there is need
For freedom and for right.
May the curse forever be wiped out
That now the country mars;
And peace restored in this fair land
Where float the stripes and stars.”
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_A MYSTERY EXPLAINED_