Aint yo’ a silly coon!
A talkin’ ’bout de mystery
Ob de man dats in de moon!
_I_ tell yo’ ’taint no mystery
’Bout de moon, or how it acts,
I reckon ef yo’d like to know
_I_ kin tell yo’ all de facts.
’Tis dis:--Yo’ see when de world was new
De moon was roun’ an’ clear;
An’ kep’ a shinin’ ebery night
Jus’ so, year arter year.--
’Till dis man he done some drefful t’ing--
He ran, but dey cotched him soon
An’ widout no odds dey banished him
An’ sent him to de moon.
Dey see’d him lookin’ down to earth
Whar dey wouldn’t let him stay;
Den solemn like, an’ bery slow
He turn he face away.--
An’ arter dat de moon was new--
Den half a moon dar’ll be;
Den de moon am roun’, an’ de man looks down
On de lan’ an’ on de sea.
An’ he gazes ober all de earth
’Til he wants to see no more--
Den he slowly turn he face away
Jus’ as he did before.
Dese am de facts ob what yo’ call
De “Mystery profound”--
When de moon keeps changing as yo’ see
_’Tis de man a turnin’ round_!
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_A BIRTHDAY GREETING_
Your natal anniversary
Once more around has crept;
And, as a token of respect
Will you these flowers accept
From all your friends? And we do hope
That they may bring delight;
And shed abundant cheer and joy
From every petal bright.
And as another year speeds on
To swell the list of Time;
We truly wish that each day may
Be filled with Peace sublime.
And may the Heavenly Father’s grace
Be with you on your way;
And keep you safely ’till returns
Another glad Birth-day.
_ALL’S WELL THAT ENDETH WELL_
The robins and the blue-birds sing
In tones so sweet and clear;
“Cheer up dear, Annie dear, ’tis spring
And Summer time is near.”
The crocus soon will wake from sleep
And lift its dainty head;
The trailing arbutus will peep
Out from its leafy bed.
Dame Nature soon will deck the hills
And vales in verdant clothes;
While ’neath the oak the brooklet trills
Where blooms the blushing rose.
Fair daisy sweet and buttercup
The breeze will softly kiss;
Then do not pine, dear friend, cheer up
And share with them their bliss.
Let not your heart be troubled dear,
The birds this message tell,--
Ye faint at heart, be of good cheer,
“All’s well that endeth well.”
_A TALE FROM MOUNTAIN GRANGE_
[This poem was written for, and read at the first meeting held after the
completion of the new grange hall at North Buckfield, Nov. 1st, 1904.
The poem was founded on facts, but in order to be more amusing for the
occasion the incidents were, of course, somewhat exaggerated by the
author, who was also a member of Mountain Grange.]
Patrons and Friends:
Within the annals of this Grange
A circumstance occurred--
And, be it true--Or otherwise,
I’ll give it as ’twas heard.
When last winter’s icy breezes
Brought the welcome news, so strange
That the ever staunch, and loyal
Patrons of this Mountain Grange
Decided to erect their temple
Ere the coming of the Fall
In the village of North Buckfield,--
There to locate their new hall.--
Ere the last glad trump had sounded
Thro’ the vales, and o’er the plain--
Ere the zephyrs bore the echo
To the rugged hills of Maine--
Ere the last faint notes were wafted
To “Old Shack’s” most distant peak--
There a brave, and loyal patron
Thus to himself did speak:--
“I, Lucius Record, patron, member
Of this Grange, a vow do make
That _I_ the very first will be
The foundation ground to break.
For I have read of honors great
To “lay the corner stone,”
_I’ll_ be the first to break the ground
And do it _all alone_!
And so, for months, this patron brave
Did cherish in his breast
A longing for the time to come
Which gave him much unrest.
“Old Father Time” moved slowly on--
The snow began to melt--
The bleak earth showed in tiny spots
Where _Lucius Record_ dwelt.
For aught else in the world, just then
He neither cared nor feared;
But watched those patches grow, until
The snow had disappeared.
To all who anxiously await
Time slowly wears away;
But at last--at last there came the eve
Ere the eventful day.
That night no sweet dreams came to him,
No sleep his pillow sought;
But listened he to every sound
With nerves most tensely wrought.
And ere the sun’s first rays arose
To gild yon distant domes;
And shed their radiance upon
These fair North Buckfield homes
Arose he from his downy couch--
And with his gleaming spade
Proceeded he to carry out
The plans which he had made.
In silence marched he by Fred Heald’s,
Slow, stealthy as a mouse;
With bated breath, on tiptoe went
Past Celia Dunham’s house
Lest she or Fred should be awake
And chance to hear his step,--
And thus--with soft, and cat-like tread
He past the school house crept
And reached the spot where stands this hall
When lo! in yonder field
He spied a form approaching near,
And found ’twas Brother Heald
And on the self same purpose bent!
Lute straightway feared the worst;
It but remained now to be seen
Which one would get there first!
Lucius quickened up his pace
Nor stopped for rocks or planks,
’Tis said his record equaled then
The far-famed Nancy Hanks!
He nearly now his courage lost,
The way seemed not so clear
To be the first to break the ground
With _tother feller_ near.
So in the road the spade he dropped
And scooped it full of earth
Then sprang with all his wondrous might
And ran for all he’s worth
And dumped that sand upon the spot,
And made a little mound--
“Ah, ha!” quoth he, “_I am_ the first
To break the Grange Hall ground!”
Then with a sigh both turned away--
They felt somewhat--perhaps
One like the ‘Russians’ at bay--
The other like the ‘Japs.’--
The morning dawned with azure skies,
And then the workmen came;
Brad Damon and another man
Sir William Brown by name.
They saw the sand, and then one spoke--
(The other followed suit,)
“What tarnal fool done this, d’ye spose?
I vum, I’ll bet ’twas Lute!”
The other answered, “I’ve no doubt
’Twas him, but see these tracks--
Now you don’t spose dew ye, they
Resemble Danville Jack’s?”
“Oh, no, taint Dan--I know ’tis Lute--
To reason _this_ appeals:--
These tracks look like an Elephant
While _Dan’s_ got _Nigger heels_!”
Then exclamations volleyed forth,
With laughter long and loud;
Just then Geo. Record’s silvery voice
Came ringing through the crowd:
“I say there, _Bill_! Tim Jones’n me
Will give fifty cents in change
To whom will write this story up
And read it in the Grange!”
Five poetic pencils glibly glide--
Low bends each thoughtful head--
Presented for inspections, thus
Brad Damon’s poem read:--
Lucius Record
Sat up late,--
Broke the ground--
Honor great.
Road to fame--
Show’s us how,--
Pile of dirt--
Big’s a cow.
Danville Jack--
Gloomy feels--
Awfully fat--
Nigger heels.
Awfully solemn--
Awfully mute--
Sadly feels--
Beat by Lute!
Walls of fame--
Got Lute’s name on--
Poem complete--
Bradbury Damon.
“By Gum! he’s beaten us all!” they cried
Between their tight--shut teeth;
Then brushed away that pile of sand
And saw what lay beneath!
They cried “Let’s give three cheers for Lute!
Of him we have learned this day
If we can’t succeed _just as we wish_
We’ll do it _as we may_.”
PATRONS, FRIENDS:--
Should aught arise within this Grange
Which we don’t understand;
Let’s look beneath the surface _then_,
Let’s clear away the sand.
_SONG OF THE GRANGERS’_
(Written for Mountain Grange)
Away o’er the hills, or thro’ valleys,
Wherever I happen to be;
’Tis wafted along by the breezes,
And comes like sweet music to me,
As on, by the wayside I wander
A Brother I happen to meet,--
The hand-grasp is ever most cordial
And _this_ is the way that we greet,--
Goin ’t the Grange?
I stroll mid the tall waving grasses
Where the laurel and sweet brier springs--
Thence on, to the deep-shadow’d woodland
Where the brooklet so merrilly sings--
How lulling the chirp of the cricket--
How drowsy the hum of the bees.--
I start.--for a voice speaking near me
In deep tones utters words such as these--
Goin ’t the Grange?
Oh! the tables so loaded with dainties
We hail with the keenest delight;
The fruit, pies, and cake, we all welcome
With faces so happy and bright.
There’s naught like the rich, amber coffee
Great fervor and zest to impart--
While the savory baked beans and brown bread
E’er touch a deep chord in the heart--
Goin ’t the Grange?
_Grange!_---- name so laden with beauty
I hail with the greatest of glee;
I love it, our dear banded Order--
And ever a Granger _I’ll_ be!
Oft I long as the season approaches
The time for a “meeting” again
To hear from the tumult of voices
Re-echo this gladsome refrain:--
Goin ’t the Grange?
And may the bright _Star_ of the _Heavens_
Ever guard and guide us aright--
May we all many times be permitted
To meet here in ardent delight.
May we ever be true to our Master--
Prove faithful and honest in all;
And be ready to answer the summons
When the One great Master shall call
To a higher and nobler Grange.
_UNCLE JOE’S SOLILOQUY_
Talk about your new inventions
And the wonders of the age;
_I_ think the pesky foolishness
Has reached the topmost stage!
The news that this here world is round
Comes from some great man’s mouth--
And that ’tis hung onto a pole
That goes from North to South.
And I suppose that this here way
Is the way to solve the riddle--
Just take an apple up, and thrust
A needle through the middle.
And what is it they won’t do next?
For now, Why, ’pon my soul
They say that larn’ed folks have tried
To find the great North Pole!
_I’d_ rather stay upon the land
Than sail upon the sea;
Why can’t _them_ folks just stay at home
And let the North Pole be?
Now I am kind of worried like
For fear some of those men
That’s sailing round and round the airth
Will _find_ the pole and then
Some of them chaps who thoughtlessly
At common sense will scoff
Will take it into their wise heads
To cut the North Pole off!
And then what would become of us?
I’m sure I haint no notion--
I spose that _we_, the world and all
Would fall into the Ocean!
And what a bad thing that would be--
How dreadful is the sound--
_To let the world fall in the sea
And all the good folks drown’d!_
I wish that them ere pesky folks
Would let the pole alone;
I think that they had better find
Some business of their own!
I wish some one would find them folks
And try and make them see
That they had better stay at home
And let the North Pole be!
If _I_ should ever see them men
As sure’s my name is Joe
They’ll find what _my_ opinion is
And I shall tell them so!
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_WHEN DADDY ROCKS THE KID_
Little daughter, fair and sweet
With dainty baby charms;
Making every joy complete
As from mamma’s arms
Very tenderly she’s laid;--
(Mamma’s smiles are hid--
_Sees_ the queer maneuvers made
When daddy rocks the kid!)
Darling, winsome as can be--
Blossom sweet and rare;
Hears the tuneful melody
From the rocking chair.
Never heard such songs before,--
(And guess _he_ never did--)
Language new--and tunes galore,
When daddy rocks the kid!
Though forty times, ere day is done,
From work he homeward comes;
To hold his precious little one
And see it suck its thumbs--
Mamma, e’er with loving glance
Sees new charms amid
The beauties, Which the joys enhance
When daddy rocks the kid!
When daddy rocks the kid to sleep
He banishes all care;
And o’er his visage smiles will creep--
Contentment’s written there.
No worldly sorrows cast their shade
But vanish as they’re bid.--
A pleasing picture thus is made
When daddy rocks the kid!
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_STOP TALKIN’_
When a feller gets his back up
And his temper’s in a muss;
If he keeps a peckin’ at ye--
Tryin’ hard to pick a fuss.--
Jest ye go about yer bis-ness.
‘Course its aggravatin’--but
Half the row will be averted
If ye’ll keep yer talker shut!
Shut yer lips together firmly--
Let the “other feller” groan,--
Soon ye’ll find the ranch deserted,
For he will not fight alone.
Ferocious bully’ll prove a coward,--
If ye swerve not from the rut
Of yer staunch determination
That ye’ll keep yer talker shut!
Talkin’ makes a heap o’ trouble
Out o’ nothin’, scandals great,--
As one gossip, then another
From the truth will deviate
’Till the color of the story
Darker grows--I tell ye what,
Wouldn’t be so many heartaches
If they’d keep their talkers shut!
Talkin’s right, if they would only
Try to smooth the weary way
Of some poor, lone, ship wrecked brother
And a word of comfort say
To the sick and weepin’ dweller
Of the rude and lowly hut.--
Then, yes, _then_, the time is for ye
_Not_ to keep yer talker shut!
If ye try to see the many
Virtues of yer feller men--
And yer kindly acts uplift him--
Ye are doin’ nobler, then
When to some heart yer words so cruel
Gives a deep malicious cut.--
If ye can’t speak words of _kindness_
Better keep yer talker shut!
_A YULE-TIDE MISSIVE_
To my dear friend:--E. L. F.
As onward Old Time is e’er rolling,
And Summer again has gone by;
The sweet bells of Christmas are ringing,
And wafting their music on high--
Telling the same sweet old story,
That ever emotion awakes;
Of Him who was born in a manger
And Who suffered and died for our sakes.
My wish is, that this day may bring you
Very rich and abundant good cheer;
May yours be a bright happy Christmas,
With friends that are ever sincere.
It is willed that I cannot be with you--
As you still linger “down by the sea;”
But my wish is--and may it be granted--
That one thought-wave may reach you from me,
Ere the bells have ceased ringing the tidings
Of Peace and Good Will to all men,
Old Santa will wake from his slumbers
And, hobbling forth from his den
He will harness his fleet footed reindeer
To the sleigh, and away he will flee,--
And eagerly on, he will hasten
To bring you this message from me!
Though this has no value, excepting
The love it contains in its fold,--
Yet, love that is true and unfading
To me is more precious than gold.
So, when you shall weigh in Worth’s balance
The gifts you receive on this day;
Surely mine will not be found wanting,
For Love will be sure to out-weigh.
Were I sure, that, receiving this missive
You should feel just one pang of regret
That I cannot be with you this evening,
It would fully repay me, and yet
I know you’ll transmit _one_ thought message
To me, from afar o’er the plain;
While the sweet bells of Christmas are ringing
And telling their story again.
While the sweet bells of Christmas are ringing
In accents of joy and of praise;
For the Babe in the manger, so blessed,
As they rang in the dear by-gone days,--
May they ring as of yore,--And the blessing
Of “Peace and Good Will” which they gave
In the ringing descend o’er our Spirits,--
Like music which wafts o’er the wave.
Buckfield, Me., 1911.
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_THE HUNTER_
Traditions of a hunter tells--
A hardy man, and stout;
Who ne’er used snow-shoes--for his feet
Were large enough without!
With dog and gun, across-lots, he
Would roam ’mong bush and stump;
Nor swerved he from the snow-drifts deep,--
He’d very seldom slump!
But once, ’tis said, he sank far down
While crossing o’er a field;
The damp snow caved upon his feet
And there he stuck--and squealed!
Then, standing like a statue
Beneath the sun’s warm glow--
His feet, like steamship’s anchor
Fast pinioned under snow.
He one mighty effort made--
He gave a piercing yell,--
The language wafted far and wide
E’en Echo ne’er would tell!
His pleading tones reached listening ears
And help soon reached the spot.--
And altho’ more we fain would know
Tradition telleth not.
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_THE POETRY MACHINE_
Pray, have you ever heard about--
Or have you ever seen
That Pearl of Ingenuity--
A Poetry Machine?
The wonderous thing is fashioned
With most exquisite skill;
Designed precisely to obey
The operator’s will.
When touched by “Muse’s” magic wand
The _thought-waves_ throb and spout;
Then, by the turning of the crank
It grinds the verses out.--
The sweet, poetic stanzas
Of equal length will be;
Then, clipping off the ragged lines
It makes a poem.--See?
And ’tis an elegant thing to have
When you’re “down in luck” you think--
(And the only cost is a trivial sum
Of some of your mental chink.)
When e’er the world seems going wrong
And you your courage lose;
Get out your “Poetry Machine”
And drive away the “blues.”
Just turn the crank--Sad thoughts will flee
As the cog-wheels whirr and buzz,--
There’s naught can raise one’s spirits up
Like the “Verse Mill” always does!
Let the rippling, rollicking rhymes roll out
With a clamor, a clash, and a clang;
Then punctuate each line with a laugh--
Be one of the “Jolly Gang!”
There will steal a soothing sense supreme
As we linger ’neath the spell,--
As steal sweet strains from Seraphic Song
Far o’er the Ocean’s swell
Or like soft breezes whispering
O’er the sun-kissed, mossy bank,--
With sweet, poetic fancies rife
If we but turn the crank!
_OCTOBER_
Down, the faded leaves are drifting,
From grey branches overhead;
All summer birds have taken flight,
The grass is sere and dead.--
The brown earth tells us Summer’s gone--
The frost lies white at early morn.
October
See! now is yon distant landscape
Clothed in warm and purple haze;
Redolent with ripen’d harvests
Of the Indian Summer days.
Bright--ye golden days--and glad,
Beautiful, yet erstwhile sad
October
Now the corn, no longer waving,
Shocked, stands waiting for the bin;
Choice fruit and garden products
Soon will all be gathered in.
Golden pumpkins, piled up high,--
Indicative of luscious pie!
October!
_TO MARY_
Dear Mary: The sweet bells of Christmas
Are ringing out vibrant and true,--
As I list to their music in gladness
I am thinking of _Danville_ and _you_.
So Sister, I’m sending this picture--
You will see at the Ward at the right
A little X marked o’er the window,
Where a star peeps in at me at night.
You know where my cot is, you fancy--
Tho’ your vision of _me_ is not clear;
Yet you know on that cot I am lying--
You have _Faith_ to believe I am here!
Then _now_, as the sweet chimes are pealing
In accents so joyous and rare;
Look, in _Faith_, towards the window of Heaven
And _believe_ that our _Saviour_ is there!
_THE WINDS DO BLOW_
[Written while the author was a patient at the Maine State
Sanatorium, Hebron, Me.]
There’s danger that some of these gales
Will lay this Cottage level--
For every other day, at least,
The wind blows like the---- deuce.
Should it occur, the chances are
That all the fields and lawns
From here down to “West Minot” will
Be scattered o’er with “Cons.”
Then Dr. Garrison, Dr. Knowles
And Dr. Nichols, too,
Will have to search o’er hill and dale
To find which way we blew!--
And all the nurses, too, will run
As fast as e’er they can
And help to bring “us patients” back
To this gale-stricken San!
Sure, if the wind strikes “Greenwood Hill”
With such an awful boom
We shall go sailing through the air
Like Witches on a broom!--
Whiz-Zip-Crash-Bang-Oh, Ugh!--My face
Is full of whirling snow!!--
It’s blown the coverings off my bed!!!--
Ah yes, “the winds do blow!”
Jan. 1913.
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_FAREWELL TO THE SAN_
To Dr. N.:--
My stay here has been quite extended,
And many long months now are gone;
But soon my sojourn must be ended,
For now I’m not sick with the “Con.”
My _heart_ may have an “affection”--
Yet do not imagine I’m ill,--
For I’m sure that, in case of detection
It would baffle your medical skill.
The “Microbe” lies hidden, tho closely you scan,
Yet it _lives_! Now, sad to relate;
One grievance exists which I owe to the _San_--
Oh dear, I have gained so in weight!
No more like a fairy am I.--Yet ’tis true
It is lovely to come here and rest,--
It’s a fine place to thrive--For see, even _you_
Are not very _small_ round the vest!
Oh no! and if ever I meet with a friend
Who is built on the skeleton plan
And wishes some fat on the ribs, I intend
To tell him to come to the San!
I’m sorry to leave Greenwood Mt. so fair
And the scenes I’ve so long dwelt amid,--
I know I have been an annoyance and care
Like a naughty refractory kid.
But vain are regrets.--So why let them tend
Toward the past?--Let ill memories flee!
Yet this will I say: Dr. Nichols--Kind friend
I thank _you_ for your kindness to me.
And I hope the Good Father who rules over all
By an all-wise and infinite plan
May guide and bless you, what e’re may befall--
And rich blessings send down to the _San_.
_The San Poetess._
[Illustration: decorative bar.]
_WE KNOW NOT WHY_
’Tis true, to some
Good luck will come
As we go life’s path along;
While to others here
There’s naught of cheer,
And every thing goes wrong.
Yet we cannot know
Why it is so--
For a few there is peace complete;
The while for some
There is not a crumb
From the loaf of comfort sweet.
Some know not the turmoil
Of struggle and toil--
Yet there’s enough and to spare for those
Who can live at their ease
And do as they please--
And their crown is entwined with the rose.
While others there are
From near and afar
Who by “sweat of the brow” earn their bread;
And ’tis very sweet
To those who may eat
Who by their own efforts are fed.
As God made the rich
And poor alike which
Will be guarded and led not astray?
And which, do you ween,
Will wear the bright sheen
When they get to the end of the way?
To some he sends woe--
We know not why ’tis so--
But he chasteneth _all_ more or less;
Where sorrow and strife
And burdens are rife,
_These_ will He especially bless.
When o’er trials we sigh
To Him we should fly
Who doeth all things for the best;
When comes the release
There’ll be eternal peace
In that beautiful Haven of Rest.
Let the rich help the poor,--
Drive the wolf from the door--
In the sorrows of others take part;
And He will receive
All “ye who believe”
And come with a pure sinless heart.
[Illustration: decorative bar.]