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diff --git a/40562-0.txt b/40562-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5fba5ae --- /dev/null +++ b/40562-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1989 @@ +*** 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 *** |