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diff --git a/35033-0.txt b/35033-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed8d688 --- /dev/null +++ b/35033-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2141 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Wayside Weeds, by William Hodgson Ellis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Wayside Weeds + +Author: William Hodgson Ellis + +Release Date: January 21, 2011 [EBook #35033] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAYSIDE WEEDS *** + + + + +Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Brenda Lewis, Charlie Howard +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net + + + + + + + + + + WAYSIDE WEEDS + + + + + _NOTE_ + + + _The verses in this volume + have been collected by a few of Dr. Ellis’s + friends, and in this form are presented to him by + them as a New Year’s gift_ + + 1 _January,_ 1914 + + + + + INTRODUCTION + + + BY + MAURICE HUTTON, LL.D., + _Principal of University College, Toronto_ + + + + + W. H. E. + + + There is a Heav’n: at least on earth below: + It is where scholars read and thinkers brood: + For crowns and halos volumes in a row + For angels’ wings it has its gown and hood. + + In that seraphic choir see Ellis sit! + With that Elys-ian light his numbers glow: + The scholar’s seriousness, the scholar’s wit, + Twin spirits in alternate ebb and flow.[1] + + Studious and silent he has read life’s page, + Scholar and chemist he sees part and whole; + Teaching and thought let loose his noble rage + And stir the genial current of his soul. + + His golden rod absorbs our meaner staves + As Aaron’s rod the rods of Phara-oh, + Or as New Brunswick’s river-name outbraves[2] + The pious Jordan of Ontario. + + His May-blossoms relieve our strenuous May, + Our evening smoke curls bluer as we read, + The earliest pipe of half-awakened day + Draws a new fragrance from his choicer weed. + + His artless puff-balls have a tale to tell, + His Flora opens treasures new and old, + His way-side weeds have been our asphodel[3] + His “dandy lines” become our “harmless gold.”[4] + + +[1]Plato (sixth letter—323 c.) speaks of Elysian or Ellis-i-an scholars + “Swearing with scholarly seriousness and with that playfulness which + is seriousness’ twin sister.” Thompson’s _Gorgias_, 41. + +[2]See “Weed,” p. 37. + +[3]See “Weed,” p. 43. + +[4]See Lowell on “Dandelions”:— + + “Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold.” + + + + + SOME ELUCIDATIONS OF THE INTRODUCTION BY THE EDITORS + + + Lines + + 1. So also, + + “. . . amidst the fairest flowers + Of the blest isles, Elysium’s blooming bowers.” + + Greek inscription on a marble at Rome. Neaves, _Greek Anthology_, + _Edin._, 1874, p. 62 (“blooming,” vulgarism, meaning weedy.) + + 2. Cf. _Ezekiel_, xxxvii. 1, 2. + + 3. Academic “crowns and halos” (cf. Seneca, _Naturales Questiones_, + 1, 2, 1 and 3) must needs, for obvious reasons, be made of + paper. Notice also the subtle suggestion that Dr. Ellis is + _laurea donandus Apollinari_, worthy of the laurel (crown) of + Apollo. (Horace, _Carminum_, iv. 2, 9.) + + 4. Why should “the gown and hood” be required “for angels’ wings”? To + clothe them withal, of course. The draping of angels with wings + and the attachment of wings to the structure of the back of the + human figure have presented problems to artists in all ages. + The best solution is undoubtedly to cover up the wings, and the + gown with its hood is the only appropriate garment. (Cf. + Carpenter, Edward, “Angels’ Wings,” . . . London, 1898, pp. + 25-40, in which the anatomical and sartorial difficulties are + fully discussed.) + + 8. Principal Hutton and Dr. Ellis present the phenomenon of + ὁµοβλαστής sprouting (or swearing) together. Cf. Theophrastus, + “On the Causes of Plants,” v, 5, 4. + + 10. In other words, Dr. Ellis is at once πολῠπαίπᾰλος, exceeding + crafty (_i.e._ master of many crafts, including angling). Cf. + Homer, _Odyssey_, 15, 419, 11. and πολῠπᾰθής, subject to many + passions. Cf. Plutarch, _Moralia_, 171. + + 11-12. A subtle hint of ἐλᾰσί-βροντα, thunder hurling (cf. Pindar, + _Fragments_, 108), or ἑλλίσσω βωµόν, to dance round about it + (whatever it may be). Cf. Callimachus, _Del._ 321. + + 13. Clearly referring to “_praedam calamo tremente ducit_,” he draws + in his prey with a rod. Martial, 4, 30, 9. Cf. _infra_, “Weed” + p. 31. + + 16. “The pious Jordan” is evidently a bull, referring to the cult of + the river-god. It reflects _tauriformis Aufidus_, the + bull-formed Aufidus, the river upon which Horace was born + (Horace, _Carminum_, iv. 14, 25). We also have our Afidus or + Jordan, upon whose banks our own Horace lives. + + 17-20. An ingenious reference to the University final examinations in + May, when candidates write all day and the examiner reads and + smokes till dawn. Having subjected his victims to freshly + devised tortures (_novo quaestiones genere distorsit_ + Suetonius, _Dom._ 10), he broods over their miseries and their + papers—ἐλεᾶς ἀνέλεος—an owl without pity. + + 23-24. Or, in the language of the angler, his ἐπανθρᾰκίδες have been + our ἐπανθισμός; his weeds have given us the motive for the + design on the back of this book. + + + J. M. + J. J. M. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + Little White Crow 1 + Consider the Lilies of the Field 18 + The Skunk Cabbage 21 + The Wanderer’s Song 25 + The Cowdung Fly 27 + The Song of the Bass 31 + Maskinongewagaming 33 + Magaguadavic and Digdeguash 37 + Rhona Adair 40 + The Duffer’s Elegy 42 + When Potter Played 45 + Colonial Preference 47 + The Lyric League 51 + Psychology 53 + The Bal Poudré 55 + Wisdom and Fancy 56 + Persicos Odi 57 + The Iceberg 58 + Horace I., i 60 + When You and I were Young, Adam 63 + As a Watch in the Night 68 + To R. R. W. 70 + + + + + Christmas 1913 Toronto + + _To those good friends in whose indulgent eyes + they seemed worth collecting and preserving; + And to the beloved memory of some + who once trod with me the Highways and Byways + where they were gathered; + I offer this handful of + Wayside Weeds._ + + + + + Little White Crow + (A LEGEND OF ST. ANNE) + + + + + Part I. + + + Little White Crow was an Algonkin, + And he lived on the Isle of Chips; + His legs were long, and his flanks were thin, + He had high cheek-bones, and a strong square chin, + Jet black was his hair, dark red was his skin, + And white were his teeth, when a joyful grin + At the sound of the war-whoop’s hideous din + Parted his silent lips. + + Three eagles’ feathers adorned his head, + Well greased was his snaky hair; + His face was daubed with black and with red, + No trousers he wore, but fringed leggings instead, + And moccasins ’broidered with quills for thread. + Very proud was his look, very stately his tread, + And of this he was fully aware. + + Little White Crow had a sharp _couteau_, + A carbine, and powder and shot: + And the scalps of the braves whom he’d sent below + Hung at his girdle, a goodly row. + He’d a med’cine bag where he was wont to stow + Charms against famine and fever and foe: + And over his shoulders he used to throw + A beaver-skin robe on occasions of show: + Oh, a very fine fellow was Little White Crow! + If you’re curious to learn why they christened him so + The Indian Department might possibly know + Ask Deputy Minister Scott. + + Father Le Cocq was a priest from Quebec, + Rather spindle of shank, rather scraggy of neck; + He’d a stoop in the shoulder, was yellow of skin, + With closely cut hair, and a smooth shaven chin, + He had very black eyes, and a rather red nose; + Wore shoes with steel buckles and very square toes, + A big shovel hat, a black cassock and bands, + And a rosary seldom was out of his hands. + + But Loyola never, and nowhere than he + Had a loyaller or a more staunch devotee; + And none carried further the Jesuit virtue, + Viz.:—“Do as you’re bid, and don’t cry if it hurt you!” + Though gentle by nature and fond of his ease, + He would work like a slave his Superior to please; + He would shrink from no danger, pain, toil or disgrace, + Or would swear wrong was right until black in the face! + As wise as a serpent, as firm as a rock, + Yet as meek as a dove was good Father Le Cocq. + + With bell, book and candle the priest had been sent + To Ottawa’s banks, with the pious intent + To find, if he could, after diligent search, + A few stray, red sheep for the fold of the church; + And there in a cabin of poles and of bark, + He sang hymns and said masses from daylight to dark. + It happened one day that good Father Le Cocq + Had been visiting some of the lambs of his flock, + And homeward returning, his pious task done, + Was paddling along at the set of the sun. + Now a man may be virtuous, learned, austere, + In religion devout, and in morals severe, + Yet,—true as it’s strange, and sad as it’s true,— + _Not_ able to manage a birch bark canoe! + So now,—at the paddle by no means a dab,— + He caught what is vulgarly known as a “crab”: + His balance he lost, the canoe was upset, + And Father Le Cocq tumbled into the wet! + Poor Father Le Cocq! any chance looker-on + Would have fancied for certain, his usefulness gone. + And, indeed, the priest’s chance was uncommonly slim, + The current ran fast, not a stroke could he swim, + And he thought all was over in this world for him. + But, thanks to St. Francis, St. Anne, St. Ignatius, + Or some saintly personage equally gracious, + It happened that not fifty paces below, + Behind a big boulder sat Little White Crow. + He was fishing for trout, and I wish I could catch, + In these days of saw-mills another such batch! + The rock, as I’ve said, hid the priest from his view, + But he heard a great splash, and he saw a canoe + Float down bottom upwards, while close behind that + Swam jauntily after,—a big shovel hat. + No moment to ponder paused Little White Crow: + He sprang from the bank like a shaft from a bow; + He could swim like a mallard and dive like a loon, + But he reached the poor priest not a moment too soon; + Caught hold of his cassock and collared him fast, + Just while he was sinking the third time and last; + Then reaching the shore, dragged the poor Father out, + As you’d land a remarkably overgrown trout! + + It’s needless to mention that Little White Crow + Did not know, and could not be expected to know, + Doctor Marshall Hall’s method, so justly renowned, + For restoring to life the apparently drowned; + But he worked in his own way with such a good will, + He rubbed and he chafed with such zeal and such skill + That the priest after heaving some very deep sighs, + First yawned, and then groaned, and then opened his eyes. + Little Crow’s simple means as completely succeeded, + As ever the treatment of any M.D. did. + (Where credit is due I’m determined to give it) + And the priest before long was as right as a trivet. + + “My friend and preserver, you very well know,” + Thus the Father the red-skin addressed, + “That of gold and of silver I’ve none to bestow, + In return for the life that to you I must owe”; + (Here he drew a silk bag from his breast)— + “But one precious treasure I beg you’ll accept.” + (And here, overcome by emotion, he wept.) + Then he took a small object from out of the bag, + Which he carefully wiped with a small piece of rag. + A moment he tenderly gazed on it,—then + He kissed it with fervour again and again, + One last lingering look of affection,—and so + He handed it over to Little White Crow. + + With stately politeness the Indian received + The treasure so prized, and at once he perceived, + (With some disappointment, to tell you the truth,) + _A badly decayed, rather large, double tooth_! + + “In your estimation, I very much fear,” + Thus gravely the Father began, + “Devoid of all value my gift will appear; + But when you have heard me its worth will be clear: + ’Tis a relic of Holy Saint Anne! + To tell half its virtues all night would require: + ’Tis an excellent cure for the vapours; + ’Twill heal any dropsy, no matter how dire, + Put out the last spark of Saint Anthony’s fire, + And stop all Saint Vitus’s capers! + The twinges of toothache, so hard to endure, + The quinsy, the gout and the spleen, + The scurvy, the jaundice, all these it will cure; + While to break up an ague you’ll find it more sure— + And a great deal more cheap,—than quinine. + + “In short, there is nothing need cause you alarm + So long as this relic you wear; + You’ll find it indeed an infallible charm + Against every conceivable species of harm + To which poor humanity’s heir.” + + He ceased, the red-skin gravely smiled, + And gravely shook his head, + And then the simple forest child + Addressed the priest in accents mild, + And this is what he said: + + “My uncle thinks it’s easy to gull + Little White Crow, I ween; + Hollow and empty he deems his skull, + He fancies his wits are all gone dull,— + He’s wrong,—they’re _Al-gon-keen_!” + + He grinned, and without any further delay + Put the tooth in his med’cine bag safely away, + And then with a gesture more free than polite, + Clapped the priest on the shoulder and wished him, “good night.” + + + + + Part II. + + + A year and a day! A year and a day! + How the days and the weeks and the months roll away! + How little we know what of joy or of sorrow lies + Before us next year—but I’ve no time to moralize. + Well, a year and a day had elapsed as I’ve stated, + Since the incidents happened I lately related. + Little White Crow and a score of his friends + To further their own individual ends + (And those of their neighbours as well, I’ve no doubt), + Deep loaded with furs for Quebec had set out. + + They’d been rather more lucky than usual, I think, + In hunting the beaver, the bear and the mink; + And their spoils at Quebec they intended to trade + For the goods of the French, which long habit had made + If not indispensable still very handy,— + Knives, gunpowder, kettles, beads, bullets and brandy. + To keep to my story: our friends on this day + Down the river were calmly pursuing their way, + When Little White Crow in the foremost canoe + Was startled to hear a wild hullabaloo. + He sprang to his feet, and he shaded his eyes, + Then cried in a voice of alarm and surprise— + (We all use strong words when things happen to plague us), + “Oh bother it! here are those bless’d Onondagas!” + He said; and with yells of defiance the crews + Paddled quickly ashore and pulled up their canoes. + + Oh! pleasant it is through the forest to stray + In the gladsome month of June; + To list to the scream of the merry blue jay, + And the chirp of the squirrel so blithe and gay, + And the sigh of the soft south winds that play + In the top of the pine trees tall and grey + A sweet regretful tune. + + And pleasant it is o’er a forest lake + Through the cool white mists to glide, + Ere the bright warm day is half awake, + When the trout the glassy surface break, + And the doe comes down her thirst to slake, + With her dappled fawn by her side. + + Where the loon’s loud laugh rings wild and clear, + Where the black duck rears her brood; + Where the tall blue heron with mien austere, + Poised on one leg at the marge of the mere, + Muses in solitude. + + Yes, sweet and fair are the forest glades, + Where the world’s rude clamours cease; + Where no harsh, workaday sound invades + The Sabbath rest of the solemn shades; + A Paradise of peace! + + But oh! it’s a different thing when one knows, + That each bush is an ambush concealing one’s foes; + When the sweet flowers are choked by the sulphurous breath + Of the musket whose mouth is the portal of death; + When instead of the song of the frolicsome bird, + Shots, shrieks, yells and curses alone can be heard; + Then the streamlet’s sweet tinkle seems changed to a knell, + And the forest’s deep gloom to the blackness of hell! + + Little White Crow, at the close of the day, + With a handful of comrades was standing at bay; + Things had gone with them badly, they were but a score + And the enemy numbered a hundred or more. + Now flushed with success and of victory sure, + The Iroquois, thinking their triumph secure, + Were preparing to deal one last finishing blow + To annihilate utterly Little White Crow! + Poor Little White Crow! though a “fisher of men,” + He hardly looked like an apostle just then; + He’d been dodging all day behind rock, bush and tree, + A cunning old fox in a scrimmage was he. + But numbers will tell in the long run, and now, + With hate in his heart and revenge on his brow, + With his knife in his teeth and his gun in his hand, + As he urged on his comrades to make one last stand, + Though his bullets were spent and their arrows all gone— + He looked more like Old Nick, I’m afraid, than Saint John! + + Little White Crow had poured into his gun + His last charge of powder, but bullets he’d none; + He searched in his shot pouch again and again, + He begged of his comrades, but begged all in vain; + Among the whole party in fact there was not + So much as one pellet of No. 6 shot. + He was just giving up the whole job in disgust + When his hand in his med’cine bag chancing to thrust, + As Fortune would have it his fingers he ran + Against the back tooth of the blessed Saint Anne! + Little White Crow gave a terrible shout, + The tooth in a trice from the bag he whipped out, + Dropped it into his musket, and yelling still louder, + He rammed it well home on the top of the powder. + But here come the foe! From rocks, bushes and trees + They start like a swarm of exasperate bees; + A capital simile that is in any case, + To describe an assault of Oneidas or Senecas: + And one, as it happens, remarkably apt in + This particular case, for the Iroquois Captain + Was a chief called Big Hornet,—a beggar to fight, + Who measured six feet and some inches in height. + ’Twas he gave the signal to make the attack, + ’Twas he led the rush of the bloodthirsty pack, + And ’twas he, as he charged in the front of the foe, + Attracted the notice of Little White Crow. + Little White Crow brought his gun to his shoulder, + And rested the barrel on top of a boulder, + Singled out the Big Hornet’s conspicuous figure, + Drew a bead on his forehead,—and then pulled the trigger. + + “Click” went the flint lock, and the musket went “bang,” + The forest around with the loud echo rang, + The gun burst to atoms, so great was the shock, + And vanished entirely, lock, barrel and stock: + While wholly uninjured, incredible though, + It seems, I acknowledge, was Little White Crow. + + But the Iroquois Chief gave a horrible yell, + He threw up his arms and then backward he fell; + He sprang to his feet and fell backward again, + He rolled, and he writhed, and he wriggled with pain. + His friends gathered round him and started aghast, + At seeing a _tooth_ to his nose sticking fast. + + “Away,” they cried, smitten with panic, “away! + Let us fly to the distant hills! + The Devil is fighting against us to-day, + Our foemen are shedding their teeth as they say + That the porcupine sheds its quills!” + + And shaking with terror away they all ran, + Big Hornet, as usual, leading the van, + While astride on his nose sat the tooth of Saint Anne! + + + + + Part III. + + + In the Iroquois towns very deep was the grief, + When they heard of the pitiful plight of their chief; + There wasn’t a woman in all the Five Nations, + Who didn’t indulge in prolonged lamentations. + They tried to relieve him, but tried all in vain, + The tenderest touch produced exquisite pain: + The med’cine men tried incantations and sorceries, + And yet, though their magic as strong as a hawser is, + The tooth wouldn’t budge for the best of the lot; + The more they incanted the tighter it got. + + A Dutchman from Albany came to their aid, + Who had once been a student of medicine at Leyden; + He practised in vain each resource of his trade, + And swore that the tooth by the foul fiend was made, + While its carious cavity was, so he said, + A hole for the Devil to hide in. + + Big Hornet meanwhile grew haggard and grey, + With grief and chagrin he was wasting away; + His friends found their efforts all powerless to save + Their chief in his rapid descent to the grave; + There was nobody able to set the tooth free, + It clung like a little Old Man of the Sea! + + It happened one day there was brought to the town + A captive French priest in a shabby black gown; + He had very black eyes and a rather red nose, + Wore shoes with steel buckles, and very square toes; + He’d a stoop in the shoulder, was yellow of skin, + And a week’s growth of bristles disfigured his chin. + Alas and alack! it was Father Le Cocq: + The Iroquois wolves had both harried the flock + And kidnapped the shepherd—now doomed to be fried as + Soon as it suited the heathen Oneidas! + + Now, just as a drowning man grabs at a straw, + His aid was besought by the favourite squaw + Of the sick man—no doubt at some saint’s kind suggestion + To specify which is quite out of the question. + “O Frenchman, remove the excrescence that grows + So horribly tight on the bridge of his nose, + And home to your friends you shall safely return + Instead of remaining among us to burn!” + Thus urged, the good Jesuit followed the squaw; + But oh! his bewilderment, wonder and awe, + No tongue can describe, and no pencil can paint, + When lifting his hands in amazement he saw + On the nose of the red-skin the tooth of the saint. + + But Father Le Cocq wasn’t long at a loss; + He made on the relic the sign of the cross, + When, wondrous to hear and amazing to tell, + The tooth from the nose incontinent fell. + And the chief, from that moment, began to get well! + + My story is told. There’s no more to relate. + The Iroquois sent back the Father in state; + They feasted him daily as long as he’d tarry, + Then gave him more furs than he knew how to carry, + And safe in his bosom, thrice fortunate man, + He bore the back tooth of the blessed Saint Anne! + + As for Little White Crow from that day to the end + Of his life he was known as the “Frenchman’s best friend”; + A friend of French missions he called himself, and he + Without any doubt was a friend of French brandy. + At the close of a well spent career the old man had a + Collection of scalps quite unequalled in Canada: + But never again did he venture to sneer + At the bones of the saints, looked they never so queer. + He often would say that his good luck began, + On the day he received the back tooth of Saint Anne; + And for all his successes he piously thanked it. He + Died full of years in the odour of sanctity. + +1878. + + + + + Consider the Lilies of the Field[5] + + + O weary child of toil and care, + Trembling at every cloud that lowers, + Come and behold how passing fair + Thy God hath made the flowers. + + From every hillside’s sunny slope, + From every forest’s leafy shade + The flowers, sweet messengers of hope, + Bid thee “Be not afraid.” + + The windflower blooms in yonder bower + All heedless of to-morrow’s storm, + Nor trembles for the coming shower + The lily’s stately form. + + No busy shuttle plied to deck + With sunset tints the blushing rose, + And little does the harebell reck + Of toil and all its woes. + + The water-lily, pure and white, + Floats idle on the summer stream, + Seeming almost too fair and bright + For aught but Poet’s dream. + + The gorgeous tulip, though arrayed + In gold and gems, knows naught of care, + The violet in the mossy glade + Of labour has no share. + + They toil not—yet the lily’s dyes + Phœnicean fabrics far surpass, + Nor India’s rarest gem out-vies + The little blue-eyed grass. + + For God’s own hand hath clothed the flowers + With fairy form and rainbow hue, + Hath nurtured them with summer showers + And watered them with dew. + + To-day, a thousand blossoms fair, + From sunny slope and sheltered glade, + With grateful incense fill the air— + To-morrow they shall fade. + + But thou shalt live when sinks in night + Yon glorious sun, and shall not He + Who hath the flowers so richly dight, + Much rather care for thee? + + O, faithless murmurer, thou may’st read + A lesson in the lowly sod, + Heaven will supply thine utmost need, + Fear not, but trust in God. + +1865. + + +[5]Awarded the prize for English verse in the University of Toronto in + 1865. + + + + + The Skunk Cabbage + + +“Along the oozing margins of swampy streams, where Spring seems to detach +the sluggish ice from the softening mud, the Skunk Cabbage is boldly +announcing nature’s revival. Handsome, vigorous and strong, richly +coloured in purple, with delicate . . . markings of yellow, it rises . . +. a pointed bulb-like flower, as large as a lemon. . . . Even its devoted +admirers, who seek it as the earliest of all the awakening flowers, feel +constrained to apologise for the odour it exhales.”—S. T. Wood, in _The +Globe_. + + The soft south wind hath kissed the earth + That long a widowed bride hath been; + And she begins in tearful mirth, + To weave herself a robe of green. + The budding spray + On maples grey + Proclaims the quick approaching spring; + And brooks their new-found freedom sing. + + Green is the moss in yonder glade + On cedars old that loves to grow; + And, underneath the pine tree’s shade, + The wintergreen peeps through the snow. + The fields no more + With frost are hoar; + But not a flower doth yet appear + In glade or wood or meadow sere. + + The earth within her sheltering breast + The pale hepatica doth hide; + The bloodroot and wake-robin rest + In quiet slumber side by side; + The violet + Is sleeping yet; + And still the sweet spring-beauty lies + Beyond the reach of longing eyes. + + But look! beside the silent stream, + Beneath the alders brown and bare, + What is it shines with purple gleam + ’Mid withered leaves that moulder there? + I know thee well, + But may not tell + Thy name. Yet I rejoice to meet thee, + And from my heart, old friend, I greet thee! + + The lily hangs her dainty head + To hear her charms so loudly sung; + The rose doth blush a deeper red + To know her praise on every tongue. + But no kind word + Is ever heard + Of thee: The poets all reject thee, + The vulgar scorn thee or neglect thee. + + And yet I love thee. Thou dost bring + To me a thousand visions bright + Of joyous birds that soon will sing + Among the hawthorn blossoms white; + Of happy hours + ’Mid dewy flowers; + The hum of bees; the silvery gleams + Of leaping trout in amber streams. + + Soon as the snows of winter yield + To April sun and April floods, + Retiring from the open field + To strongholds in the thickest woods, + Then like a scout, + Dost thou peep out, + And cheerily lift up thy head + To tell the flowers the foe has fled. + + O thou that comest our hearts to cheer, + The first of all the flowers of spring, + Brave herald of the opening year, + Accept the tribute that I bring, + When now once more, + The winter o’er, + Thy honest face has greeted us, + O Symplocarpus fœtidus![6] + +1904. + + +[6]The fickle botanists have changed the generic name of the Skunk + Cabbage to Spathyema. For reasons which will be obvious to the + intelligent reader, the author prefers to retain the older + designation. + + + + + The Wanderer’s Song + + + We have left far behind us the dwellings of men, + We have traversed the forest, the lake and the fen, + From island to island like sea birds we roam, + The waves are our path, and the world is our home. + Juvallera, Juvallera, Juvallera, lera, lera! + Juvallera, Juvallera, Juvallera, lera, lera! + + On the lone rugged rocks a rich table we spread, + The balsam and hemlock afford us a bed; + While the gleam of our camp fire illumines the sky, + And the murmuring pines sing a soft lullaby. + Juvallera, etc. + + When the orient hues of the dawning of day + Emblazon the clouds and smile back from the bay, + We spring from our couch like the stag from his lair, + And drink in new life with the free morning air. + Juvallera, etc. + + Then we launch our light bark on the silvery lake, + That dimples and breaks into smiles in our wake; + While we sweeten our toil with a tale or a song, + Or rest while the winds waft us bravely along. + Juvallera, etc. + + At night when the deer to the thicket has fled, + And the scream of the night hawk is heard overhead, + We startle with laughter the wilderness dim, + Or the forests resound with our evening hymn. + Juvallera, etc. + + Then Hurrah for the north, with its woods and its hills; + Hurrah for its rocks, and its lakes and its rills! + And long may its forests be lovely as now, + Untouched by the axe, and unscathed by the plow! + Juvallera, etc. + +1870. + + + + + The Cowdung Fly + + + Of all the flies that ever I see + The Cowdung Fly is the fly for me + In cloud or shine, in wet or dry + You can’t find the beat of the Cowdung Fly! + So early in the morning or when the sun is sinking, + So early in the morning or any time of day. + + The salmon fly shines in purple and gold + Brighter than Solomon shone of old + But give me the finest that money can buy + And I’ll give it you back for the Cowdung Fly! + So early, &c. + + A cute little chap is the silver trout + When the wind is still and the sun shines out! + No maiden so coy and no widow so sly + But he’ll jump like a shot at the Cowdung Fly! + So early, &c. + + A tough old cuss is the big black bass + It’s a mighty hard job to bring him to grass + But it makes no odds how hard he may try + He can’t resist the Cowdung Fly! + So early, &c. + + There’s many a fly of old renown + Green Drake, Red Spinner and little March Brown, + Coachman, Professor, but Oh my eye! + They ain’t a patch on the Cowdung Fly! + So early, &c. + + There are Hackles black and Hackles white + Good by day and good by night + Hackles brown and Hackles red + But the Cowdung Fly is away ahead! + So early, &c. + + There’s the little black gnat when the sun shines bright + And the big white moth for the cool twilight + But of all the bugs in earth and sky + I’ll bet my boots on the Cowdung Fly! + So early, &c. + + Then anglers all you can’t go wrong + If you’ve plenty of Cowdung Flies along + You never will want for fish to fry + If your book’s well stocked with the Cowdung Fly! + + + + + Song of the Bass + + + Over the waters, merrily dancing, + Softly glides our light canoe, + While the phantom mirror glancing, + Shines alternate white and blue. + + _Chorus._ + + Never can tell when the bass is a-coming, + Never can tell when he’s going to bite; + First thing you know your reel will be humming, + Strike him quickly and hold him tight. + + Past the maples, red and yellow, + Crimson oak and purple ash— + Gosh! you’ve hooked a monstrous fellow! + Golly! don’t you hear him splash? + + Hold him lightly, reel him slowly + If you wish your fish to save; + Nothing’s gained by hurry—Holy + Moses! what a jump he gave. + + Lower your rod; now take the slack up— + Thank your stars you’ve got him yet! + Now he sticks his thorny back up— + Now you’ve got him in the net! + + In the basket, wrapped in fern, he’ll + Lie in state in scaly grace; + In the pan, when we return, he’ll + Find a warmer resting place. + + Let him fry in crumbs and butter— + Hear the appetizing fizz! + No weak words that I could utter + Can describe how good he is. + + Serve him with a slice of bacon, + Quickly to the banquet come, + And unless I’m much mistaken + Your remark will be “yum, yum!” + + + + + Never can tell when the Bass is a-comin’ + + +Words: Drs. Ellis & Spencer. Music: Adapted. + +_Allegro piscatore: con brio._ + + + + + Maskinongewagaming[7] + + + Would you slay the Maskinongé + In the fastness where he lurks? + Leave a card _pour prendre congé_ + On the town and all its works. + + Leave the tram-car’s jarring jangle + For the silent bark canoe; + For the forest’s leafy tangle, + Bid the dusty streets adieu. + + As befits her slender tonnage, + In our tiny craft we stow + Cunningly our modest dunnage— + Shove her off, away we go! + + Joy once more to grasp the paddle! + Farewell worry, doubt and gloom. + Care, who clings behind the saddle, + Finds in our canoe no room. + + Off we go! The lake before us + Stretches far and stretches fair; + Forest scents are wafted o’er us; + Forest voices fill the air. + + Paddling past the pebbly beaches + Where the ancient cedar grows; + Toiling in the open reaches + When the stiff nor’wester blows. + + Winding down the silent river + Where the scarlet maples blaze, + And the pallid aspens quiver + Through the warm September days; + + Past the oily eddies sweeping + Where the hidden boulder lies; + Down the rapid gaily leaping + Where the spray about us flies. + + Poling through the gravelly shallows, + Floating ’neath the alder’s shade, + Where the moose at noon-tide wallows, + And the beaver plies his trade; + + Shoving through the rustling sedges, + Battling with the autumn gale; + Lifting over rocky ledges, + Sweating on the portage trail— + + On we go, with steadfast faces, + Till at last with gladdened eyes, + We behold the secret places + Where the Maskinongé lies. + + Shall we find him in the rushes? + Where the waterlilies grow? + Where the roaring torrent gushes? + In the foam-flecked pool below? + + Fierce and cunning, bold and cruel, + Is the Maskinongé grim, + Who shall dare him to a duel? + Who shall fight and conquer him? + * * * * + + Proudly with his spoil returning, + We with shouts the victor greet; + By the camp-fire brightly burning, + He shall have the warmest seat. + + Is he hungry? Pile the platter; + Thirsty? Join the gay carouse; + Weary with his toil? What matter? + Heap his bed with balsam boughs. + + Fill his pipe with rare Virginian, + Cheer him till the echoes ring, + Monarch of his new dominion, + Maskinongewagaming. + +1904. + + +[7]The place where the Maskinongé dwells. In the vulgar tongue “Lunge + Lake.” + + + + + Magaguadavic[8] and Digdeguash + + +“Are not Abana and Pharpar rivers of Damascus better than all the waters +of Israel?” + + Let each man praise the river + That’s dearest to his heart, + The Rhine, the Guadalquivir, + The Danube or the Dart. + Let others sing the Tavy, + The Tweed, the Wye, the Lea, + Give me the Magaguadavic, + The Digdeguash for me. + + Some men choose lakes for fishing— + Ceceebe or Couchiching, + Namabinagashishing, + Kenongewagaming. + I’ll take my affidavy + That what they say is bosh; + Give me the Magaguadavic, + Give me the Digdeguash! + + Beneath the shady willow + Cast cunningly your flies, + His wake a widening billow; + Behold the monster rise! + No dreadnought in the navy + Could make so big a splosh; + You’d hear at Magaguadavic + The trout of Digdeguash! + + Behind the purple spruces + The golden sunset dies, + As each his pipe produces + And puts away his flies. + The basket’s full, the slavey + To-morrow morn shall wash + The spoils of Magaguadavic, + The loot of Digdeguash! + + And when upon the table + They come to lie in state, + Hardly shall we be able + A decent grace to wait. + They need no sauce nor gravy, + For none can beat, by gosh! + The trout of Magaguadavic, + But those of Digdeguash! + + O restless Bay of Fundy, + O mist and fog and rain, + Hope whispers I may one day + Behold you yet again. + How gladly would I brave ye, + Nor ask a mackintosh, + To see the Magaguadavic, + To fish the Digdeguash. + + Callirrhoe’s fair daughters + Have fled their ancient grots; + The voice of many waters + Turns shrieking into watts. + But spare, oh! spare, I crave ye, + Amid the general squash, + The falls of Magaguadavic, + The rips of Digdeguash! + +1910. + + +[8]Pronounced Mackadavy. + + + + + Rhona Adair + + + How dull these links to me! + Rhona’s not there, + She whom I long to see, + Rhona Adair! + Who has a swing so true? + Who such a follow through? + Who, who can putt like you, + Rhona Adair? + + Who drives her ball so far, + Far through the air + Swift as a shooting star? + Rhona Adair. + Who hits her ball so clean, + Landing, whate’er’s between + Dead on the putting green? + Rhona Adair! + + Whose strokes, of all who strike + With hers compare? + Who has a waggle like + Rhona Adair? + Of all the girls I’ve seen + Playing across the green + You, Rhona, are the Queen! + Rhona Adair! + + + + + The Duffer’s Elegy + + + “Oh! put me on your waiting list + I’ll be a golfer if I may + And learn the joys too long I’ve missed + Before I get too old to play!” + + They gave him on the list a place + And year by year they let him wait, + For golfers are a long-lived race + And very seldom emigrate. + + When, after many weary years, + He reached the top his sponsor said, + “The friend (excuse these natural tears) + Whom I proposed has long been dead.” + + And when at last in Charon’s wherry, + It was the sponsor’s turn to stand + His friend came down to meet the ferry + A phantom niblick in his hand. + + “Welcome to Hades,” thus the shade + In hollow-sounding accents spoke + Then spied a puff-ball and essayed + To loft it, but he muffed his stroke. + + “Permit me, pray, to be your guide + Until you’ve learnt your way about + Our golf course is our greatest pride + Old Colonel Bogey laid it out. + + “Some people say Avernus stinks + And Acheron smells like a sewer + But Fernhill golfers like our links + They find the air so fresh and pure. + + “Cocytus, Styx and Phlegethon + As hazards serve extremely well, + In this particular alone, + The Lambton links are just like Hell. + + “The asphodel wants cutting sadly, + The lies are wretched, more’s the pity + But everything is managed badly + By that infernal Green Committee. + + “Come, lay aside your shroud and pall + And play a friendly round with me.” + (A Dead Sea apple was the ball, + A pinch of church-yard dust, the tee.) + + He took the club of cypress wood + And smote what seemed a mighty blow, + But, though the aim was true and good + The ball remained in _statu quo_. + + “Alack and well-a-day,” he cried, + “A duffer must I ever be, + A duffer I have lived and died + A duffer through Eternity.” + +1905. + + + + + When Potter Played + + + When Potter played in front of me + The other day upon the links, + The mist rolled landward from the sea + (The sleepy Caddie yawns and blinks), + We watched him waggle at the tee + And curl his body into kinks, + When Potter played in front of me + The other day upon the links. + + We watched him make the divots flee + And dribble o’er the bunker’s brinks, + The dewdrops sparkled on the lea, + The sun shone through the fog bank’s chinks. + My partner, hopeful, said to me + “He’ll lose, and let us through methinks!” + When Potter played in front of me + The other day upon the links. + + The noonday sun looks down in glee + While Potter in the bunker swinks, + He plies the niblick merrily + While Caddie unto Caddie winks. + The crow on yonder tall fir tree + Looks down and caws at such high jinks, + When Potter played in front of me + The other day upon the links. + + The shadows fall on land and sea, + The sun to rest in splendour sinks, + And Potter crouched on hand and knee + Thinks out each putt, and thinks and thinks. + We all got home too late for tea! + My mind with grief and horror shrinks + From memory of the day when we + Played after Potter on the links. + +1910. + + + + + Colonial Preference + + + Macgregor, always spick and span, + Was quite the military man. + He never walked about the town + Arrayed in sober cap and gown, + But blazed in scarlet, gold and steel, + And clanked a sabre at his heel. + He took no pride in his degree, + In F.C.S. and F.I.C., + But wrote with joy akin to tears + C.D., Canadian Engineers! + Macgregor had been often sent + His country’s arms to represent, + To Chatham, Woolwich, Aldershot, + Or anywhere, it mattered not. + He always followed, never weary, + “Quo fas et gloria duxere.” + At length, because they thought him yearning + To represent his Country’s learning, + Toronto Universitee, + Knowing how ready he would be + Alike in “bello” and in “pace,” + Despatched him to the I.C.A.C. + He packed his trappings Academical, + And sailed to join the Congress Chemical, + Which met that year in London reeky, + To study “la chimie appliquée.” + Watching the vessel’s fall and rise, + ’Twas thus he did soliloquise— + “I may not wear my sword and spurs, + But one glad thought my bosom stirs, + ’Tis this that I shall surely be + Presented to His Majesty! + It may be when he sees my face + He will reward me with a place + With my deserts commensurate + The Secretary, say, of State + For War, or give me Chief Command + Of all his troops on sea and land!” + Arrived in town, his journey done, + He took a cab to Kensington, + Sir William Ramsay, honest man, + With kindly words to greet him ran. + “Put on,” he cried, “your cleanest shirt + And free your hands and face from dirt, + To-morrow you shall go with me + To meet His Gracious Majesty!” + When they alighted from the train + They met the Lord High Chamberlain + Who scanned each name with anxious care + Lest some who ought not should be there. + “Here’s Stinkemout from Buda Pesth, + And Sneezetoff, and all the rest, + Ezra P. Binks from Idaho, + But here’s a name I do not know + ‘Dr. Macgregor from Toronto,’ + That’s something that I’ve not got onto!” + Sir William cried “The College where + My friend Macgregor holds a chair + Is in Toronto, Canada.” + “Ah!” said the Chamberlain, “Ahah! + I’ve heard of Canada, of course, + But that’s another coloured horse. + Your friend, to say it gives me pain, + Will have to toddle back again! + The King, the invitation states, + Receives the Foreign Delegates. + Remove this person from the list + He’s nothing but a Colonist.” + A prophet, says the Holy Book, + Must not at home for honour look, + The greater here includes the lesser, + For “Prophet” therefore read “Professor.” + +1912. + + + + + The Lyric League[9] + + + We be seventy Lyric Poets, + All in the Fatherland, + Our verse is delightful, although its + Not easy to understand. + + We’re the flower and crown of the nation, + The crown and flower of the earth, + But we find our remuneration + Inadequate to our worth. + + We sing of “Sehnsucht” and “Trauer,” + “Die Liebe,” “Das Herz” and “Die Welt,” + But leider, we haven’t the power, + To sing from the public “Das Geld.” + + The plumbers have their Union, + Fast joined the joiners keep, + And sweep hold dark communion, + With sooty brother sweep. + + The motormen and switchmen, + The very firemen band, + Alone against the richmen, + The Poets helpless stand. + + A fig for the Philistine slander, + Let’s cut from all precedent loose, + What’s sauce for the bus-driving gander, + Is sauce for the quill-driving goose. + + We’ll found (because empty our purse is) + A Lyrische Dichterverein; + And we won’t write any more verses, + Under 50 pfennig a line.[10] + + +[9]“Seventy lyric poets in Germany have formed a trade’s union, and + agreed not to sell their verses for less than half a mark a + line.”—_Daily paper._ + +[10]The author encloses his name and address, not for publication, but in + order that the editor may know where to send the three dollars and + thirty-six cents—twenty-eight lines at twelve cents. + + + + + Psychology + + +Dr. Jaeger has propounded the theory that the Soul is an emanation +emitted by animals, and is the cause of the odour characteristic of each +species. Cf. in _Lives of the Saints_, “the odour of sanctity”; also +_supra_, page 17. + + What’s the Soul? throughout the ages + Mystery never yet unveiled + Prophets, poets, saints and sages + All have tried and all have failed. + + But at last we’ve got an answer + No vague dream or fancy vaguer + From a scientific man—Sir + Herr Professor Dr. Jaeger. + + Printed in his lucid pages + This is what he has to tell + Listen poets; listen sages; + That’s the Soul that makes the smell. + + Whoso takes his meat to season + Onions chopped or garlic whole + Shall enjoy a feast of reason + Followed by a flow of soul. + + + + + The Bal Poudré[11] + + + The Reverend Canon Dumoulin + Although he don’t object + To dancing in a room along + With company select + Can’t tolerate the _Bal Poudré_ + I am not surprised at all + For when there’s powder, cannons play + The mischief with a ball. + + +[11]While rector of St. James’s, Toronto, the late Canon Dumoulin + protested against the holding of a _bal poudré_ in aid of a local + charity. + + + + + Wisdom and Fancy + _From the German of_ A. G. Marius. + + + With weary steps as Wisdom trod + In Reason’s dusty way + Came Fancy with alluring nod + And beckoned him astray. + Laughing she snatched away his books, + And charmed him with her witching looks, + He could not say her nay. + + She shook her curls with childlike grace + And all his anger fled, + He looked into her sunny face + And followed where she led. + + And lo! his weariness was gone + Fresh vigour filled his soul + She led him up, she led him on + Till he had reached his goal. + + + + + Persicos odi + TO MY TOBACCONIST + + + I hate your imported Havannahs, + Your perfumed cheroots I decline; + His own special weakness each man has, + A pipe, I confess it, is mine. + + Why take from their elegant wrappers + Your gilded cork-tipped cigarettes, + Fit only for militant flappers + Or reckless R.M.C. cadets? + + What need for cigars to be pining + When smoking a briar or a clay; + In front of the fire I’m reclining, + And peacefully puffing away. + + + + + The Iceberg + + + We stood upon the deck and saw + Mid fog and mist the iceberg loom; + And while we gazed in wondering awe, + It vanished into mist and gloom. + + With various skill each tried to draw + What printed on his brain had been + The vision that he thought he saw + Or that he thought he should have seen. + + Some drew it flat, some drew it round + And some with many a tower and steeple + And when we shewed our work we found + As many bergs as there were people! + + Across each other’s paths we drift + Pale shadows on a misty sea. + The clouds but for a moment lift + Then naught is left but memory. + + If then at any distant day + Your thoughts should chance to turn to me + Draw me not as I am, I pray, + But as you think I ought to be. + + + + + Horace, Odes I. i.[12] + + + Colonel, Most worthy President, + Our Club’s chief stay and ornament, + One man who drives with dust and jar + A 40 h.p. motor car, + All other mortals counts but clods, + Himself a rival of the Gods. + The fickle crowd another woos + Him for a threefold term to choose. + A third will lie awake all night + If Manitoba wheat be light. + Not Rockefeller’s treasure chest + Could tempt the Farmer to invest + The savings of his life of toil + In shares of rubber or of oil. + The liner’s skipper when he steers, + The foghorn booming in his ears, + Through thousand dangers all unseen, + Sighs for the peaceful village green; + Yet fog nor ice nor foundered ships + Can stop him making record trips. + Some spurn not, when their throats are dry, + Long drinks of Irish or Old Rye, + Nor scorn to blow through moistened lips + Great clouds of smoke between the sips; + Others in such things find no charms, + And when the bugle calls to arms + Would banish from the tented green + (Bugbear of matrons) the Canteen. + The hunter leaves his tender spouse + For a rude bed of hemlock boughs, + Content to bag a head or two + Of bearded moose or caribou. + But give me rather, if you please, + A score-card full of 4’s and 3’s. + The bunker cleared, the putt gone done, + And, of all joys the flower and crown, + The well-hit tee-shot’s graceful flight + When everything has gone just right! + Alas! Fate holds for me in store + No chances of a bogey score. + I must send in till I am sick + Cards that defy arithmetic; + Nay, Haply, the Etobicoke + May add to every hole a stroke, + Yet, Colonel, if your grace awards + Some place among the minor bards, + Who sing the Game to me—Ah, then, + I am the happiest of men! + If me from this no fate debars + Then my swelled head shall strike the stars. + + +[12]Read at the Farewell Dinner at the Old Toronto Golf Club House, + October 19th, 1912, Col. G. A. Sweny, the President of the Club, in + the Chair. + + + + + When You and I were Young[13] + + + When you and I were babes, Adam, + In good Prince Albert’s time, + The word went forth that war should cease, + Commerce should link all lands, and Peace + Should dwell in every clime. + + When you and I were boys, Adam, + In Queen Victoria’s days, + Those guns that now so silent stand, + Where meet the rulers of our land, + With olive decked and bays. + + Roared from the Russian ramparts grim, + Their muzzles all ablaze, + While old Todleben, with his back + Against the wall, foiled each attack + In Queen Victoria’s days. + + When you and I were young, Adam, + In good Victoria’s time, + We stood together side by side, + When Mewburn and Mackenzie died, + And Tempest, “ere their prime.” + + But say not “they have left no peer—” + That were unwelcome praise + To those three friends of ours long dead, + Whose blood for Fatherland was shed + In good Victoria’s days. + + In royal Edward’s time, Adam, + Fresh prophecies were rife. + They told us nickel-pointed shot + And flat trajectories and what not + Would rid the world of strife. + + But now that we are old, Adam, + We see with startled eyes + Quick-firing guns won’t stop the Jap, + Nor Serb nor Bulgar cares a rap + Who wins the Nobel prize. + + When you and I were young, Adam, + There were no telephones; + There was no ultramicroscope; + And no X-rays for those who grope + And pry among the bones. + + But, though with diagnostic aids + They were but ill supplied, + There were a few who shrewdly guessed + (Old What’s-his-name among the rest) + At what went on inside. + + When you and I were young, Adam, + It was damnation stark + To doubt that all that breathe the air, + Came, male and female, pair by pair, + Straight out of Noah’s ark. + + “Mutantur,” Adam, “tempora + Mutamur atque nos,” + And now we’re not a bit afraid + To tell just how the world was made + In detail and in gross. + + In pre-Archæan periods + Of elemental stress + The C and H and O and N + Collide, rebound, combine, and then + React with H_{2}S. + + Colloidal specks from this ensued + Which grew, and grew, and grew, + With lively motion all endued, + Till they attained a magnitude + Of 0·01µ. + + Then somewhere over ·01 + And under ·05 + Amoeboid feelers out they sent + And took some liquid nourishment + And, lo, they were alive! + + In pre-Archæan periods + Let fancy have her fling, + But, Adam, will your faith allow + Such goings on can happen now + When George the Fifth is King? + + Well, times may change, and we may change, + But find him when I can, + I’ll drink a health to one who’s stood + For all that’s honest, kind and good; + So here’s to you, Old Man! + +1912. + + +[13]Read at the Dinner given at the York Club, Toronto, November 29th, + 1912, in honour of Dr. Adam H. Wright. + + + + + As a Watch in the Night[14] + + + The soldier called from rest or play + To take his post as sentinel, + To guard until the break of day + Some sore-beleaguered citadel, + + Springs to his arms with beating heart + To take some war-worn veteran’s place, + Proud to perform a soldier’s part, + Dreading what yet he dares to face. + + His comrades’ footsteps on his ears + Ring fainter and fainter. Silence falls + About him. Moments seem like years, + And loneliness his soul appals. + + But when the signal rockets flare + He strains his eyes the void to scan; + When sounds of battle fill the air + In face of death he plays the man. + + He stays where duty bids him stay, + The boldest when he fears the most; + And Rounds, come whensoe’er they may, + Find him alert and at his post. + + Unnumbered now the moments fly + By him whose thoughts are set upon + Each moment’s task. The eastern sky + Brightens with dawn. The night is gone. + + And hark, at last he grows aware + Of footsteps his release that tell. + Clear rings his challenge, “Who goes there?” + “Relief!” “Advance, Relief, all’s well!” + +1913. + + +[14]Read at the Dinner given in May, 1913, in honour of Professor van der + Smissen, Professor of German in University College, Toronto, on his + retirement after forty-eight years’ service in the University and + University College. + + + + + To R. R. W.[15] + + + From Scotland’s mists across the sea you bore + The sacred fire, (kindled by him whose name + Has made the century famous with his fame,) + And bid our lamp burn brighter than before. + Upon our Tree, a branch from Scotland’s shore + You grafted, and behold our Tree became + Wanton in leafage; with blossoms all aflame; + Deep rooted; and with boughs to heaven that soar. + + We see the better issue from the strife, + And hope the best. In loathsome crawling things + We feel the fluttering of jewelled wings. + In Nature’s score, with seeming discords rife, + We seek to read, with you, the note that brings + To harmony the jarring chords of life. + + +[15]Read at the Dinner given in honour of Professor R. Ramsay Wright, + Professor of Biology and Dean of the Faculty of Arts in the University + of Toronto, on his retirement, May, 1912. + + + Richard Clay and Sons, Limited, + BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., + AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Wayside Weeds, by William Hodgson Ellis + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAYSIDE WEEDS *** + +***** This file should be named 35033-0.txt or 35033-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/0/3/35033/ + +Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Brenda Lewis, Charlie Howard +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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