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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40562 ***
+
+    "SNOWFLAKES"
+
+    BY
+
+    ESTHER NELSON KARN.
+
+
+    PHILADELPHIA:
+    PRESS OF GEO. F. LASHER.
+    1900.
+
+
+    COPYRIGHTED BY
+    ESTHER NELSON KARN.
+    1900.
+
+
+    TO MY HUSBAND,
+
+    S. A. KARN,
+
+    WHOSE KIND ENCOURAGEMENT HAS ENABLED ME TO WRITE THIS LITTLE
+    BOOK, THE SAME IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED.
+
+    THE AUTHOR.
+
+
+
+
+  DANCE OF THE SNOWFLAKES.
+
+
+  "Let's dance to the brown old earth to-night!"
+    Cried one little flake of snow;
+  "The autumn days have all passed by,--
+  I'm tired of my home here in the sky."
+    So they all agreed to go.
+
+  They dressed themselves in a misty film
+    Of purest pearly white;
+  Their feet were clad in velvet down,
+  As soft and white as the filmy gown
+    They wore to the dance that night.
+
+  Wrapped 'round with a drape of raveled gauze
+    Were these little fays so fair.
+  When out from a cloud a pale star beamed,
+  Bright diamonds sparkled, laughed, and gleamed
+    In their fleecy, tangled hair.
+
+  All ready, so pretty a crowd were they
+    That naught could their charms enhance;
+  Then softly and quickly they sped away,
+  For the whisp'ring wind was the cab that they
+    Rode in to the snowflakes' dance.
+
+  They flew over housetop, hilltop, dell,
+    With dances and with delight.
+  Though ne'er did sound of their presence tell;
+  Wherever their fairy footsteps fell,
+    All turned to a crystal white.
+
+  In the daintiest robes the trees were dressed,
+    That ever you'd wish to see;
+  The wayworn traveler, he was blessed,
+  And stroked, and kissed, and soft-caressed,
+    By these fays in rapturous glee.
+
+  Into every crevice and crack they peeped,
+    They danced till the morning light;
+  They left the print of their tiny feet
+  O'er country road and city street,
+    In frolicsome fun that night.
+
+  When the rosy face of the morning sun
+    Peeped timidly out to view,
+  He beheld the earth, last night so brown,
+  Arrayed in a snow-white velvet gown
+    That sparkled like dancing dew.
+
+
+
+
+  AN OCTOBER DAY.
+
+
+  'Tis sunrise o'er the eastern hills.
+    All hail! thou lovely morn!
+  Thy tender blush, thy mellow light
+    Proclaim "The autumn's born."
+  All nature is so wondrous fair,
+    Bedecked with golden sheen--
+  A fleecy cloudlet, here and there,
+    In azure sky is seen.
+
+  The gold and crimson leaves that give
+    The trees their autumn gown,
+  Are scattered by the gentle breeze
+    Upon the meadows brown.
+  Tho' summer flow'rs that were so fair
+    Have faded, one by one,
+  The goldenrod, in beauty rare,
+    Her reign has just begun.
+
+  The grapevines now are laden with
+    Sweet clusters, oh, so blue!
+  And scattered o'er the orchard ground
+    Are rosy apples, too.
+  Oh, who could sigh for summer skies,
+    For summer flowers and trees,
+  For singing birds and rainbow showers,
+   'Mid autumn scenes like these?
+
+  As sinks the glorious "King of Day"
+    Adown the western sky,
+  He bathes the trees and hilltops in
+    A flood of crimson dye.
+  He sets the westland all aglow
+    Before he sinks away;
+  So endeth, as a beauteous dream,
+    This lovely autumn day.
+
+
+
+
+  WELCOME, SWEET MAY.
+
+
+      Welcome, sweet May!
+        With thy sunshine and showers
+      Thou'st driven away
+        Old winter's dark hours.
+  Poor fellow! he seemed rather loth to depart,
+  Till thou, with thy sunshine, compelled him to start.
+            Welcome, sweet May!
+
+      Welcome, sweet May!
+        That bringest to me,
+      Wherever I stray,
+        A sweet memory,
+  When fragrant pink blossoms hung thick overhead,
+  And love lay asleep in a violet bed.
+            Welcome, sweet May!
+
+      Welcome, sweet May!
+        With thy sunshine and showers,
+      When young love awoke
+        From sleep 'mong the flowers.
+  Each year, in thy sunshine, 'neath heavens of blue,
+  With thy sweet, fragrant blossoms he's wakened anew.
+            Welcome, sweet May!
+
+
+
+
+  LAKESIDE.[1]
+
+
+  'Tis the dearest, coolest place I can find;
+  There the locust and the wild grape entwined
+    Float their dewy fragrance ever
+    O'er the dancing St. Joe river
+  On the wings of the soft drowsy wind.
+
+  In the coziest of homes, neat and new,
+  Dwell its people so kind-hearted and true.
+    Not a wall or tower high
+    Mars the tender, sunlight sky,
+  Or shuts out the glad rainbow from view.
+
+  When a dwelling for his mate is in quest,
+  Does the robin find its shelter the best.
+    There his sweetest notes he brings,
+    And a flood of music flings
+  O'er your head as you pass 'neath his nest.
+
+  There are morning-glories dripping with dew,
+  And the dogwood blossoms hang over you.
+    In a drowse of rapture sweet
+    Does this vale look up to meet,
+  And to bask in the smile of the blue?
+
+  Would your soul free from troubles be made?
+  All its worries and its burdens unlade?
+    From the tumult and the heat
+    Of the noisy city street,
+  Take yourself to the bliss of its shade.
+
+  There you'll drink till you stagger as you plod,
+  Of the sweets from the blossom-spangled sod,
+    While your weary frame is drenched,
+    And your thirsty soul is quenched,
+  In a shower of the great love of God.
+
+      [1] The above is a description of the Lakeside addition to Ft.
+      Wayne, Ind.
+
+
+
+
+  AUTUMN.
+
+
+  Enchanting dawn of autumn days,
+    So clear, so cool, so calm,
+  O'er all creation breathing forth
+    Thy sweet refreshing balm!
+
+  The woodland dons its brightest hue,
+    Its rainbow-tinted gown;
+  Each soft and dreamy breeze that blows
+    Brings showers of crimson down.
+
+  Old earth now groans beneath her load
+    Of grain and fruited vine,
+  That thickly hangs o'er orchard wall,
+    And drips with mellow wine.
+
+  The birds fly lazily above,
+    Bathed in thy misty light,
+  While on the hillside loll the kine
+    In morning's gold delight.
+
+  Wrapped in thy folds of golden mist,
+    This restless soul of mine
+  Is lulled into a blissful dream
+    Of peace and love divine.
+
+
+
+
+  TO A WATER-LILY.
+
+
+  Sweet flower, what cold, unfeeling hand
+  Hath plucked thee from that shady land
+    Where clear, cool waters lie,
+  And velvet mosses kissed thy feet?
+  Who took thee from thy loved retreat,
+    And left thee here to die?
+
+  Thou fairest gem of all the earth--
+  E'en bonnie wilds that gave thee birth
+    Thy petals' sweetness hold.
+  I drink thy breath in fragrant draught,
+  Sweeter than royal lips e'er quaffed
+    From cups of burnished gold.
+
+  Who took thee from thy crystal home,
+  Where finny tribes delight to roam
+    And frisk in morning play;
+  Where never harsher sound was heard
+  Than fall of leaf or trill of bird,
+    Or winds that softly sway
+
+  The trees that bend thy nook above,
+  And, bending, whispered low of love
+    To thee, my bonnie flower,
+  Or whir of swallows' silken flight
+  Across the waves, the calm delight
+    Of evening's dappling shower?
+
+  Although thou'rt crushed beneath my feet,
+  Thy dewy fragrance is more sweet
+    Than at thy frail life's dawn.
+  Thus, flow'r of love and purity,
+  This lesson I have learned of thee:
+    That when my friends are gone,
+  And fate's rude tread has crushed my heart,
+  Its blossoms shall more sweets impart
+    Than at its first love's dawn.
+
+
+
+
+  THE CYCLONE.
+
+
+  How still the morn! no leaf is stirred,
+    Nor fruited branches sway,
+  Save now and then, from dewy glen,
+    A breath of new-mown hay,
+  Or blossoms of the summertide,
+  Is wafted up the mountain side.
+
+  How softly floats the cuckoo's song
+    Across the sleeping vale;
+  In mystic glee the echo free
+    Gives back the fairy tale.
+  The stream, in drowsy ecstasy,
+  Is gurgling onward to the sea.
+
+  The lark swims slowly in the blue,
+    The giant oaks so high,
+  In sunlit haze their branches raise,
+    As if to kiss the sky.
+  We hear above the twittering birds,
+  The placid lowing of the herds.
+
+  The silvery laughter from the lips
+    Of children at their play;
+  And in the rill below the mill
+    The horses paw and neigh;
+  While youths and maidens plight their vows,
+  And workmen sing behind the plows.
+
+  The noon is here, the sky is clear
+    And tender as the morn;
+  The ploughman's blest with perfect rest,
+    Where noontime shade is born.
+  The bird has ceased his song to trill;
+  The lowing of the herd is still.
+
+  Unnoticed, a dark speck appears
+    Above the trees!--on high
+  At rapid pace and fast increase
+    It scuds across the sky!
+  Nor stops to rest o'er sea or lands,
+  Till o'er this lovely vale it stands
+
+  An instant, then, as if possessed
+    Of some aerial deil,
+  With shriek and yell this imp of hell
+    Swoops down upon the vale!
+  Snatches the giant oaks from earth
+  That nourished them and gave them birth,
+
+  And hurls them 'gainst the mountain side!--
+    One sweep of its black wings,
+  And all is o'er! And as before
+    The streamlet laughs and sings;
+  But carries on its sunny tide
+  Fragments of debris to the wide
+
+  And surging sea,--the shattered boughs
+    Of oaks that proudly grew
+  Beside the stream,--is it a dream?
+    No, there's a baby's shoe!
+  The sunset's crimson rays are shed
+  Soft o'er the dying and the dead.
+
+  While angels hover near and spread
+    Their dewy shadows o'er
+  The vale where morn in joy was born--
+    A blackened pile! But for
+  The song of one lone whip-poor-will,
+  Like to the morning, all is still!
+
+
+
+
+  SUNSET ON THE LAKE.
+
+
+  'Tis evening; on Winona Lake
+    The last glad sunbeams rest,
+  Shedding their golden glories o'er
+    Her soft and silken breast.
+
+  And as my little boat glides forth
+    Into their light, behold!
+  The splashes from my oars are like
+    Great drops of liquid gold.
+
+  And now a softer, richer hue
+    O'erspreads the western sky;
+  Trees, hilltops, water--everything
+    Seems bathed in crimson dye.
+
+  And o'er the bosom of the lake
+    Soft summer breezes glide,
+  Bringing incense from the lilies
+    On the other side.
+
+  I wonder, oh, I wonder so,
+    If in that world of bliss
+  Where sunsets never come, there's aught
+    More beautiful than this.
+
+  Oh, Father Time, if thou from me
+    All else that's lovely take,
+  Leave only in my memory
+    This sunset on the lake.
+
+
+
+
+  TO MY WHEEL.
+
+
+  Thou'rt bonnie, my steed, though a bit out of style,
+  We've traveled together full many a mile;
+  Yet nothing can give me such perfect delight
+  As to spring to thy saddle and spin out of sight,
+
+  Away from the city of turmoil and strife,
+  Away from the cares that beset business life,
+  To a shady, green-carpeted country retreat,
+  Where hearts ever loving may placidly beat.
+
+  Away over pathways with dewdrops bespangled,
+  Where myrtle and wild morning-glory are tangled,
+  And the violet borrows its velvety hue
+  From the God-given radiance of heaven's own blue.
+
+  And cowslips and buttercups grow where we tread,
+  The breeze whispers soft through the trees overhead,
+  As showers of pink blossoms, with fragrance so rare,
+  They shed o'er the ground, over us,--everywhere.
+
+  Thou faithful old friend, always ready to go;
+  Ne'er found out of order like others I know;
+  And when off we go for a nice little spin,
+  Unlike others, thou'st never left me to "walk in."
+
+  Exchange for another that's handsome and new!
+  No, no, bonnie steed, I will not part with you.
+  But when thou art old and thy usefulness o'er,
+  In a nice, cozy attic thy frame I will store,
+
+  And every day, be it sunshine or rain,
+  I'll steal to thy side and in fancy again
+  We'll skim the green meadows, my steed, you and I,
+  'Mong the flowers that grow 'neath the soft, tender sky.
+
+  Then come, let us bask in the dewy delight
+  Of the country--hi! ho! we are soon out of sight.
+  Though a bit out of style, just the same is thy speed.
+  I love thee! I love thee! my bonnie bright steed.
+
+
+
+
+  DESPONDENCY.
+
+
+  Oh, balmy night--a night in June--
+    What endless beauties thine!
+  Hast thou a balm thou'lt gently breathe
+    O'er tired souls like mine?
+
+  The cricket 'neath the old porch floor
+    Chirps forth a merry lay;
+  The roses nod and smile at me--
+    "A sweet good-night," they say.
+
+  Oh, cricket, hush your merry song;
+    How can you be so gay?
+  Ye roses bow your crimson heads,
+    And mourn my vanished day.
+
+
+
+
+  AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN.
+
+
+  How oft from the din of the hard city street,
+  The show and the splendor, in fancy, my feet
+  Stray backward through paths that are dripping with dew,
+  To an old-fashioned garden my babyhood knew.
+
+  A wealth of red roses hung over the wall,
+  And, laden with pink, downy peaches, a tall
+  And willowy tree did its long branches sway
+  O'erhead, as you passed, in an inviting way;
+  While from its green shelter the oriole's song
+  Rode on the soft breezes the summer day long.
+
+  The currant-bush flourished in rows near the wall,
+  The sugar corn waved its soft leaves over all;
+  And buttercups, daisies and peonies grew,
+  The fragrant June pinks and the wee bells of blue;
+
+  The marigolds, poppies, and pansies so sweet
+  Lifted their dewy faces towards heaven to meet
+  The first smile of morning; the fragrant sweet pea
+  Wound its delicate tendrils round pickets, and we
+
+  To drowsiness drank of the odor it spilled,
+  While sunflowers nodded to us as we filled
+  Our baskets with blossoms for table bouquets,
+  Or lolled in the bliss of the soft morning haze;
+  Or, with aprons outspread, in our childish delight,
+  The butterfly chased in his foraging flight
+  'Mong the flowers; or the hummer, that gay little thief,
+  That pilfered the sweets from each petal and leaf.
+
+  But long years ago the old garden was sold!
+  Its walls, rustic gates, are all crumbled to mold;
+  Its beds and smooth pathways 'neath grass-tangles hid,
+  For the breezes of June-time are whispering 'mid
+  The flowers that blossom her pallet above,
+  Who tended that old-fashioned garden I love;
+  And singing their lullaby sweetest where lies
+  My playmate and sister with bonnie blue eyes.
+
+  And I hope when my sojourn of usefulness here
+  Is past, to the place that my bosom holds dear
+  I may go, and there pillow my head 'neath the tree
+  Where robin and oriole chirrup in glee,
+  While my soul slips away from the spot that I love,
+  To old-fashioned gardens that grow up above.
+
+
+
+
+  DANCE OF THE RIPPLES.
+
+
+  I stood, one night, by the old St. Joe,
+    Where the moonbeams love to loiter;
+  Watching the ripples come and go
+  And the willow trees their shadows throw
+    On the mystic, murm'ring water.
+
+  As I lingered there on the vine-clad bank,
+    Where the pale rays glint and quiver
+  Through the silvered leaves, a perfumed breeze
+  So softly swayed the willow trees,
+    And dappled the laughing river.
+
+  The waters murmured so low and sweet,
+    Then an echo, soft and clear,--
+  Not the sound of lute or song of bird,
+  But the sweetest music ever heard,
+    Fell on my enchanted ear.
+
+  The silvered ripples all leaped for joy!
+    And over the waters glancing
+  I saw, in the light, a pretty sight;
+  In an ecstasy of glad delight,
+    The ripples all were dancing.
+
+  They danced in the midst where the stars look down--
+    No shadowy branch to hide them;
+  They danced where the willows kiss the stream,
+  Then back again in the moonlight's gleam,
+    And the fish peeped out and eyed them.
+
+  They danced in the shade of the iron bridge,
+    Where the aspen's shadows play;
+  And the great moon smiled as the dancers fled,
+  And spangles dropped on each little head,
+    As they laughed and danced away.
+
+
+
+
+  THE PESSIMIST.
+
+
+  Arrayed in a garment of fleeciest down,
+  The Winter-king rides over meadows so brown;
+  Through wild wailing woodlands so stark and so bare,
+  He rides on the wind to the great everywhere.
+  He dresses the trees in the daintiest gown;
+  And over each window in country and town,
+  With fairy-like fingers, unheard and unseen,
+  He pictures, in crystal and silvery sheen,
+  Most beautiful cities with steeples and towers,
+  And wild tangled mazes bespangled with flowers.
+  But 'mid the sweet music of jingling bells
+  You hear the old pessimist counting his ills.
+  With a sorrowful shake of the head murmurs he,
+  "Such nasty cold weather I never did see;
+  The streets are so slip'ry one can't walk at all,
+  For danger of breaking a leg by a fall;
+  Unless a few days bring a great change about,
+  The wheat in the ground will be all frozen out."
+  But roguish old Winter soon bundles his pack
+  Of ice, frost, and snow, on his jolly old back,
+  And hies to the mountain, but leaves in his stead
+  The Goddess of Love, with the blossom-crowned head;
+  And a breath that is filled with the nectar and dew,
+  She stole from the heart of the violet blue;
+  A voice--O, the music that swells on the air
+  From fresh-budding woodland, from hedge,--everywhere,
+  Caressed by the sunlight and bathed by the showers,
+  She walks on a carpet of mosses and flowers.
+  Again comes the pessimist, grumpy and grim,
+  And says the fair goddess has no charms for him.
+  "'Tis raining too often, the corn and the wheat
+  Will rot in the ground; there'll be nothing to eat;
+  Besides, the old crow, in his greedy delight,
+  Now raideth the cornfields from morning till night.
+  A famine is certain! 'Tis sure to prevail!"
+  And thus the old pessimist keeps up his wail.
+  At last this fair goddess descends from the throne,
+  Gives place to another we've all loved and known.
+  Her crown is of roses, her garment of grain,
+  With silken folds falling and rising again,
+  As scent-laden wind o'er their soft billows plays;
+  Enraptured, she basks in the blue summer haze,
+  Till bliss is dissolved into tear-laden showers,
+  That drench all the trees and refresh all the flowers.
+  As softly they fall on the roof o'er our heads,
+  O, the sleep-haunted rapture their lullaby sheds!
+  Though harvest with plenty his gran'ries hath filled,
+  The murmuring pessimist never is stilled.
+  He says, as he brushes the sweat from his brow,
+  "I don't see the use of such hot weather now;
+  'Twill dry up the fruit, the grapes on the vine--
+  Unless there's a change, they will yield us no wine."
+  And thus the old pessimist grumbles away
+  The brightness and joy of the long summer day.
+  He teases the evening, he teases the morn,
+  Until the fair Goddess of Autumn is born.
+  She comes heavy-laden with fruit from the vine,
+  Sweet clusters that drip with the mellowest wine;
+  And rosy-cheeked fruit from the old apple-tree,
+  And ears that are golden as golden can be.
+  Enrobed in a garment of crimson and brown,
+  A garland of goldenrod forming her crown,
+  In the mystic delight of the autumn she stands,
+  And showers her gifts o'er the pessimist's lands;
+  While he from his orchard-land turns in disgust,
+  Saying, "Labor avails me but dust, mould, and rust;
+  The winter comes on altogether too fast,
+  The corn that's unhusked will be caught in the blast;
+  My bills, they increase, while my business is slow;
+  I soon shall be broken and bankrupt, I know!
+  There's no satisfaction on land or on sea,
+  For nothing is what I desire it to be."
+
+  Say, Pessimist, say, while you grumble and fret,
+  Know ye not there is One who your needs won't forget?
+  Think ye the kind Father of wisdom so great
+  Forgetteth the things which His hands did create?
+  The sparrow sings neither by day nor by night,
+  Yet He, in His tenderness, guideth its flight.
+  He maketh the lily of waxen-white hue,
+  And feeds it on showers, on sunshine and dew;
+  Yet lives there a king in such garments arrayed?
+  Such beauty as robes this sweet flower of the glade?
+  In rapturous reign, the cool waters beside,
+  It looks up and trusts, and its needs are supplied.
+  The richest of treasures to thee will be given,
+  If thou, like the lily, wilt look up to heaven.
+
+
+
+
+  THE FIRST EASTER DAWN.
+
+
+  The night is past, the thunder's roar
+    In distance dies away;
+  And in the east, a gleam of light
+    Foretells the coming day;
+
+  And women, bearing spices sweet,
+    Are hast'ning on their way
+  Toward that tomb, so dark and deep,
+    Where Jesus' body lay.
+
+  "But who," these faithful women ask,
+    And pause upon their way,--
+  "When we have reached our Master's tomb,
+    Who'll roll the stone away?"
+
+  At last they reach the hallowed spot,--
+    The tomb that Joseph made,
+  Wherein, three days before, their loved
+    And loving Lord was laid.
+
+  The glory of the golden sun
+    Fills budding woods with light,
+  The morning dewdrops sparkle on
+    The Easter lilies white.
+
+  Sweet odor from the hyacinth
+    Upon the breeze is borne;
+  All nature now proclaims with joy,
+    "It is the world's first morn!"
+
+  The women stand beside the tomb
+    In deep surprise and fear;
+  For lo! the stone is rolled away--
+    Their Master is not there.
+
+  Impulsive Mary Magdalene
+    Stays not, but hastens on
+  That she may tell the wondrous news
+    To Peter and to John.
+
+  She tells them and they come with her
+    Unto the hallowed place,
+  And find it just as she has said--
+    Of Jesus there's no trace.
+
+  Then silently they turn and go
+    Each on his way--save one;
+  'Tis loving Mary Magdalene
+    Who stays and weeps alone.
+
+  She's thinking now of days when friends
+    Away from her all turned,
+  When thoughtless Mary Magdalene
+    By all the world was spurned.
+
+  How Jesus, in His wondrous love,
+    Had touched her heart within,
+  And led her into righteous paths
+    From those of vilest sin.
+
+  And as she weeps, she stoops and looks
+    Into the sepulcher,
+  And sees two angels sitting there
+    Who kindly say to her:
+
+  "Why weepest thou, oh, woman?"
+    And Magdalene replies,
+  "Because they've taken away my Lord;
+    I know not where He lies."
+
+  As Mary speaks she turns around--
+    Another form is there!
+  She thinks it is the gardener,
+    Who kindly says to her:
+
+  "Whom seekest thou, oh, woman?
+    Why stand ye weeping there?"
+  Says Mary, "If you've borne Him hence,
+    Oh, please, sir, tell me where."
+
+  The Saviour's loving heart is touched;
+    (For it is He who speaks--
+  Her loving Lord and Master, whom
+    So earnestly she seeks).
+
+  He draws a little closer now,
+    That she her Lord may know,
+  And answers only, "Mary,"
+    In accents soft and low.
+
+  She raises now her tearful eyes,
+    They are no longer blind;
+  For none but He could speak her name
+    So tenderly and kind.
+
+  Forgetting, in her love so blind
+    The cause for which He'd died,--
+  Forgetting _all_ save at His feet
+    No harm can her betide,
+
+  With beating heart and outstretched arms
+    She flies her Lord to greet.
+  "Rabboni!" then she kneels among
+    The lilies at His feet.
+
+  He looks with tend'rest pity on
+    That face with tears still wet,
+  And says "You must not touch me now;
+    I will not leave you yet.
+
+  "But by and by I will ascend
+    Unto my God and thine;
+  Go thou and tell, when thou dost find
+    Those true disciples mine."
+
+  The day is spent, the lily folds
+    Her leaves upon her breast;
+  The violets close their dewy eyes
+    And sweetly sink to rest.
+
+  The westland crimson glory fades
+    From hilltop, wood, and lawn,
+  Night's tender dews fall softly o'er
+    The world's First Easter Dawn.
+
+
+
+
+  INDIA.
+
+
+  There's a country o'er the billows deep,
+    As fair as fair can be;
+  Its north is bounded by mountains high,
+  With sunlit summits that kiss the sky,
+    Its south by the boundless sea.
+
+  A stream flows down the mountain side,
+    And swells to the great Ganges;
+  Its placid depths, unknown, untold,
+  Reflect the sunlight's orient gold,
+    Then rest in southern seas.
+
+  The silken palms their branches wave
+    As soft as summer sails;
+  And drowsy winds, so passing fair,
+  With odors laden, strange and rare,
+    Blow soft o'er sunbright vales.
+
+  And nestling close 'mong shelt'ring hills
+    The bamboo huts are seen;
+  Like golden billows fall and rise
+  The seas of grain 'neath Indian skies,
+    By woods of silvered green.
+
+  The date, the orange, the fig grow ripe
+    In that golden country, where
+  Through fragrant meads the pathways lead.
+  Wouldst see God's handiwork indeed?
+    Go view the sunset there!
+
+  'Tis veiled in clouds of splendid hue,
+    In melting colors rare:
+  Church domes in crimson waves are dyed,
+  And everything seems glorified--
+    Thank God there are churches there!
+
+  Where once the starry heavens looked down,
+    And wept a nation's blindness,
+  Which knew no God to soothe its grief,
+  And women--slaves! found no relief
+    In love or human kindness,
+
+  Millions of homes to-day rejoice
+    And praise our God above;
+  Millions have learned the hymn to swell,
+  Through missionaries, sent to tell
+    Of Him whose name is Love.
+
+  But millions still are left in doubt,
+    In darkness and alone;
+  Their restless souls are wrung with grief,
+  They find no respite or relief
+    In heathen gods of stone.
+
+  They've never heard of Him who gave
+    Their glorious sun-kissed shores;
+  God grant that we our efforts lend
+  To teach them of a loving Friend
+    Whom Freedom's land adores.
+
+  Prosper, O Lord, this land of ours,
+    So glad, so proud, so free,
+  That we may missionaries send
+  Till all that beauteous India land
+    Has learned to worship Thee.
+
+  Nothing we give our Father's cause
+    Escapes His watchful eyes;
+  Each mite will be a jewel rare
+  To deck the crown we'll surely wear
+    Some day in Paradise.
+
+
+
+
+  WEARY.
+
+
+  Weary of the tumult of the town,
+  Of the burdens and the cares that weigh me down,
+  Of oppression, greed, and strife,
+  Of the din of city life,
+  Disappointments that my noblest efforts crown.
+
+  Weary of the world's vain, gilded styles,
+  Though my moments he with softest words beguiles;
+  Though he warble ne'er so blandly,
+  His old heart is false though friendly,
+  For he lingers near me but when fortune smiles.
+
+  Weary of his griefs and empty show,
+  To the quiet woods alone I love to go,
+  And in sweet repose abide
+  Where the sylvan echoes ride
+  On October's drowsy winds that whisper low.
+
+  Where the bonnie squirrel flits among the trees,
+  And the quail his piping flings upon the breeze,
+  Where the gold and brown leaves quiver
+  O'er the winding, osiered river,
+  Bearing on its soft, low music to the seas.
+
+  And the forest oak, so grand, majestic, high,
+  With his rainbow-mantled branches woos the sky,
+  And the wind a fairy story
+  Breathing o'er the maple's glory,
+  Brings it down in twirling crimson showers, where lie
+
+  Many springtime flowers, fast asleep,
+  Spreading over them a cover warm and deep;
+  And the sunlight glints and spangles
+  Through the wild and woody tangles,
+  Where alone the eye of God doth vigils keep.
+
+  Standing there on wild, leaf-covered sod,
+  Where perhaps no human foot before hath trod
+  My storm-tossed soul is blest
+  In a halo of sweet rest,
+  All alone within the crimson wood with God.
+
+
+
+
+  TO A VIOLET.
+
+
+  Violet, sweet violet,
+    Of modest, dainty grace,
+  Why dost thou hide among the grass
+    Thy pretty velvet face?
+
+  Thine eyes are filled with dew, thy breath
+    Makes sweet the air of spring;
+  Thy whispers low, sweet memories
+    Of other springtimes bring.
+
+  Sweet olden, golden springtimes,
+    When bluebirds sang so gay,
+  As I plucked thy sister blossoms
+    From a woodland far away,
+
+  With her, whose eyes, in color,
+    Sweet flow'r, were just like you,
+  And like you grew in radiance
+    From drinking heaven's blue.
+
+  Each spring, as lisping children,
+    As romping schoolgirls, too,
+  Our feet were bathed in violet banks
+    That dripped with melting dew;
+
+  Our souls were bathed in bliss divine,
+    As all day long we basked
+  In sweet and fragrant winds we knew
+    Had kissed them as they passed.
+
+  But when the summer sun shone hot,
+    Their slender stems were dried;
+  Their modest heads bent lower, and
+    Their fragrant blossoms died;
+
+  And could we pierce to-day the blue
+    Of heaven's dome so fair,
+  Methinks we'd see them blooming in
+    Celestial glory there!
+
+  Culled by our angel Emma,
+    In a rapturous clime, that lies
+  In the radiant, springtime glory
+    Of the fields of Paradise!
+
+
+
+
+  GOLDEN DAYS.
+
+
+  SONG.
+
+  (To my sister Emma.)
+
+  I've just seen the first robin of spring, Emma,
+    And he's warbling a sweet little song,
+  Bringing back tender mem'ries of you, Emma,
+    And of joys that to childhood belong.
+  He was singing a song to his mate, Emma,
+    A sweet song of happiness and love,
+  And it echoed thro' woodland and dale, Emma,
+    Over valley and hilltop and grove.
+
+  CHORUS:
+
+  Oh, those happy, happy days gone by, Emma,
+    Their memory is ever dear to me;
+  Oh, those old golden, glorious days, Emma,
+    When I played 'mong the flowers with thee.
+
+  Bringing back tender mem'ries of you, Emma,
+    When life seemed only a song,
+  Holding neither a sorrow nor tear, Emma,
+    As we played 'mong the flowers all day long.
+  We gathered the mosses and ferns, Emma,
+    The cowslips and violets so blue,
+  And the crab-apple blossoms so sweet, Emma,
+    And the sweet, mellow May-apple, too.
+
+  CHORUS.
+
+  You remember the old apple-tree, Emma,
+    With its wide-spreading branches o'erhead?
+  Such perfume I have never since found, Emma,
+    As its sweet, fragrant blossoms did shed.
+  But now we are far, far apart, Emma,
+    The sunny days of childhood are o'er,
+  But we'll roam hand in hand 'mong the flowers, Emma,
+    That bloom on the Bright Golden Shore.
+
+  CHORUS.
+
+
+
+
+  BABY MINE.
+
+
+  Tired of laughter, tired of play,
+                          Baby mine,
+  On my breast thy tresses lay,
+                          Baby mine.
+  Cooing, loving, prattling, too,--
+  Shine and showers the whole day thro',
+  Tires a bonnie thing like you,
+                          Baby mine.
+
+  Little violets so blue,
+                          Baby mine,
+  Close their eyes now wet with dew,
+                          Baby mine,
+  Saying, sweetheart, unto you,
+  Close those orbs of azure hue,
+  Where that glimpse of heaven gleams thro',
+                          Baby mine.
+
+  Whence that dimpled foot and hand,
+                          Baby mine?
+  Came they here at love's command,
+                          Baby mine?
+  Or did angels, in their flight,
+  Drop this little blossom white
+  On the stream of time one night,
+                          Baby mine?
+
+  Dimples guard thy crimson lips,
+                          Baby mine;
+  Prints of fairy finger-tips,
+                          Baby mine.
+  Now the shade of angel wings
+  Sweet repose upon thee brings,--
+  Silken soft thy slumberings,
+                          Baby mine.
+
+
+
+
+  LULLABY.
+
+
+  Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, baby, my dear,
+  Nothing can harm you, for mother is near.
+  The journey is short, and the stars twinkle bright
+  O'er your path into Byloland, baby, good-night.
+
+  Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, baby, my pet,
+  Grasses that cover your pathway are wet
+  With dewdrops that sparkle like jewels so bright,
+  Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, baby, good-night.
+
+  Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, sweetheart of mine,
+  Rest from their prattle those red lips of thine.
+  Bridges you cross in your Byloland flight
+  Sway to your footsteps, my baby, good-night.
+
+  Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, baby, my love,
+  Angels are watching thy cradle above.
+  Thy feet into Byloland's dreamy delight
+  Have entered, then rest, little pilgrim, good-night.
+
+
+
+
+  A DAY IN JUNE.
+
+  (To Mercy.)
+
+
+  This is the month of roses, dear,
+  The sweetest time of all the year.
+  Field, woodland, roadside,--everywhere,
+  Is clad in crimson beauty rare.
+  The very earth beneath our feet
+  Is covered with their petals sweet;
+  Where'er we go the balmy air
+  Is laden with sweet fragrance rare.
+
+  And now and then, dear, we may see
+  The cheerful, busy little bee
+  From out this dainty, crimson flow'r,
+  Sip nectar for his winter store.
+  The sky is blue, and there and here
+  We see a fleecy cloud appear;
+  Nor tongue nor pen can e'er portray
+  The beauties of this sweet June day.
+
+  In mem'ry, dear, it takes me back
+  Along life's sunny backward track
+  Just thirteen years, to a sweet June day
+  And a little cot, not far away,
+  Where roses bloomed, and song of bird
+  Throughout the livelong day was heard;
+  But never was this song so gay
+  As on that blissful, bright June day.
+
+  Within that little nut-brown cot,
+  On earth the dearest, sweetest spot,
+  A wee pink flower, both sweet and gay,
+  First opened to the light of day.
+  As time flew by on fairy wing,
+  This wee pink flower, this dainty thing,
+  Of all our love demanded part,
+  And twined its tendrils 'round each heart.
+
+  Sometimes, without, 'twas dark and dreary,
+  But all within this cot was cheery,
+  Because this little floweret gay
+  Chased gloom and shadows all away.
+  This dainty thing, so dear to me,
+  This little flower I have in thee.
+  'Neath blue June sky and rainbow shower,
+  Long live earth's purest, sweetest flower.
+
+
+
+
+  CHRISTMAS ON THE FARM.
+
+
+  Don't you remember, oh, brother mine!
+  What fun we had at Christmas-time,
+  Out on the old farm, you and I--
+  That home we loved in days gone by?
+  How up in the loft we used to climb
+  For nuts, stored there in autumn-time,
+  To crack and eat by the dear old fire,
+  While the cheerful blaze leaped high'r and high'r?
+
+  And when it was time to go to bed,
+  How each tired, sleepy little head
+  Was laid on a pillow, soft and white,
+  To dream of Christmas the livelong night?
+  And how in the morn, before 'twas light,
+  Our eyes were opened wide and bright,
+  As we ran a race down the high old stair,
+  To see if "Santa" had been there,
+
+  And brought his bundle of toys with him,
+  And filled our stockings up to the brim?
+  But dear old "Santa" would always stop
+  And fill them full to the very top.
+  Then we'd away to the old hillside,
+  The country shoemaker's cot beside--
+  Just 'round the corner, near the wood,
+  Where the tall old beech-tree grew and stood.
+
+  And the snowbirds hopped on its boughs awry
+  As our brand-new sled went whizzing by;
+  And down to the foot of the hill we'd go,
+  Over the crystal Christmas snow.
+  Oh, could life's downward journey be
+  As free from care for you and me;
+  Our hearts be filled with the same glad rays
+  Of those olden, golden Christmas days!
+
+  When life was so sunny, bright, and new,
+  Oh, brother mine! for me and you.
+  A happier home none ever had
+  Than ours, holding hearts so light and glad.
+  But those happy Christmas days of yore
+  To us will come again no more;
+  For she who chased all our care away
+  Sings a Christmas anthem in heaven to-day.
+
+
+
+
+  MY LITTLE BROWN-EYED SWEETHEART.
+
+
+  When evening shadows gather round,
+    And work of day is done,
+  When down the west horizon sinks
+    The glorious, golden sun,
+  And sweetly sing the whip-po-wils
+    Ode to the closing day,
+  Back to my home among the hills
+    My visions often stray.
+
+  CHORUS:
+
+  Tho' time from mem'ry may efface
+    All else that's sweet and tender,
+  Those happy olden, golden days
+    I ever shall remember.
+  Oh, happy, olden, golden days,
+    Oh, days with sunshine laden,
+  When I wandered o'er those verdant hills
+    With a little brown-eyed maiden.
+
+  Where flowers were fair and fields were green,
+    And trees with blossoms lade,
+  'Twas there I met and loved and wooed
+    A little brown-eyed maid;
+  And oftentimes she'd sing to me
+    Sweetly her Flower Song,
+  As o'er those verdant, flowery hills
+    We gaily strolled along.
+
+  CHORUS:
+
+  But that was years, long years ago,
+    Yet o'er and o'er again
+  In dreams I'm with my brown-eyed love,
+    And hear that sweet refrain.
+  Tho' death's cold frost has touched my flower,
+    And bid its life depart,
+  Yet still within my soul doth live
+    My little brown-eyed sweetheart.
+
+  CHORUS:
+
+
+
+
+  I KNOW TWO EYES.
+
+  SONG.
+
+
+  I know two eyes--two jet-black eyes,
+    Yet fond and true and tender.
+  I see them in the twinkling stars,
+    And in the glowing ember.
+  You girls may talk of sweet blue eyes,
+    Or on soft brown eyes tarry,
+  But I will take those jet-black eyes,
+    So sparkling, bright, and merry.
+
+  They come to me at twilight hour,
+    They come in morning early,
+  They come my every joy to share,
+    Those jet-black eyes so merry.
+  They come at noon, and when I'm sad
+    They look at me so kindly,
+  Their ever-tender, sparkling glance
+    Dwells on me, oh, so fondly.
+
+  I know two eyes--two jet-black eyes,
+    Yet fond and true and tender;
+  They're bright as any twinkling star
+    Up in the heavens yonder.
+  I look into those sparkling eyes,
+    Those jet-black eyes so merry,
+  And see within their radiant depths
+    The love-light of my "dearie."
+
+
+
+
+  CUPID'S MISTAKE.
+
+
+  Cupid looked forth one bright spring day,
+  And whispered, "Now I must away.
+  Old winter, with his frost and snow,
+  Took his departure long ago.
+
+  "O'er roadside, field, and woodland, too,
+  Sweet violets grow, with eyes so blue;
+  Blossoms of every hue and shade
+  The balmy air with perfume lade.
+
+  "There's light and sunshine everywhere;
+  All nature is so wondrous fair;
+  E'en from the woods the wild birds sing
+  A welcome to the newborn spring.
+
+  "This surely is my harvest time,
+  To make men bow at Love's sweet shrine;
+  For all around, below, above,
+  Will help me make men fall in love."
+
+  So from beneath his flow'ry tent
+  He started on this mission bent.
+  First to the halls of wealth and rank
+  Went cunning Cupid with his prank.
+
+  On reaching them, to his dismay,
+  Those halls in deepest quiet lay;
+  And music, once the food of love,
+  Could not be heard below, above.
+
+  So Cupid's little wings he spread,
+  And, flying, to himself he said,
+  "The lawyer will be in, I know,
+  He's poring o'er his books, I trow.
+
+  "Poor fellow, what a lot is his!
+  To be shut up a day like this,
+  From sunlight, flowers, and wild bird's song,
+  Trying to balance right and wrong.
+
+  "I'll take my tiny little dart,
+  And lightly touch the lawyer's heart,
+  And show him how love's sweet, glad light
+  Can make his dingy office bright."
+
+  But when he reached the longed-for spot,
+  He found the studious lawyer not.
+  These words he read upon the door,
+  "The lawyer will be in at four."
+
+  "To the office of the doctor kind
+  I'll go," said he, "for there I'll find
+  Him tending to his patients' ills
+  With soothing balms and dainty pills."
+
+  But doctor's doors were closed, and lo!
+  Just as poor Cupid turned to go,
+  These words he read 'twixt tears, alack!
+  "At six the doctor will be back."
+
+  Next to the dentist man he flew,
+  And called upon the merchant, too;
+  In every place, the city 'round,
+  But not a bit of game he found.
+
+  "Well, well!" said Cupid, with a moan,
+  "The world has cold and heartless grown."
+  So once again his wings he spread,
+  And over country roads he sped,
+
+  Back toward his home among spring flowers,
+  And shady walks, and leafy bowers;
+  But as he flew the stream beside,
+  A crowd of wheelmen there he spied.
+
+  "Ha! ha!" laughed he, "I've found them all,
+  Both short and tall, both great and small.
+  Oh, what a pretty lad I see
+  Gliding along so merrily!
+
+  "With pretty boots laced to the knee,
+  His limbs how shapely, blithe, and free;
+  If I can get such game as he,
+  This trip a grand success will be."
+
+  So, saying this, his bow he bent,
+  And through the air his arrow sent;
+  Straight toward this pretty lad it flew,
+  And pierced his bosom through and through.
+
+  "My! wasn't that a blissful aim.
+  I'll fly to earth and get my game."
+  But when he reached that laddie's side
+  He looked perplexed, then horrified.
+
+  Then quickly rose and flew away,
+  And as he went was heard to say:
+  "Oh, what a blunder! Now I see
+  Fort Wayne is not the place for me;
+
+  "For, counting now my time and cost,
+  This lovely day is worse than lost.
+  My wings are weary, brain's awhirl,
+  For, oh, 'twas but a Bloomer Girl!"
+
+
+
+
+  DEWEY'S VICTORY.
+
+
+  'Tis morning at Manila,
+    The first dawn of the May;
+  Along the eastern horizon
+    We see the light of day.
+
+  As spreads its golden splendor
+    And drives away the night,
+  The hills that guard the islands
+    Are decked with diamonds bright.
+
+  The cocoa palms so olden,
+    Now robed in silvered green,
+  Stretch their broad branches heav'nward
+    To golden fields serene.
+
+  And yon cathedral spire gleams
+    With glory from the skies;
+  The beauty of the Sabbath
+    Across the city lies.
+
+  A little bay rests softly
+    Among those sun-kissed isles,
+  Reflecting heaven's azure,
+    And basking in God's smiles.
+
+  Upon its sleeping waters
+    A Spanish squadron lies;
+  Her flags unfurl their folds, and
+    Upon sweet breezes rise.
+
+  Lo! another fleet approaches,
+    More beauteous and grand;
+  The flag she bears so proudly
+    Has waved o'er Freedom's land!
+
+  She comes across the billows,
+    And in Freedom's cause to-day
+  The smoke and fire of battle
+    Enfold Manila Bay.
+
+  Look! on Fort Cavite they're firing!
+    Their efforts now prevail;
+  'Tis shattered into splinters,
+    And Spanish cheeks grow pale
+
+  The cannons belch forth thunder!
+    The shells burst thick and fast!
+  With might charge Freedom's heroes,
+    Amid the purple blast.
+
+  The handsome flagship Reina
+    Christina's sinking now;
+  She's robed in flames and ruin,
+    From th' Olympia's snowy bow.
+
+  Now all the Spanish squadron,
+    Its proud and dauntless crew,
+  Sinks 'mid the storm of battle,
+    'Neath troubled waters blue.
+
+  Nor falls a single hero
+    In Freedom's cause so true,
+  While fighting 'neath the banner
+    That's red and white and blue.
+
+  The Philippines are freed from
+    All tyrant rule and reign,
+  _Avenged_ the noble sailors
+    On board our gallant Maine!
+
+  The gory hands of Spain are
+    In ocean waters laved,
+  O'er whose enchanted bosom
+    This morn her banner waved.
+
+  Hills, mountains, vales, and rocks ring
+    With shouts of victory,
+  As falls the sunset's crimson
+    Across the earth and sea.
+
+  And Dewey's noble squadron,
+    That bravely won the day,
+  On drowsy winds is floating
+    "Old Glory" o'er the bay.
+
+  All hail! our great commander,
+    Thou hero of the sea,
+  With your brave and noble boys you
+    Have captured victory.
+
+  Your name is wreathed in glory,
+    Its praises will be sung
+  Wherever Freedom's flag is
+    To Freedom's breezes flung.
+
+  The guns you've fired to-day,
+    On the first of flow'ring May,
+  Will thunder o'er Spain's hilltops
+    Ten thousand miles away!
+
+  Fling higher Freedom's emblem!
+    Long may its colors wave
+  Where God has given victory
+    To Freedom's noble brave.
+
+
+
+
+  BATTLE OF SANTIAGO BAY.
+
+
+  Just off the coast of an isle that lies
+  Where silver'd, feathery palm-trees rise
+  As if their branches would kiss the skies
+    So blue, so far away;
+  When woke each vale the Sabbath bell,
+  On seas that gently rose and fell,
+    Our nation's warships lay.
+
+  As dreamily, lazily basking, they
+  In quiet tropical sunshine lay,
+  In sight of a placid, sleeping bay,
+    Where anchored the Spaniard's ships,
+  "A big boat's coming from the bay!
+  The Spaniard's squadron comes this way!"
+    Came loud from a lookout's lips.
+
+  As one by one came the fleet of Spain
+  Across the bay, toward the main,
+  With hope in each bosom they once again
+    Launched forth on open sea.
+  "Each man to his gun!" the commodore cried,
+  And the warships plowed through the cloven tide,
+    In the trail of the enemy.
+
+  "Full speed ahead! Open fire!"
+  The commodore's voice rose high'r and high'r,
+  'Midst smoke and flames to the enemy nigh'r,
+    The gallant fleet plunged on.
+  The cannons poured forth fire and thunder,
+  The great shells cleft the waves asunder,
+    As gun replied to gun.
+
+  Right through the hot hell-fire and shell,
+  Through mist and smoke and shot that fell
+  O'er ship and boiling sea, pell-mell,
+    Charged Freedom's heroes true.
+  For o'er the battle's smoke and fury
+  Waved high the synonym of glory,--
+    The old "Red, White and Blue."
+
+  Great crashing volleys, long and loud,
+  Swept from the decks the Spaniards proud,
+  Then wrapped their boats in a smoky shroud,
+    And left them beached and burning.
+  Their decks in human blood were laved,
+  O'er which the yellow banner waved
+    So vauntingly that morning.
+
+  That eve the sunset's crimson ray
+  Touched gently, softly, tenderly
+  The waves that moaned where the lost fleet lay,--
+    The pride of Spain erstwhile,--
+  And crowned the man who climbed the height
+  To plant "Old Glory's" spangles bright
+    On sun-kissed Cuba's Isle.
+
+
+
+
+  THE OLD MAN'S STORY.
+
+
+  We'd been a talkin'--me and Ma--
+    A deal about our Bill.
+  He wuz well nigh onto thirty,
+    And gettin' older still.
+
+  He wa'n't a lazy lad, you see,
+    Wuz tall and strong and big,
+  But to accomplish anything
+    He must git up and dig.
+
+  Next we sot out to talk of Sal;
+    She wa'n't a hansum lass,
+  But luvin'er or kinder soul
+    Ne'er stepped on medder grass.
+
+  Sez I, "Good wimmen never grows
+    Frum idle gals, 'tis true;"
+  So we decided Sally should
+    Airn her own livin' too.
+
+  And then we talked about the twins,--
+    About our Joe and Jim.
+  Joe allus wuz a truant cuss,
+    And oft I've wallerp'd him
+
+  Fer runnin' 'way from skule to watch
+    The ships cum in at sea.
+  He allus said, "When I'm a man,
+    A sailor I will be."
+
+  Wuz allus gettin' inter scraps
+    On politicks at skule;
+  It wa'n't no use to send 'im,
+    He broke ever' gol-durned rule.
+
+  But Jim wuz sort o' studious;
+    He keered a heap fer books.
+  Lazy? I guess! On summer days
+    He'd find the shady nooks
+
+  And lay and read, while me and Bill
+    Got out and dun the work,
+  And airned a decent livin' fer
+    This lazy, wuthless shirk.
+
+  But Sue, she wuz a hansum gal;
+    Her cheek wuz like the rose;
+  Her breth wuz sweet as any breeze
+    The June-time ever blows.
+
+  Her eyes wuz dark and full of fire,
+    Her cheeks wuz churry red,
+  Her body sort o' willery,
+    But she'd a haughty head.
+
+  But if you wanted her to work
+    She never could be found;
+  And, mebby, if you scoured the farm
+    And all the country round,
+
+  You'd find her sittin' in a tree
+    A-whistlin' o' the tune
+  She'd heered the medder lark a-singin'
+    To the skies o' June.
+
+  And so one nite I called 'em in,
+    I think jest arter tea.
+  Sez I, "We've clothed and edecated you--
+    Yer Ma and me;
+
+  But now we're gettin' old, our j'ints
+    O' roomatism tells,
+  And it's high time fer you to airn
+    A livin' fer yoursel's."
+
+  Our kids wuz proud as eny
+    Indiany's ever grown,
+  And so, afore another month
+    They left us all alone.
+
+  Bill went to Philadelphy town
+    And hired to a store
+  As keeps all sorts o' things in lots,
+    Oh, millions,--mebby more.
+
+  Sal went to work fer Deken Dobbs,
+    And Joe went off to sea;
+  But Jim turned out an editor--
+    A mighty man wuz he.
+
+  Along kum one o' them air shows
+    With gals that danced and sang;
+  And, spite of all her ma could say,
+    Our Sue, she j'ined the gang.
+
+  As years went by our Bill he wed
+    A hansum city wife,
+  And went to livin' in accord
+    With high-dad city life.
+
+  The children kum till he possessed
+    O' them a mammoth fold;
+  And ever'thing he teched jest seemed
+    To turn to yaller gold.
+
+  Sal, wed to Deken Dobbs's son,
+    Wuz happy, but so poor;
+  And meny children played around
+    Her country cabin door.
+
+  But then she loved that wuthless man,
+    And p'raps, when all is told,
+  She's happier 'n she would 'a' bin
+    If she had wed fer gold.
+
+  The last I heered of rompin' Sue,
+    I b'lieve it wuz a "hit"
+  They called it that she made in France,
+    And ever' night she'd git
+
+  Great piles o' flowers, roses and sich,
+    O' yaller, red and white;
+  And ever' time she danced she fetched
+    Ten thousan' francs a night!
+
+  But Jim--poor Jim! our lazy boy--
+    He did'nt fare so well;
+  He's good in larnin', but, somehow,
+    His paper didn't sell.
+
+  But why it didn't I can't tell,
+    And of'n wonder yit;
+  Fer when the people brung in stuff
+    As fer his paper writ
+
+  Thet didn't sound jest right to him,
+    And wuzn't right in looks,
+  He allus tuk and made it right,
+    Fer Jim wuz good in books.
+
+  He know'd about the president,
+    Congress and senate, too;
+  Could tell you all that they hed done
+    And what they'd ort to do.
+
+  And when he found he couldn't make
+    Enuff to buy a bike,
+  He _walked_ off down the railroad track
+    Toward the Klonindike.
+
+  But do you know that wuthless Joe
+    Turned out the best of all?
+  When down-trod Cuby needed help,
+    He answered duty's call,
+
+  An' what he taught ol' haughty Spain
+    I guess she'll not forget;
+  Fer the way he licked them Spanyards
+    Wuz a caution, now, you bet!
+
+  The people all went wild about
+    His bravery and fame,
+  An' now he's got an "Admiral"
+    Hitched on afore his name.
+
+  But nairy youngster would 'a' knowed
+    What in his brain-pan lay
+  'F I hadn't said, "Git up and dust!"
+    To them that summer day.
+
+
+
+
+  TO MY DOG.
+
+
+  Noble fellow, faithful friend!
+    Devoted, kind, and true;
+  In all this wide, wide world I've found
+    No one who loves like you.
+
+  Faithful dog, rememb'rest thou
+    (Oh, lucky day for thee!)
+  When thou, a friendless puppy, came
+    To beg a crust from me?
+
+  Then thou wast hungry, footsore, cold,
+    Thy sides were lank and thin;
+  But when I saw thy friendly face
+    I gladly took thee in.
+
+  Now thou art beautiful and plump.
+    Thy fur is soft and sleek,
+  A pretty collar buckled round
+    Thy noble, glossy neck.
+
+  But thou, oh, noble, trusty friend,
+    Repay'st this care of mine
+  A thousand-fold, for who could spurn
+    Devotion such as thine?
+
+  I know if thou, in time to come,
+    Some other friend should find,
+  Thou wilt not say of me harsh words
+    And sentences unkind.
+
+  So they who would our friendship scorn--
+    My fondness would reprove,--
+  Would better come to thee and learn
+    True gratitude and love.
+
+
+
+
+  SOMEBODY.
+
+
+  There's somebody stayin' aroun' our house--
+    I don't know who or where--
+  That sneaks about an' follers me out
+    An' in an' ever'where
+
+  I go; an' 'sturbs my skates an' things,
+    An' scatters 'em all about;
+  But you bet your stuff it'll go mighty tough
+    With 'im when I find 'im out!
+
+  Though I hang my hat an' coat away,
+    Up on the peg with care,
+  I'll just be bound they can't be found
+    When I want 'em,--anywhere.
+
+  When I've hunted for 'em till I'm late for school,
+    An' mad as one ol' March hare,
+  An' a dozen more, right down on the floor
+    I'll find that hat, just where
+
+  Somebody's went an' throwed it down,--
+    It's the same with my books each day,
+  My bat an' ball, my mittens an' all,
+    Though I'm sure I put 'em away.
+
+  But I tell you this: if I ever find
+    Who that meddlesome "somebody" is,
+  I'll rout 'im, an' scout 'im, an' all that's about 'im,
+    I'll learn 'im to mind his biz.
+
+
+
+
+  THE HERO OF EVERY-DAY LIFE.
+
+  (SONG.)
+
+
+  We sing of the hero of battle,
+    We cherish and worship his name;
+  Of the hero of old, and the hero of gold,
+    Of him who has honor and fame.
+  The hero of love's tender passion,
+    Who basks in its mystical ray,
+  As we journey along, but never a song
+    For the hero we meet every day.
+
+  The one who can face, aye, so bravely
+    His losses, rebuffs, and defeat;
+  Whose heart will not break though the world may forsake,--
+    From the enemy will not retreat.
+  Who never will murmur at fate, when
+    It seems an unmerciful foe,
+  But struggles along with a heart true and strong,
+    And strikes a far nobler blow.
+
+  Though his last golden castle is shattered
+    And sown to the wind long ago,
+  Each one that he meets with a warm smile he greets,--
+    His burden we never may know.
+  But hark! sweetest melodies mingle
+    With the din of earth's tumult and strife--
+  Heaven's joyous bells ring and archangels sing
+    For the hero of every-day life.
+
+
+
+
+  THE CHILD'S INQUIRY.
+
+
+  Oh, where is that beautiful city, mamma,
+    The one that is called Fort Wayne?
+  Does it rest in the light of a clear blue sky,
+    'Way out on a sandy plain?
+
+  Or may it be found where the roses climb
+    Over trellises built so high
+  That if you would pluck off the topmost one
+    You'd have to climb up to the sky?
+
+  Or where all the streets are so smooth and so clean
+    That buggies and bicycles, too,
+  Glide along with all ease in the sweet dreamy breeze,
+    Like balloons in soft heavens of blue?
+
+      Mother: Not there, my child, not there.
+
+  Fort Wayne is a hustling city, my dear,
+    On the banks of the old Maumee,
+  Where most of the folks are too busy to care
+    The beauties of nature to see.
+
+  'Tis a place where they all pay a tax, my dear,
+    For repairing the street, you know,
+  That they all may enjoy their bicycles, dear,
+    As "bumpety bump" they go.
+
+  And should you e'er enter that city, my dear,
+    Be sure that you always look down,
+  Or first thing you know in a rut you will go,
+    And find yourself flat on the ground.
+
+  Or if 'tis not you that is flat on the ground,
+    Your bicycle ruined will be--
+  There are tacks, broken beer-bottles strewn all around,
+    And your tire will be punctured, you see.
+
+  Fort Wayne is the city of "tags," my dear,
+    As every taxpayer knows;
+  Tags on their horses, their wheels, and their dogs,
+    And tags from their heads to their toes.
+
+  When its people go into the country, my dear,
+    To enjoy its cool breezes and shade,
+  They are bangled and spangled with tags, my dear,
+    Till they look like a circus parade.
+
+  It is there, my child, it is there.
+
+
+
+
+  TO THE OLD TOWN CLOCK.
+
+
+  Oh, servant faithful, tried, and true,
+    Through sunshine, storm, and shower,
+  Thy face for nearly forty years
+    Has graced the court-house tower;
+  Thy hands have never idle hung,
+    Thy face was always cheery,
+  Thy ever-swinging pendulum
+    Seemed never, never weary.
+
+  When we were late to work or school,
+    How gently didst thou chide us,
+  Telling in soft and muffled chimes
+    How swiftly time glides by us.
+  Oh, how the workman loved thy voice,
+    When thou, at set of sun,
+  Proclaimed in softest, sweetest chimes,
+    That his day's work was done.
+
+  But to us all it lost its charm,
+    And sounded cross and surly,
+  When wakened by its loud alarm
+    In morning, oh, so early!
+  The maple trees that spread their boughs
+    O'er the court-house yard below,
+  Each year yield up their foliage
+    To winter's frost and snow.
+
+  The birds that nest and sing among
+    Their boughs in summer time,
+  When winter winds begin to blow,
+    All seek a sunny clime.
+  But thou, oh, tried and faithful one,
+    Wert always just the same,
+  Keeping the time with merry chime
+    Through sunshine, snow, and rain.
+
+  For forty years thou'st kept the time,
+    While in the court below
+  Stood he who perpetrated crime,
+    Waiting his doom to know;
+  And when a murderer was tried,
+    Who, for a little pay,
+  Did take the life of a trusting friend,
+    In a hut not far away,
+
+  "One, two, three," we heard thee say,
+    In measured tones and slow,
+  As forth, to be tried in heav'nly courts,
+    His blood-stained soul did go.
+  Oh, cruel was thy fate, old clock!
+    For many days ago
+  Thy old familiar face was crushed
+    By workmen's sturdy blow.
+
+  They say they'll build a new court-house,
+    And that they will replace
+  By timepiece handsome, bright and new
+    Thy old storm-beaten face.
+  Then thou, oh, servant tried and true,
+    Through storm, sunshine, and show'r,
+  The music of thy mellow chimes
+    We'll hear again no more.
+
+
+
+
+  AFTERWHILE, SOMEWHERE.
+
+
+  Some day the misty shadow
+  That covers your heaven of blue,
+  Will melted be, and you will see
+  The rainbow gleaming through.
+  The tears you've shed in silence
+  For love that was wasted here--
+  Be still, O soul! They'll find their goal,
+  Afterwhile, somewhere.
+
+  Though deeds of tend'rest kindness
+  Oft bitter reproaches bring,
+  As the drowning bee that you'd set free
+  Repays you with a sting.
+  The pain you bear in silence,
+  For confidence wasted here
+  Will blossoms yield in a sun-kissed field,
+  Afterwhile, somewhere.
+
+  Though years of honest labor
+  Success has never crowned,
+  No fruit they brought, though nobly wrought,
+  Dire Fate has always frowned.
+  The seed you've sown with patience,
+  The labor you've wasted here,
+  Again will bloom in the harvest-home,
+  Afterwhile, somewhere.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Snowflakes, by Esther Nelson Karn
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40562 ***