1895
In the silence of the night,
If I waken with affright
From a dream that's full of terror and annoy,
There's a sound that fills my heart
With a melody of art
Full of beauty, full of pleasure, full of joy.
'Tis the steady "tick, tick, tock,"
Of my sturdy little clock,
As it sits across the room upon a shelf,
And it says: "Don't be afraid,
For I've closely by you staid
While you were off in the land of dreams your self.
"With a steady 'tick, tick, tick,'
I am never tired or sick,
And I count the minutes over as they fly.
I'm the truest friend you've got,
And share your ev'ry lot,
And I'm ready to stand by you till you die."
It's a common sort of clock,
But I like its lusty "tock,"
And it fills my soul with courage by its song
In the storm or cold or rain
I hear its bright refrain
As it faithfully pursues its path along.
For it tells me to be true
To each thing I have to do,
And no matter if the world applaud or scorn;
That full soon must pass the night
And the sweet and precious light
Be unfolded with the coming of the morn.
— Hamilton Jay in Florida Times-Union.
Friday, September 5, 2008
MY SWEETHEART.
1895
My dear little sweetheart, fond and true,
Thinking of laddie so far away,
For laddie is all this world to you—
Your dream by night and your hope by day.
What though your swain be of humble birth;
The love in your heart his praise will sing.
Dear little brown eyes, you know his worth;
Affection enthrones him as your king.
Brave little lassie, whose soft words cheer
When the world is dark and skins o'ercast,
Making the future seem bright and clear—
The heaven of joy looms up at last.
Laddie, fold close to your loyal breast
This dear little woman, fond and true.
Her creed is simple and soon confest
In a sweet and tender "I love you!"
—J. T. B. in Boston Traveller.
My dear little sweetheart, fond and true,
Thinking of laddie so far away,
For laddie is all this world to you—
Your dream by night and your hope by day.
What though your swain be of humble birth;
The love in your heart his praise will sing.
Dear little brown eyes, you know his worth;
Affection enthrones him as your king.
Brave little lassie, whose soft words cheer
When the world is dark and skins o'ercast,
Making the future seem bright and clear—
The heaven of joy looms up at last.
Laddie, fold close to your loyal breast
This dear little woman, fond and true.
Her creed is simple and soon confest
In a sweet and tender "I love you!"
—J. T. B. in Boston Traveller.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
My Lady's Violin
1895
If I were but her violin,
Pressed lovingly beneath her chin,
Ah, what ecstatic bliss!
To feel the throbbing of each vein
As from sweet music's tangled skein
Come sounds as soft as summer's rain
When storm clouds gently kiss!
If I were but her violin,
Her wooing, cooing violin!
If I were but her violin,
With envied place beneath her chin,
How sweet would be the note
I'd yield to her caressing hands—
The treasure which her skill demands,
Or servile be, as slave who stands
To kiss the hand which smote,
If I were but her violin,
Her heart subduing violin!
If I were but her violin,
To rest no more beneath her chin,
How sad would be the day
When music's daughter was brought low,
And when, with trembling hands and slow,
She'd lay me with the useless bow,
Forever from her touch away!
An old, neglected violin,
A silent, soundless violin!
— T. Hussey in Midland Monthly.
If I were but her violin,
Pressed lovingly beneath her chin,
Ah, what ecstatic bliss!
To feel the throbbing of each vein
As from sweet music's tangled skein
Come sounds as soft as summer's rain
When storm clouds gently kiss!
If I were but her violin,
Her wooing, cooing violin!
If I were but her violin,
With envied place beneath her chin,
How sweet would be the note
I'd yield to her caressing hands—
The treasure which her skill demands,
Or servile be, as slave who stands
To kiss the hand which smote,
If I were but her violin,
Her heart subduing violin!
If I were but her violin,
To rest no more beneath her chin,
How sad would be the day
When music's daughter was brought low,
And when, with trembling hands and slow,
She'd lay me with the useless bow,
Forever from her touch away!
An old, neglected violin,
A silent, soundless violin!
— T. Hussey in Midland Monthly.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
The Old Trundle Bed
1895
Oh, the old trundle bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy!
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine;
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding place at night.
Oh, a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, dear little old trundle bed!
Oh, the old trundle bed where I wondering saw
The stars through the window and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robins so restlessly slept;
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.
Oh, the old trundle bed! Oh, the old trundle bed!
With its plump little pillow and old fashioned spread,
Its snowy white sheets and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy stories may memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head
Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle bed!
— James Whitcomb Riley in "Armazindy."
Oh, the old trundle bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy!
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine;
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding place at night.
Oh, a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, dear little old trundle bed!
Oh, the old trundle bed where I wondering saw
The stars through the window and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robins so restlessly slept;
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.
Oh, the old trundle bed! Oh, the old trundle bed!
With its plump little pillow and old fashioned spread,
Its snowy white sheets and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy stories may memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head
Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle bed!
— James Whitcomb Riley in "Armazindy."
Friday, July 25, 2008
She Sold Her Diary
1895
How a Girl Turned the Edge of a Joke to the Benefit of the Poor.
There seems to be no limit to a woman's self sacrifice when she once takes a charitable object to heart. This is the story of a girl who sold her diary, and you have to be a woman to realize all that that means.
It was on shipboard, and it happened on the way over from Liverpool. The girl was a millionaire's daughter, and in addition to devoting her pocket money to the East Side mission, of which she was a patroness, she spent most of her leisure time crocheting wonderful and altogether useless nothings, which she persuaded her rich admirers to buy at fabulous prices for the benefit of the poor. She had devoted the entire trip to this pretty work, except for an hour a day, which she spent in filling her diary with such sentimental observations as misses of 20 or thereabout are apt to find expression for on the innocent white pages of their diaries.
The friends she had victimized on the way over by luring dollars from their pockets in exchange for her crocheted things made much sport of her diary and at last conspired against her peace of mind.
"Now, say, Miss Blank," said one them in pursuance of the plot, "we have decided to strike. We are not going to help your tenement house heathen a cent's worth more unless you sell us your diary. How much will you take for it?"
"How much will you give?" asked the girl after a little thought.
Five dollars was then bid and refused. Miss Blank then playfully put the precious volume up at auction, and the men in the party, never dreaming that she could be in earnest, piled bid upon bid until the price stood at $65.
"The diary is yours, Mr. Jones," said the girl to the successful bidder, "but remember my terms are spot cash, with the further condition that you leave it with me until I can make a copy for myself."
The laugh was on Jones, and his companions forced him to pay down the money on the spot. Miss Blank delivered the diary, and of course all that the unlucky joker could do was to return it unopened with his compliments. — New York Herald.
How a Girl Turned the Edge of a Joke to the Benefit of the Poor.
There seems to be no limit to a woman's self sacrifice when she once takes a charitable object to heart. This is the story of a girl who sold her diary, and you have to be a woman to realize all that that means.
It was on shipboard, and it happened on the way over from Liverpool. The girl was a millionaire's daughter, and in addition to devoting her pocket money to the East Side mission, of which she was a patroness, she spent most of her leisure time crocheting wonderful and altogether useless nothings, which she persuaded her rich admirers to buy at fabulous prices for the benefit of the poor. She had devoted the entire trip to this pretty work, except for an hour a day, which she spent in filling her diary with such sentimental observations as misses of 20 or thereabout are apt to find expression for on the innocent white pages of their diaries.
The friends she had victimized on the way over by luring dollars from their pockets in exchange for her crocheted things made much sport of her diary and at last conspired against her peace of mind.
"Now, say, Miss Blank," said one them in pursuance of the plot, "we have decided to strike. We are not going to help your tenement house heathen a cent's worth more unless you sell us your diary. How much will you take for it?"
"How much will you give?" asked the girl after a little thought.
Five dollars was then bid and refused. Miss Blank then playfully put the precious volume up at auction, and the men in the party, never dreaming that she could be in earnest, piled bid upon bid until the price stood at $65.
"The diary is yours, Mr. Jones," said the girl to the successful bidder, "but remember my terms are spot cash, with the further condition that you leave it with me until I can make a copy for myself."
The laugh was on Jones, and his companions forced him to pay down the money on the spot. Miss Blank delivered the diary, and of course all that the unlucky joker could do was to return it unopened with his compliments. — New York Herald.
To the Robin
1895
Sweet singer of the sweet sad days,
Thy requiem for the summer dead
Rings clearly through the golden haze,
While o'er thy head
The sere leaves, with a gentle sigh,
Float softly down to earth to die —
Gold, brown and red.
And is thy song all sadness? Nay,
Thy little heart full well doth know
That where the sere leaf breaks away
The bud doth show
Sure promise of another spring,
When thy glad song with love will ring,
Sweet, clear and low.
—Arthur Wright in Chambers' Journal.
Sweet singer of the sweet sad days,
Thy requiem for the summer dead
Rings clearly through the golden haze,
While o'er thy head
The sere leaves, with a gentle sigh,
Float softly down to earth to die —
Gold, brown and red.
And is thy song all sadness? Nay,
Thy little heart full well doth know
That where the sere leaf breaks away
The bud doth show
Sure promise of another spring,
When thy glad song with love will ring,
Sweet, clear and low.
—Arthur Wright in Chambers' Journal.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Part and Counterpart
1895
The infant soul made up of images
Is like a lake, itself almost unseen,
But holding pictured in its "pure serene"
The sky above and the surrounding trees,
Till o'er the surface creeps a rising breeze
And slowly ruffles into silver sheen
Those depths of azure fringed with branching green,
A flame that follows on a form that flees.
As intermingled with the flow of being
It loses sight in gaining sympathy,
So action quenches all our primal seeing.
We cannot be both part and counterpart
Of outward things, and that passivity
A poet praised is half the poet's art.
— Alfred W. Benn in Academy.
The infant soul made up of images
Is like a lake, itself almost unseen,
But holding pictured in its "pure serene"
The sky above and the surrounding trees,
Till o'er the surface creeps a rising breeze
And slowly ruffles into silver sheen
Those depths of azure fringed with branching green,
A flame that follows on a form that flees.
As intermingled with the flow of being
It loses sight in gaining sympathy,
So action quenches all our primal seeing.
We cannot be both part and counterpart
Of outward things, and that passivity
A poet praised is half the poet's art.
— Alfred W. Benn in Academy.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
A Bird's Flight
1895
From some bright cloudlet dropping,
From branch to blossom hopping,
Then drinking from a small brown stone
That stood alone
Amid the brook; then singing,
Upspringing,
It soared. My bird had flown.
A glimpse of beauty only
That left the glen more lonely?
Nay, truly, for its song and flight
Made earth more bright.
If men were less regretful,
And fretful,
Would life yield less delight?
— William Cantor.
From some bright cloudlet dropping,
From branch to blossom hopping,
Then drinking from a small brown stone
That stood alone
Amid the brook; then singing,
Upspringing,
It soared. My bird had flown.
A glimpse of beauty only
That left the glen more lonely?
Nay, truly, for its song and flight
Made earth more bright.
If men were less regretful,
And fretful,
Would life yield less delight?
— William Cantor.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Courage
1895
Because I hold it sinful to despond
And will not let the bitterness of life
Blind me with burning tears, but look beyond
Its tumults and its strife;
Because I lift my head above the mist,
Where the sun shines and the broad breezes blow,
By every ray and every raindrop kissed
That God's love cloth bestow,
Think you I find no bitterness at all?
No burden to be borne like Christian's pack?
Think you there are no tears ready to fall
Because I keep them back?
Why should I hug life's ills with cold reserve,
To curse myself and all who love me? Nay,
A thousand times more good than I deserve
God gives me every day!
And in each one of these rebellious tears
Kept bravely back he makes a rainbow shine.
Grateful I take his slightest gift. No fears
Nor any doubts are mine.
Dark skies must clear, and when the clouds are past
One golden day redeems a weary year.
Patient I listen, sure that sweet at last
Will sound his voice of cheer.
—Celia Thaxter in New York Weekly.
Because I hold it sinful to despond
And will not let the bitterness of life
Blind me with burning tears, but look beyond
Its tumults and its strife;
Because I lift my head above the mist,
Where the sun shines and the broad breezes blow,
By every ray and every raindrop kissed
That God's love cloth bestow,
Think you I find no bitterness at all?
No burden to be borne like Christian's pack?
Think you there are no tears ready to fall
Because I keep them back?
Why should I hug life's ills with cold reserve,
To curse myself and all who love me? Nay,
A thousand times more good than I deserve
God gives me every day!
And in each one of these rebellious tears
Kept bravely back he makes a rainbow shine.
Grateful I take his slightest gift. No fears
Nor any doubts are mine.
Dark skies must clear, and when the clouds are past
One golden day redeems a weary year.
Patient I listen, sure that sweet at last
Will sound his voice of cheer.
—Celia Thaxter in New York Weekly.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Alone
1895
Since she went home
Longer the evening shadows linger here,
The winter days fill so much of the year,
And even summer winds are chill and drear
Since she went home.
Since she went home
The robin's note has touched a minor strain.
The old glad songs breathe a sad refrain,
And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain
Since she went home.
Since she went home
How still the empty rooms her presence blessed!
Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed.
My lonely heart hath nowhere for its rest
Since she went home.
Since she went home
The long, long days have crept away like years,
The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears,
And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears
Since she went home.
Since she went home
Longer the evening shadows linger here,
The winter days fill so much of the year,
And even summer winds are chill and drear
Since she went home.
Since she went home
The robin's note has touched a minor strain.
The old glad songs breathe a sad refrain,
And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain
Since she went home.
Since she went home
How still the empty rooms her presence blessed!
Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed.
My lonely heart hath nowhere for its rest
Since she went home.
Since she went home
The long, long days have crept away like years,
The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears,
And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears
Since she went home.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Snow
1895
Myriad clouds, in swift succession blown,
Hang from the heavens, ponderous and gray.
In desolation lies the house of day,
Its azure architecture overthrown.
A wizard choir, the trees in terror moan,
And whilst the winds their wild, weird music play,
Earth from her ancient orbit seems to stray —
A frightened thing, bewildered and alone.
Then, like a swarm of white bees in the
air, the innumerable armies in the sky
Lay siege to the defenseless world below,
Building enchanted bastions everywhere —
Fantastic fortresses and turrets high,
Bright with the shining splendor of the snow!
— F. D. Sherman in Youth's Companion.
Myriad clouds, in swift succession blown,
Hang from the heavens, ponderous and gray.
In desolation lies the house of day,
Its azure architecture overthrown.
A wizard choir, the trees in terror moan,
And whilst the winds their wild, weird music play,
Earth from her ancient orbit seems to stray —
A frightened thing, bewildered and alone.
Then, like a swarm of white bees in the
air, the innumerable armies in the sky
Lay siege to the defenseless world below,
Building enchanted bastions everywhere —
Fantastic fortresses and turrets high,
Bright with the shining splendor of the snow!
— F. D. Sherman in Youth's Companion.
Friday, June 13, 2008
To a Distant Lady
1895
Bold sailors yet, through frozen seas,
Attempt to reach the northern pole.
They quit their friends and home and ease
To conquer the unconquered goal.
A less heroic errantry —
Silvia! It is my chief endeavor
To reach your heart, though round it I,
For all I know, may cruise forever.
I've now been held these winters two,
Bound in the ice of your disdain.
Could but I break a passage through
I'd not ask to come south again.
— New York Tribune.
Bold sailors yet, through frozen seas,
Attempt to reach the northern pole.
They quit their friends and home and ease
To conquer the unconquered goal.
A less heroic errantry —
Silvia! It is my chief endeavor
To reach your heart, though round it I,
For all I know, may cruise forever.
I've now been held these winters two,
Bound in the ice of your disdain.
Could but I break a passage through
I'd not ask to come south again.
— New York Tribune.
My Sweetheart
1895
Her eyes are made for loving; her lips are made for kissing;
Upon her cheeks the roses go playing hide and seek.
Her form is like a seraph's; no angel grace is missing.
To have her and to hold her I am her servant meek.
She loves me to distraction; her every action shows it.
She comes without the asking to sit upon my knee,
Nor cares a continental if everybody knows it,
Because she calls me "papa," this little maid of three!
— Detroit Free Press.
Her eyes are made for loving; her lips are made for kissing;
Upon her cheeks the roses go playing hide and seek.
Her form is like a seraph's; no angel grace is missing.
To have her and to hold her I am her servant meek.
She loves me to distraction; her every action shows it.
She comes without the asking to sit upon my knee,
Nor cares a continental if everybody knows it,
Because she calls me "papa," this little maid of three!
— Detroit Free Press.
Independence Day
1895
Red as thy heroes' blood thine orient be!
Blue as their azure garb thy cloudless skies!
Their silv'ry swords as white, the stars that rise
To crown thine eye with quivering ecstasy!
Our banner's hues, the colors of the free,
Live in thy glories, clothe thee with their guise.
Faith, Hope and Love (the soul's fair trinity),
Lend thy soft vesture, heav'n's immortal dyes!
Who rants of creeds? Thy charter bears the seal
Of Catholic martyrs, for thy birthright slain.
Thy bulwark in dark days was Catholic steel;
Thy very stronghold, Catholic brawn and brain!
Shall bigots now impugn our loyalty?
Forbid, Columbia! We are leal to thee!
— Eleanor C. Donnelly in Donahoe's Magazine.
Red as thy heroes' blood thine orient be!
Blue as their azure garb thy cloudless skies!
Their silv'ry swords as white, the stars that rise
To crown thine eye with quivering ecstasy!
Our banner's hues, the colors of the free,
Live in thy glories, clothe thee with their guise.
Faith, Hope and Love (the soul's fair trinity),
Lend thy soft vesture, heav'n's immortal dyes!
Who rants of creeds? Thy charter bears the seal
Of Catholic martyrs, for thy birthright slain.
Thy bulwark in dark days was Catholic steel;
Thy very stronghold, Catholic brawn and brain!
Shall bigots now impugn our loyalty?
Forbid, Columbia! We are leal to thee!
— Eleanor C. Donnelly in Donahoe's Magazine.
The Day of Small Things
1895
No novels now, but novelettes,
Cigars give place to cigarettes,
Titanic "suns" to twinkling "stars,"
Pictures to sketches, "pomes" to "pars,"
Bonnets to things like housemaids' caps,
Banquets to tidbits, books to scraps,
And three volume novels to "short stories,"
Gibbon-like length and epic glories,
Like mammoths and cave bears, are gone,
Earth brings not back the mastodon.
The microbe takes its place. They kill us
Not by a giant, but bacillus.
Monsters, huge dragons, Laidly worms,
We fear no more. 'Tis unseen "germs"
That floor us in our life's full pride.
We want a "Jack the Germicide,"
And not the giant killer, now.
Behemoth and the big bowwow
Are gone, for aught not smart and little
We do not care one jot or tittle.
—Punch.
No novels now, but novelettes,
Cigars give place to cigarettes,
Titanic "suns" to twinkling "stars,"
Pictures to sketches, "pomes" to "pars,"
Bonnets to things like housemaids' caps,
Banquets to tidbits, books to scraps,
And three volume novels to "short stories,"
Gibbon-like length and epic glories,
Like mammoths and cave bears, are gone,
Earth brings not back the mastodon.
The microbe takes its place. They kill us
Not by a giant, but bacillus.
Monsters, huge dragons, Laidly worms,
We fear no more. 'Tis unseen "germs"
That floor us in our life's full pride.
We want a "Jack the Germicide,"
And not the giant killer, now.
Behemoth and the big bowwow
Are gone, for aught not smart and little
We do not care one jot or tittle.
—Punch.
The Rulers of Mankind
1895
What though the Sword, incarnadined and crowned,
Yoke to its car the servile feet of Fate;
What though the sophist Senate's pompous prate
Engross the hour and shake the world with sound.
Their carnal conquests can at best but found
Some tinsel towering transitory state
On force or fraud, whose summits, soon or late,
Fresh fraud or force will level with the ground.
It is the silent, eremitic mind,
Immured in meditation long and lone,
Lord of all knowledge, while itself unknown,
And in its cloister ranging unconfined,
That builds Thought's time long universal throne,
And with an unseen scepter rules Mankind.
— Alfred Austin in National Review.
What though the Sword, incarnadined and crowned,
Yoke to its car the servile feet of Fate;
What though the sophist Senate's pompous prate
Engross the hour and shake the world with sound.
Their carnal conquests can at best but found
Some tinsel towering transitory state
On force or fraud, whose summits, soon or late,
Fresh fraud or force will level with the ground.
It is the silent, eremitic mind,
Immured in meditation long and lone,
Lord of all knowledge, while itself unknown,
And in its cloister ranging unconfined,
That builds Thought's time long universal throne,
And with an unseen scepter rules Mankind.
— Alfred Austin in National Review.
The Garden of Dreams
1895
Who could dispense with that garden fair,
The lotus flowered garden of dreams?
Never a life is too homely or bare
To cherish a fragrant spot somewhere,
Budding to open in promises rare
In the magical gardens of dreams.
How could we live and not yield to despair,
Bereft of the garden of dreams?
The fever of living, the pangs of care,
The hopes deferred all the sorrows we bear
Forgotten are charmed to sleep in the air
Of the magical garden of dreams.
The coveted things of life are there,
In the tranquil garden of dreams.
Instead of our one little life of care,
There we live many lives ideal and fair,
Great aims uplift us, all things we dare
In the magical garden of dreams.
— Elizabeth Barton in Detroit Free Press.
Who could dispense with that garden fair,
The lotus flowered garden of dreams?
Never a life is too homely or bare
To cherish a fragrant spot somewhere,
Budding to open in promises rare
In the magical gardens of dreams.
How could we live and not yield to despair,
Bereft of the garden of dreams?
The fever of living, the pangs of care,
The hopes deferred all the sorrows we bear
Forgotten are charmed to sleep in the air
Of the magical garden of dreams.
The coveted things of life are there,
In the tranquil garden of dreams.
Instead of our one little life of care,
There we live many lives ideal and fair,
Great aims uplift us, all things we dare
In the magical garden of dreams.
— Elizabeth Barton in Detroit Free Press.
How Shall I Love You?
1895
How shall I love you? I dream all day,
Dear, of a tenderer, sweeter way.
Songs that I sing to you, words that I say,
Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray —
These may not tell of the love of my life.
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?
How shall I love you? Love is the bread
Of life to a woman — the white and the red
Of all the world's roses, the light that is shed
On all the world's pathways, till life shall be dead!
The star in the storm and the strength in the strife.
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?
Is there a burden your heart must bear?
I shall kneel lowly and lift it, dear.
Is there a thorn in the crown that you wear?
Let it hide in my heart till a rose blossom there.
For grief or for glory — for death or for life,
So shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife.
— Frank L. Stanton in Ladies' Home Journal.
How shall I love you? I dream all day,
Dear, of a tenderer, sweeter way.
Songs that I sing to you, words that I say,
Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray —
These may not tell of the love of my life.
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?
How shall I love you? Love is the bread
Of life to a woman — the white and the red
Of all the world's roses, the light that is shed
On all the world's pathways, till life shall be dead!
The star in the storm and the strength in the strife.
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?
Is there a burden your heart must bear?
I shall kneel lowly and lift it, dear.
Is there a thorn in the crown that you wear?
Let it hide in my heart till a rose blossom there.
For grief or for glory — for death or for life,
So shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife.
— Frank L. Stanton in Ladies' Home Journal.
Hereditary
1895
Your strictures are unmerited;
Our follies are inherited;
Directly from our gram'pas they all came
Our defects have been transmitted,
And we should be acquitted
Of all responsibility and blame.
We are not depraved beginners,
But hereditary sinners,
For our fathers never acted as they should
'Tis the folly of our gram'pas
That continually hampers —
What a pity that our gram'pas wern't good
Yes, we'd all be reverend senators,
If our depraved progenitors
Had all been prudent, studious and wise;
But they were quite terrestrial,
Or we would be celestial —
Yes, we'd all be proper tenants for the skies.
If we're not all blameless sages,
And beacons to the ages,
And fit for principalities and powers;
If we do not guide and man it,
And engineer the planet,
'Tis the folly of our forefathers — not ours.
— Mildred Lancaster in Home and Country.
Your strictures are unmerited;
Our follies are inherited;
Directly from our gram'pas they all came
Our defects have been transmitted,
And we should be acquitted
Of all responsibility and blame.
We are not depraved beginners,
But hereditary sinners,
For our fathers never acted as they should
'Tis the folly of our gram'pas
That continually hampers —
What a pity that our gram'pas wern't good
Yes, we'd all be reverend senators,
If our depraved progenitors
Had all been prudent, studious and wise;
But they were quite terrestrial,
Or we would be celestial —
Yes, we'd all be proper tenants for the skies.
If we're not all blameless sages,
And beacons to the ages,
And fit for principalities and powers;
If we do not guide and man it,
And engineer the planet,
'Tis the folly of our forefathers — not ours.
— Mildred Lancaster in Home and Country.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
An Elizabethan Ballad
1895
Dildido, dildido,
O love, O love,
I feel thy rage rumble below and above!
In summer time I see a face,
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Like to a stoned horse was her pace.
Was ever a young man so dismayed?
Her eyes, like wax torches, did make me afraid!
Trop belle pour moi, voila trepas.
Thy beauty, my love, exceedeth supposes;
Thy hair is a nettle for the nicest roses.
Mon dieu, aide moi!
That I with the primrose of my fresh wit
May stumble her tyranny under my feet.
He donc je seral un jeune roi!
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Trop belle pour moi, voila mon trepas.
-- Extract from the Works of Robert Greene, 1560-92.
Dildido, dildido,
O love, O love,
I feel thy rage rumble below and above!
In summer time I see a face,
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Like to a stoned horse was her pace.
Was ever a young man so dismayed?
Her eyes, like wax torches, did make me afraid!
Trop belle pour moi, voila trepas.
Thy beauty, my love, exceedeth supposes;
Thy hair is a nettle for the nicest roses.
Mon dieu, aide moi!
That I with the primrose of my fresh wit
May stumble her tyranny under my feet.
He donc je seral un jeune roi!
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Trop belle pour moi, voila mon trepas.
-- Extract from the Works of Robert Greene, 1560-92.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The Sentimental Song's Success
1895
"Did you ever hear anything as mushy as that?" asked the man at the minstrel show. He referred to a song about "papa" and "dear mamma" and "sweet little child" that was being done by a man with a soft, girlish voice.
He didn't like it at all, but the house demanded an encore, and a woman just in front of him had a handkerchief to her eyes.
"That's what people want," said the man who sat beside the complainant. "Just give them mother and baby and a waltz tune, and they're happy."
The lines of the song were almost idiotic in their strained attempt at tender sentiment, and the air seemed a variation of what has been heard in every minstrel "first part" for 20 years, but the people liked it just the same because it was so well sung and because "mamma" and "baby" were treated with such exceeding tenderness. — Chicago Record.
Table Mats
Here is a set of three tea table mats. The materials required are a quarter of a yard of linen lawn, some honiton lace braid and a few skeins of honiton lace silk. The quarter of a yard of linen will make three mats, each 9 inches square.
First overcast each piece of linen neatly all around the edge and baste upon this edge a row of the lobed braid, which, having scalloped edges, will make a pretty finish for the mats. Buttonhole this braid to the linen on the upper edge. Next baste a piece representing a spray of flowers upon each corner, and with the honiton lace silk buttonhole it upon the linen. In similar manner make a center design if you desire one, though this seems superfluous, as it never shows when the mat is in use. When the stitching is done, turn the mat, and with a pair of sharp embroidery scissors cut away the linen covered by the lace, being careful not to cut any of the lace stitches. When all are done, place the mats under a piece of muslin wrung out of borax water and iron until the muslin is dry. — Womankind.
"Did you ever hear anything as mushy as that?" asked the man at the minstrel show. He referred to a song about "papa" and "dear mamma" and "sweet little child" that was being done by a man with a soft, girlish voice.
He didn't like it at all, but the house demanded an encore, and a woman just in front of him had a handkerchief to her eyes.
"That's what people want," said the man who sat beside the complainant. "Just give them mother and baby and a waltz tune, and they're happy."
The lines of the song were almost idiotic in their strained attempt at tender sentiment, and the air seemed a variation of what has been heard in every minstrel "first part" for 20 years, but the people liked it just the same because it was so well sung and because "mamma" and "baby" were treated with such exceeding tenderness. — Chicago Record.
Table Mats
Here is a set of three tea table mats. The materials required are a quarter of a yard of linen lawn, some honiton lace braid and a few skeins of honiton lace silk. The quarter of a yard of linen will make three mats, each 9 inches square.
First overcast each piece of linen neatly all around the edge and baste upon this edge a row of the lobed braid, which, having scalloped edges, will make a pretty finish for the mats. Buttonhole this braid to the linen on the upper edge. Next baste a piece representing a spray of flowers upon each corner, and with the honiton lace silk buttonhole it upon the linen. In similar manner make a center design if you desire one, though this seems superfluous, as it never shows when the mat is in use. When the stitching is done, turn the mat, and with a pair of sharp embroidery scissors cut away the linen covered by the lace, being careful not to cut any of the lace stitches. When all are done, place the mats under a piece of muslin wrung out of borax water and iron until the muslin is dry. — Womankind.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
To An Absent Friend
1895
Could I but have my dear one back again
From the vastness of the great west unknown,
How would it ease my poor heart's silent pain
As I sit here at even all alone!
That he travels wide makes me more afraid
Who shall his wayward heart and footsteps guide,
For him softer the way my love had made,
So feels my poor heart while he wanders wide.
Cold was the night he left my sanctum warm,
A night of wintry tempest, harsh and wild,
Went forth my dear friend reckless, wild —
I say alone — for who hears angels' feet
As we pass along? Tho' we dream they come,
We hear them not upon the busy street;
We only know a void — we are alone.
Friendship! Thy very name is sorrow's own,
Synonym for parting said for trial,
'Tis I must bear the burden all alone,
And when the tear would start must wear a smile.
— Jessie M. Holland.
Could I but have my dear one back again
From the vastness of the great west unknown,
How would it ease my poor heart's silent pain
As I sit here at even all alone!
That he travels wide makes me more afraid
Who shall his wayward heart and footsteps guide,
For him softer the way my love had made,
So feels my poor heart while he wanders wide.
Cold was the night he left my sanctum warm,
A night of wintry tempest, harsh and wild,
Went forth my dear friend reckless, wild —
I say alone — for who hears angels' feet
As we pass along? Tho' we dream they come,
We hear them not upon the busy street;
We only know a void — we are alone.
Friendship! Thy very name is sorrow's own,
Synonym for parting said for trial,
'Tis I must bear the burden all alone,
And when the tear would start must wear a smile.
— Jessie M. Holland.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Flood Time
1895
Across the vale the floods are out,
The floods are out with rush and rout;
Across the world the floods are out,
The land is in the sea,
And round the oak tree that displays
The bronze bright head in wintry days
The roaring current swings and sways,
Shouting his song of glee.
And landsmen now are watermen,
The robin, as the water hen
That makes her nest in reed and fen,
The robin's gone afloat.
The wind that rocks him to and fro
With a soft cradle song and slow
Pleases him in the ebb and flow,
Rocking him in a boat.
Flotsam and jetsam whirling by
The bridge where lovers meet and sigh,
The whirling crows flap wings and cry
And praise themselves that they
Have built their homes one story each,
In the tall masts of elm and beach,
And them no swelling flood can reach
Till all the world be gray.
The westward waters, cool, serene,
Mirror the sunset's gold and green,
A road of flame and emerald sheen
Broken to million lights.
The eastward waters take the moon,
Clad in the pearl from throat to shoon,
Whiter than any lily in June.
She scales the heavenward heights.
— Pall Mall Gazette.
Across the vale the floods are out,
The floods are out with rush and rout;
Across the world the floods are out,
The land is in the sea,
And round the oak tree that displays
The bronze bright head in wintry days
The roaring current swings and sways,
Shouting his song of glee.
And landsmen now are watermen,
The robin, as the water hen
That makes her nest in reed and fen,
The robin's gone afloat.
The wind that rocks him to and fro
With a soft cradle song and slow
Pleases him in the ebb and flow,
Rocking him in a boat.
Flotsam and jetsam whirling by
The bridge where lovers meet and sigh,
The whirling crows flap wings and cry
And praise themselves that they
Have built their homes one story each,
In the tall masts of elm and beach,
And them no swelling flood can reach
Till all the world be gray.
The westward waters, cool, serene,
Mirror the sunset's gold and green,
A road of flame and emerald sheen
Broken to million lights.
The eastward waters take the moon,
Clad in the pearl from throat to shoon,
Whiter than any lily in June.
She scales the heavenward heights.
— Pall Mall Gazette.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
My Choice
1895
What flower shall be mine? Oh, how can I choose
From the myriads that cover the plain?
Shall it be the wild rose that blooms in the wood
Or the buttercup down in the lane?
Fair are the lilies so stately and tall
That grow in the deep meadow grass,
And white are the daisies with bright starry eyes
That greet me whenever I pass.
Forgetmenots, too, so tiny and bright,
Reflecting the blue of the sky,
And cardinal flowers, with scarlet aflame.
Oh, why should I pass them by?
How, how can I choose? Shall it be the wind-flower
That, tremulous, sways in the breeze,
Or the orchid that blooms with a beauty so rare
In the shade of the tall forest trees?
Marsh marigolds grow by the side of the brook,
And here is the white meadow queen,
But I choose the blue violet, modest and sweet,
In its setting of emerald green.
—Vick's Monthly.
What flower shall be mine? Oh, how can I choose
From the myriads that cover the plain?
Shall it be the wild rose that blooms in the wood
Or the buttercup down in the lane?
Fair are the lilies so stately and tall
That grow in the deep meadow grass,
And white are the daisies with bright starry eyes
That greet me whenever I pass.
Forgetmenots, too, so tiny and bright,
Reflecting the blue of the sky,
And cardinal flowers, with scarlet aflame.
Oh, why should I pass them by?
How, how can I choose? Shall it be the wind-flower
That, tremulous, sways in the breeze,
Or the orchid that blooms with a beauty so rare
In the shade of the tall forest trees?
Marsh marigolds grow by the side of the brook,
And here is the white meadow queen,
But I choose the blue violet, modest and sweet,
In its setting of emerald green.
—Vick's Monthly.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
They Were Just Too Mean
1895
This Was the Trouble About Jim and Myra and the Gloomy Girl In Red.
"The world is hollow," remarked the girl in red.
"It is," gloomily assented the girl whose new gown does not fit, "but I don't see how you ever found it out."
"By accident, dear. It happened the day after the cards were sent out. I had a note from Dan saying that he must see me once more before I was Jim's wife. Of course I didn't really care for Dan, but it is soothing to one's vanity to know that the best man is dying of envy of the bridegroom, who has no idea of it."
"So you said you would see him?"
"I did. I felt that it would do Jim no harm if Dan did tell me once more that life was a blank without me, and it was really my last chance too. Still I didn't dare to let him come to the house."
"But where else could you see him?"
"At Myra's. She is to be maid of honor, you know, and Jim used to be quite devoted to her, so I knew she'd never dare to tell on me lest people would think her jealous."
"When I want advice, I shall know where to come for it."
"Very well, do. Well, I didn't send her word that I was coming, for I didn't want anything down on paper. As luck would have it, just as I was starting Jim sent up a box of roses and a melancholy note saying that a business engagement he couldn't shirk would prevent him from coming up that evening."
"You were in luck."
"So I thought. Well, I just throw myself on Myra's mercy. She wasn't a bit pleased, as I could see, but she submitted with the best grace she could. She said she would keep everybody out of the library so we could have a long, quiet evening, and not to worry about her, as she would probably have company."
"That was nice of her."
"Oh, very nice. Dan came early, and we had a perfectly lovely time. He begged me to elope the day before the wedding, recited two poems about his despair and hinted at suicide. Oh, it was splendid! I cried myself almost to a jelly. At about half past 10 I really couldn't stand it any longer, so I told Dan that we must go in and speak to Myra, for the front parlor was so quiet that her caller had evidently failed to come. So, after another eternal farewell, we went in."
"Well?"
"It wasn't well — it was ill! Myra's caller was there. He was Jim. He was holding her hand and bidding her goodby forever! Oh, was ever a poor girl so cruelly deceived as I?" — Chicago Tribune.
This Was the Trouble About Jim and Myra and the Gloomy Girl In Red.
"The world is hollow," remarked the girl in red.
"It is," gloomily assented the girl whose new gown does not fit, "but I don't see how you ever found it out."
"By accident, dear. It happened the day after the cards were sent out. I had a note from Dan saying that he must see me once more before I was Jim's wife. Of course I didn't really care for Dan, but it is soothing to one's vanity to know that the best man is dying of envy of the bridegroom, who has no idea of it."
"So you said you would see him?"
"I did. I felt that it would do Jim no harm if Dan did tell me once more that life was a blank without me, and it was really my last chance too. Still I didn't dare to let him come to the house."
"But where else could you see him?"
"At Myra's. She is to be maid of honor, you know, and Jim used to be quite devoted to her, so I knew she'd never dare to tell on me lest people would think her jealous."
"When I want advice, I shall know where to come for it."
"Very well, do. Well, I didn't send her word that I was coming, for I didn't want anything down on paper. As luck would have it, just as I was starting Jim sent up a box of roses and a melancholy note saying that a business engagement he couldn't shirk would prevent him from coming up that evening."
"You were in luck."
"So I thought. Well, I just throw myself on Myra's mercy. She wasn't a bit pleased, as I could see, but she submitted with the best grace she could. She said she would keep everybody out of the library so we could have a long, quiet evening, and not to worry about her, as she would probably have company."
"That was nice of her."
"Oh, very nice. Dan came early, and we had a perfectly lovely time. He begged me to elope the day before the wedding, recited two poems about his despair and hinted at suicide. Oh, it was splendid! I cried myself almost to a jelly. At about half past 10 I really couldn't stand it any longer, so I told Dan that we must go in and speak to Myra, for the front parlor was so quiet that her caller had evidently failed to come. So, after another eternal farewell, we went in."
"Well?"
"It wasn't well — it was ill! Myra's caller was there. He was Jim. He was holding her hand and bidding her goodby forever! Oh, was ever a poor girl so cruelly deceived as I?" — Chicago Tribune.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
A Story Called "Plagiarized" (1895)
1895
Plagiarized
The young couple stood on the bank opposite the Gadfly contemplating that small boathouse with something less than a feeling of ownership than they had hitherto experienced. A fiery little steamer went up the river, and the waves, taking advantage of the confusion, ran and kissed the green bank and were off again before the green bank had time to protest. From the top deck of the Gadfly came a song to the ears of Mr. Stewart of Throgmorton street, and of young Mrs. Stewart, that they were beginning to know quite well, albeit Miss Bagge, the singer, had only been there since the morning. Miss Bagge accompanied herself on the banjo and accompanied herself all wrong:
"I'm a little Alabarmer coon;
A'nt been born very long."
"I wonder," said little Mrs. Stewart — "I wonder, now, how many more times she's going to play that?"
"My dear love," said Mr. Stewart, sitting down on the bank.
"Don't call me your dear love, Henry, until that dreadful girl is gone."
"My dear Mrs. Stewart, what can I do? I can't treat her as we brokers treat a stranger who happens to stroll into the house, can I? You wouldn't care for me to catch hold of her and mash her hat in and hustle her out of the place."
"I shouldn't. All you have to do is to be distant with her."
"One can't be very distant on a small houseboat."
"I believe you like Miss Bagge still," said Mrs. Stewart.
"I don't mind her when she's still," said Mr. Stewart. "It's when she bobs about and plays that da"—
"Henry, dear!"
—"plays that banjo of hers that she makes me hot."
The shrill voice came across the stream:
"Hush-a-by, don't you cry, mammy's little darling.
Papa's gwine to smack you if you do."
"Boat ahoy!" called Stewart.
The boy on the Gadfly came up from somewhere and pulled over to them and conveyed them to the houseboat. Miss Bagge, looking down from between the Chinese lanterns, gave a little shriek of delight as their boat bumped at the side of the Gadfly.
"Oh, you newly married people!" she cried archly as she bunched up her skirts and came skittishly down the steps. "Where have you been? Leaving poor little me alone with my music for such a time!"
"Did you say music, Miss Bagge?"
"Yes, dear Mrs. Stewart. My banjo, you know."
"Oh!" said little Mrs. Stewart.
"Afraid you don't like plantation melodies, Mrs. Stewart."
"I used to think I did, Miss Bagge."
Stewart had gone along to get something iced to drink and something in the shape of cigar to smoke.
"How things change, Mrs. Stewart, don't they? I'm sure it doesn't seem six years ago — hem — Mr. Stewart and I and ma and two or three others came up to Marlow. I think that was long before your day, before you came over from Melbourne, and we did really have the most exquisite time."
"Have you looked through the evening paper, Miss Bagge?" interrupted little Mrs. Stewart hurriedly.
"Oh, yes, dear; I've looked through it twice. One or two most interesting cases."
"Where did you put it? I want to see what O'Brien has done for Middlesex."
"I've dropped it somewhere," said Miss Bagge. "Could the boy go up for my trunk before it gets dark? I left it at the station, and I shall have some more things down next week."
"Next week!"
Miss Bagge put her hand to her brown thin neck and gave a cough of half apology.
"If I stay longer, I shall have to run up to town one day to do some shopping."
There was a pause. The rings of smoke from Stewart's cigar at the other end of the boat floated down by them. The boy below broke a few plates and danced a few steps of a breakdown to cover the noise.
"Dear Henry! How the scent of his cigar does remind me of old times! I remember so well that night at Marlow" —
"Miss Bagge, will you go and play something?"
Miss Bagge went obediently and strummed her banjo and mentioned once more that she was a little Alabama coon, and young Mrs. Stewart ran hurriedly to her husband.
"I'm going to quarrel with her," she said breathlessly.
"That's right," said Henry calmly. "Anything to stop that row."
"I'm going to ask her to go back to town tonight, Henry."
"But, my dear, isn't that rather rude?"
"Of course it is. That's why I am doing it. You'll have to see her to the station."
The private row was quickly and quietly over. When the last word had been spoken, the self invited guest begged ten minutes to write a letter, and then she pronounced herself ready for Stewart's escort to the station. "Sorry you are obliged to go, Miss Bagge," said Stewart politely.
"It's an important engagement," said Miss Bagge, trembling, "or I should have staid. Goodby, dear Mrs. Stewart. I dare say we shall meet again soon."
Now an odd thing happened. As Stewart handed his charge into the boat a letter fell from her pocket on the deck of the Gadfly. Mrs. Stewart, in her usual good temper, now that her husband's old admirer was departing, called to her as soon as she noticed the letter, but Miss Bagge paid no attention. It almost seemed that she did not want to hear. When Mrs. Stewart picked it up and saw that it was addressed to Henry Stewart, Esq., and marked "Private and confidential," she opened it without a moment's hesitation:
MY DEAREST HENRY — It is so sweet to be near you again. Just as the wind sighs for the seashore, so do I sigh for you. Can you imagine what you are and ever have been to me? You are indeed my king, and you know I am your willing slave. Yours faithfully, CONSTANCE BAGGE.
Young Mrs. Stewart sank down on a low deck chair and gasped and looked across at the two.
"Well," she said, "now this is fearful."
There would be a good half hour before Henry returned, and in that good half hour it was necessary to decide what was to be done. What was quite clear was that the creature must have had some encouragement to induce her to write such a letter, and —
"Why, she is taking his arm!" she cried.
Indeed, Miss Constance Bagge was resting her hand on the arm of Mrs. Stewart's husband. Henry was carrying her banjo, and, looking back, laughingly waved it at his wife.
"Does this mean," asked Mrs. Stewart distractedly, "that they will never come back?"
The letter seemed to explain his slight difference in agreeing to the lady's dismissal. It explained also why when Miss Bagge had that morning made her unexpected appearance on the bank, hailing the boy with a shrill "Hi!" Henry had only laughed very much.
Mrs. Stewart summoned the boy.
"Yes, mem, there is a trine up liter than this. It leaves Thames Ditton at 11:15, and you got to good old Waterloo at about ten to 12. And I wish to Gawd," added the boy piously, "that I was there nah. This plice is a lump too quiet for me."
That would give half an hour to speak her mind to Henry (if he did come back) just half an hour to extract from him a confession and then rush for the last train up. At Waterloo she could take a cab to Uncle George's, and if Uncle George couldn't see her through, why, nobody could. Uncle George was an agent general. He was a stern man and treated everybody as severely as though they were his fellow countrymen.
The white flanneled figure came back to the riverside.
"He has managed to say goodby, then," said Mrs. Stewart fiercely. "I should like to have seen the parting."
Henry came on board and went straight to her, and, with the assurance of new husbands, kissed her neck.
"She's an impossible creature," said Stewart. He sat down beside his wife and took an evening paper from his pocket. "I believe she took the extra away with her. I've had to buy another."
There was something in little Mrs. Stewart's throat that prevented her for the moment from starting her lecture.
"She wasn't so bad, you know," he went on, "in the old days. Of course I was a mere youth then. But now she's too terrible for words. I suppose if girls don't get married they get warped and changed."
"I want to speak to you, Henry," she said steadily.
"Oh, bother that boy!" he exclaimed. "We must get rid of him, dear. He's a nuisance."
"It wasn't about the boy."
"Not the boy? Well, then —. Hello! Here's a funny case."
She went on very quietly:
"I want to speak to you seriously, Henry, about a matter that has, by accident, come to my notice. I don't want to seem to bother too much about it, and I suppose if I were as free as some women are I shouldn't mind it in the least. But my mind is quite made up."
He was not listening, but her head was averted, and she went on.
"I have left the keys in the bedroom, and my account book is totaled up to date, with the exception of the bill that came in today. There is no reason why we should have any high words."
"I beg your pardon, dear. I haven't heard a word that you were saying."
He had found the news page in the evening paper and was reading with much interest a diverting breach of promise case.
"I was only saying" — she raised her voice to a pitch of distinctness — "that" —
"Look here; here's an idiotic letter the girl writes to the fellow."
"I don't want to hear it, thank you."
"Yes, you do. Listen, this is how it goes: 'Just as the wind sighs for the seashore, so do I sigh for you.' Why, the wind doesn't sigh for the seashore, does it?"
"Go on, please," she said quickly. "Read the rest of the letter. Is it really in the paper, Henry?"
"Look for yourself, dear. It's too funny for words. 'So do I sigh for you. Can you imagine what you are and over have been to me? You are indeed my king, and you know that I am your willing slave.' "
"Why," cried Mrs. Stewart, "that's word for word the same."
"As what?"
"It doesn't matter, dear."
She took from her blouse the letter that the disappointed Miss Bagge, with deplorable lack of originality, had copied from the evening paper.
"Don't people do some silly things, Winifred, dear, when they are in love?"
She took a marguerite from the bowl on the table and stuck it in her hair. Then she tore up the letter and gave the pieces a little puff to send them out on the stream.
"I b'lieve you," said Mrs. Stewart.
"Shall you want to be rowed across for that last trine, mem?" demanded the boy, putting his head out of a window, "or is the guv'nor going to do it?"
"The last train?" echoed Mrs. Stewart. "Why, of course not, James. Go to bed at once."
"That boy's quite mad," said Stewart, turning over a page of the paper to find the cricket. "We must get rid of him." — St. James Budget.
Plagiarized
The young couple stood on the bank opposite the Gadfly contemplating that small boathouse with something less than a feeling of ownership than they had hitherto experienced. A fiery little steamer went up the river, and the waves, taking advantage of the confusion, ran and kissed the green bank and were off again before the green bank had time to protest. From the top deck of the Gadfly came a song to the ears of Mr. Stewart of Throgmorton street, and of young Mrs. Stewart, that they were beginning to know quite well, albeit Miss Bagge, the singer, had only been there since the morning. Miss Bagge accompanied herself on the banjo and accompanied herself all wrong:
"I'm a little Alabarmer coon;
A'nt been born very long."
"I wonder," said little Mrs. Stewart — "I wonder, now, how many more times she's going to play that?"
"My dear love," said Mr. Stewart, sitting down on the bank.
"Don't call me your dear love, Henry, until that dreadful girl is gone."
"My dear Mrs. Stewart, what can I do? I can't treat her as we brokers treat a stranger who happens to stroll into the house, can I? You wouldn't care for me to catch hold of her and mash her hat in and hustle her out of the place."
"I shouldn't. All you have to do is to be distant with her."
"One can't be very distant on a small houseboat."
"I believe you like Miss Bagge still," said Mrs. Stewart.
"I don't mind her when she's still," said Mr. Stewart. "It's when she bobs about and plays that da"—
"Henry, dear!"
—"plays that banjo of hers that she makes me hot."
The shrill voice came across the stream:
"Hush-a-by, don't you cry, mammy's little darling.
Papa's gwine to smack you if you do."
"Boat ahoy!" called Stewart.
The boy on the Gadfly came up from somewhere and pulled over to them and conveyed them to the houseboat. Miss Bagge, looking down from between the Chinese lanterns, gave a little shriek of delight as their boat bumped at the side of the Gadfly.
"Oh, you newly married people!" she cried archly as she bunched up her skirts and came skittishly down the steps. "Where have you been? Leaving poor little me alone with my music for such a time!"
"Did you say music, Miss Bagge?"
"Yes, dear Mrs. Stewart. My banjo, you know."
"Oh!" said little Mrs. Stewart.
"Afraid you don't like plantation melodies, Mrs. Stewart."
"I used to think I did, Miss Bagge."
Stewart had gone along to get something iced to drink and something in the shape of cigar to smoke.
"How things change, Mrs. Stewart, don't they? I'm sure it doesn't seem six years ago — hem — Mr. Stewart and I and ma and two or three others came up to Marlow. I think that was long before your day, before you came over from Melbourne, and we did really have the most exquisite time."
"Have you looked through the evening paper, Miss Bagge?" interrupted little Mrs. Stewart hurriedly.
"Oh, yes, dear; I've looked through it twice. One or two most interesting cases."
"Where did you put it? I want to see what O'Brien has done for Middlesex."
"I've dropped it somewhere," said Miss Bagge. "Could the boy go up for my trunk before it gets dark? I left it at the station, and I shall have some more things down next week."
"Next week!"
Miss Bagge put her hand to her brown thin neck and gave a cough of half apology.
"If I stay longer, I shall have to run up to town one day to do some shopping."
There was a pause. The rings of smoke from Stewart's cigar at the other end of the boat floated down by them. The boy below broke a few plates and danced a few steps of a breakdown to cover the noise.
"Dear Henry! How the scent of his cigar does remind me of old times! I remember so well that night at Marlow" —
"Miss Bagge, will you go and play something?"
Miss Bagge went obediently and strummed her banjo and mentioned once more that she was a little Alabama coon, and young Mrs. Stewart ran hurriedly to her husband.
"I'm going to quarrel with her," she said breathlessly.
"That's right," said Henry calmly. "Anything to stop that row."
"I'm going to ask her to go back to town tonight, Henry."
"But, my dear, isn't that rather rude?"
"Of course it is. That's why I am doing it. You'll have to see her to the station."
The private row was quickly and quietly over. When the last word had been spoken, the self invited guest begged ten minutes to write a letter, and then she pronounced herself ready for Stewart's escort to the station. "Sorry you are obliged to go, Miss Bagge," said Stewart politely.
"It's an important engagement," said Miss Bagge, trembling, "or I should have staid. Goodby, dear Mrs. Stewart. I dare say we shall meet again soon."
Now an odd thing happened. As Stewart handed his charge into the boat a letter fell from her pocket on the deck of the Gadfly. Mrs. Stewart, in her usual good temper, now that her husband's old admirer was departing, called to her as soon as she noticed the letter, but Miss Bagge paid no attention. It almost seemed that she did not want to hear. When Mrs. Stewart picked it up and saw that it was addressed to Henry Stewart, Esq., and marked "Private and confidential," she opened it without a moment's hesitation:
MY DEAREST HENRY — It is so sweet to be near you again. Just as the wind sighs for the seashore, so do I sigh for you. Can you imagine what you are and ever have been to me? You are indeed my king, and you know I am your willing slave. Yours faithfully, CONSTANCE BAGGE.
Young Mrs. Stewart sank down on a low deck chair and gasped and looked across at the two.
"Well," she said, "now this is fearful."
There would be a good half hour before Henry returned, and in that good half hour it was necessary to decide what was to be done. What was quite clear was that the creature must have had some encouragement to induce her to write such a letter, and —
"Why, she is taking his arm!" she cried.
Indeed, Miss Constance Bagge was resting her hand on the arm of Mrs. Stewart's husband. Henry was carrying her banjo, and, looking back, laughingly waved it at his wife.
"Does this mean," asked Mrs. Stewart distractedly, "that they will never come back?"
The letter seemed to explain his slight difference in agreeing to the lady's dismissal. It explained also why when Miss Bagge had that morning made her unexpected appearance on the bank, hailing the boy with a shrill "Hi!" Henry had only laughed very much.
Mrs. Stewart summoned the boy.
"Yes, mem, there is a trine up liter than this. It leaves Thames Ditton at 11:15, and you got to good old Waterloo at about ten to 12. And I wish to Gawd," added the boy piously, "that I was there nah. This plice is a lump too quiet for me."
That would give half an hour to speak her mind to Henry (if he did come back) just half an hour to extract from him a confession and then rush for the last train up. At Waterloo she could take a cab to Uncle George's, and if Uncle George couldn't see her through, why, nobody could. Uncle George was an agent general. He was a stern man and treated everybody as severely as though they were his fellow countrymen.
The white flanneled figure came back to the riverside.
"He has managed to say goodby, then," said Mrs. Stewart fiercely. "I should like to have seen the parting."
Henry came on board and went straight to her, and, with the assurance of new husbands, kissed her neck.
"She's an impossible creature," said Stewart. He sat down beside his wife and took an evening paper from his pocket. "I believe she took the extra away with her. I've had to buy another."
There was something in little Mrs. Stewart's throat that prevented her for the moment from starting her lecture.
"She wasn't so bad, you know," he went on, "in the old days. Of course I was a mere youth then. But now she's too terrible for words. I suppose if girls don't get married they get warped and changed."
"I want to speak to you, Henry," she said steadily.
"Oh, bother that boy!" he exclaimed. "We must get rid of him, dear. He's a nuisance."
"It wasn't about the boy."
"Not the boy? Well, then —. Hello! Here's a funny case."
She went on very quietly:
"I want to speak to you seriously, Henry, about a matter that has, by accident, come to my notice. I don't want to seem to bother too much about it, and I suppose if I were as free as some women are I shouldn't mind it in the least. But my mind is quite made up."
He was not listening, but her head was averted, and she went on.
"I have left the keys in the bedroom, and my account book is totaled up to date, with the exception of the bill that came in today. There is no reason why we should have any high words."
"I beg your pardon, dear. I haven't heard a word that you were saying."
He had found the news page in the evening paper and was reading with much interest a diverting breach of promise case.
"I was only saying" — she raised her voice to a pitch of distinctness — "that" —
"Look here; here's an idiotic letter the girl writes to the fellow."
"I don't want to hear it, thank you."
"Yes, you do. Listen, this is how it goes: 'Just as the wind sighs for the seashore, so do I sigh for you.' Why, the wind doesn't sigh for the seashore, does it?"
"Go on, please," she said quickly. "Read the rest of the letter. Is it really in the paper, Henry?"
"Look for yourself, dear. It's too funny for words. 'So do I sigh for you. Can you imagine what you are and over have been to me? You are indeed my king, and you know that I am your willing slave.' "
"Why," cried Mrs. Stewart, "that's word for word the same."
"As what?"
"It doesn't matter, dear."
She took from her blouse the letter that the disappointed Miss Bagge, with deplorable lack of originality, had copied from the evening paper.
"Don't people do some silly things, Winifred, dear, when they are in love?"
She took a marguerite from the bowl on the table and stuck it in her hair. Then she tore up the letter and gave the pieces a little puff to send them out on the stream.
"I b'lieve you," said Mrs. Stewart.
"Shall you want to be rowed across for that last trine, mem?" demanded the boy, putting his head out of a window, "or is the guv'nor going to do it?"
"The last train?" echoed Mrs. Stewart. "Why, of course not, James. Go to bed at once."
"That boy's quite mad," said Stewart, turning over a page of the paper to find the cricket. "We must get rid of him." — St. James Budget.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Little Girl Who Would n't Say Please
1875BY M. S. P.
THERE was once a small child who would never say please,
I believe, if you even went down on your knees.
But, her arms on the table, would sit at her ease,
And call out to her mother in words such as these:
"I want some potatoes!" "Give me some peas!"
"Hand me the butter!" "Cut me some cheese!"
So the fairies, this very rude daughter to tease,
Once blew her away in a powerful breeze,
Over the mountains, and over the seas,
To a valley where never a dinner she sees,
But down with the ants, the wasps, and the bees,
In the woods she must live till she learns to say please.
—St. Nicholas, June 1875, p. 471.
Note: I left "Would n't" as it originally was printed, except the whole title was capitalized.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Boy and Ox
1875(Translated from the German of W. HEY by THEODORE FAY.)
"GOOD-DAY, Mr. Ox! Of what do you think?
In deep scientific reflection you sink."
"Thanks, thanks!" the ox answered, as chewing he sat;
"You do me much honor! I 'm not wise as that.
To men I leave science and study and thinking;
My business is pulling and eating and drinking.
They may toil to distinguish the false from the true;
But I am contented to sit here and chew."
He had not chewed long when his good master spoke:
"Ho! the ox to the wagon. Quick! on with the yoke."
The wagon was heavily loaded that day;
The ox bent his forehead and pulled it away.
Had great thinkers been called to drag up the hill
That wagon, 't would surely be standing there still!
—St. Nicholas, June 1875, p. 468.
My First Trout
1875BY EDWARD W. CADY.
Did you ever catch a trout? It is very exciting sport, especially the first time.
There are two kinds of trout, brook-trout and lake-trout. The name indicates where they are found; but the lake-trout is very much larger, and not nearly so handsome as the other. The brook-trout varies in size from about as long as your hand to a foot or more, and is of a reddish-gray color and beautifully marked with red and yellow spots. He is classed among the "game" fish, because trout-fishing requires skill in the fisherman, and is considered excellent sport. Trout are considered delicious eating, too. A brook-trout which weighs about a pound is considered a fair-sized fish, and one that weighs five pounds, a monster; but this last is not very common.
The water where trout live is very clear and cold, and they generally prefer a shady pool or the foot of a little cascade. Woe to the grasshopper which happens to jump into the water there, or the innocent butterfly hovering too near the surface!
The trout never hesitates to jump clear out of the water to catch a bug flying near the surface. If you chanced to be close by at the time, you would be startled by a rush and a plunge, just like a flash of lightning, and good-bye to Mr. Grasshopper or Miss Butterfly!
It does n't seem to make any difference to the trout how small a brook is. I remember a little brook so narrow that the grass growing over concealed it from sight, and it seemed just as though you were fishing in the grass. This stream ran across a field where there were no trees nor bushes, and it seemed very queer to walk out into the middle of the field, let your line down through the grass, and pull trout right out of it.
But I began to tell you how I caught my first trout. It was one Summer when I was about ten years old. I used to go to my grandfather's in Massachusetts every Summer, and spend most of the time fishing, for I was very fond of it. I soon acquired a great reputation as a young fisherman, and felt very proud when I came home along the main street of the town with a large fish. But when I did n't catch any, it was always pleasantest to come through the fields by the back way.
The fish I caught were pickerel, perch, and shiners. I had never caught a trout. I had read about them, however, in a book on fishing which I owned — how shy they were, and how much skill it required to throw a fly well.
Do you know what "throwing a fly" means? If you don't, the book on fishing will explain it to you. You will read, as I did, all about the different kinds of flies, and what kind of a fly the trout likes this month and what kind that. For you must know that at different seasons the trout changes his diet just as we do; and just as in Spring we are very fond of lamb and green peas, so Mr. Trout must have a big brown bug with red head or white tail, or any jolly bug which is in the season. There are workmen who make artificial flies, which look so natural, that sometimes you yourselves may be deceived by them as well as the trout.
On this particular Summer which I am speaking about, my uncle had made me a present of a trout-pole, and, although I had not expected to use it, for it was too slender for the fish I was in the habit of catching, I had brought it with me to the country, so as to have it ready at any time.
Now, there was not much trout-fishing in the neighborhood where my grandfather lived. In fact, no one knew where there was any trout except one old man, the landlord of the tavern. He would take his horse and wagon, drive off before daylight, and come home with a fine string of fish. He never would tell any one where he went. I went one day and said to him, confidentially:
"Mr. Dickey, I want to catch some trout. Can you tell me where to go?"
"Why," he said, "go up along Bull brook, and you 'll find some."
I knew, by the way he said it, that he was n't telling me where he went. Still, I made up my mind I would go to Bull brook and try there. Bull brook was about three miles from the village, with not a single house for miles around. It was a lonely place, full of thickets, and was called Bull brook because a great many cattle were pastured about there.
Early in the morning, I started off with my pole, which being jointed could be carried very conveniently. I trudged along the road, which kept winding and growing more and more lonely and dismal, on account of large beech-trees and poplars and gloomy-looking pines which grew along the side of the road, and almost shut out the sunlight. I felt a little afraid of meeting a cross bull, but I whistled a lively tune, and marched on bravely.
At last I arrived at the brook, and got over the stone wall at the side of the road. There was a thick growth of bushes along the edge of the stream, so that I had to walk some distance before I found an opening where I could get close to the water. Everything was so still that I felt rather nervous and almost expected to see a fierce bull rush out upon me from somewhere. Crickets were chirping, and different kinds of insects were buzzing and humming. No other sound. But hark! What was that? A splash in the brook.
A bull-frog, thought I. I looked in to see if I could discover him. There he was in the bottom of the shallow brook. No, on closer inspection that was not a bull-frog. It could n't be a fish, for fish swim around, and this little dark thing, whatever it was, was lying quite still on the bottom.
Just then, while I was wondering what it was, a grasshopper, which had jumped by mistake into the middle of the brook, went kicking along on the top of the water. In an instant there was a gleam just where the grasshopper was swimming, and before you could say "Jack Robinson" the grasshopper was gone. I was no longer in doubt about the queer thing at the bottom of the brook. It had disappeared. I knew it must be a trout.
"Ah!" said I to myself, "I 'll catch you, Mr. Trout! Then wont the folks in town be surprised, and wont they want to know where I caught him!"
I actually believe I thought more at that moment of what the people would say than I did of catching the trout. I was quite excited. I trembled all over. I captured a grasshopper, and my hand shook while I was putting it on the little hook. I got behind a bush and very carefully lowered my line until the bait touched the surface of the water.
I was terribly excited, as much so as if the brook was a big cannon and the moment the bait touched it there would be a tremendous explosion. There was an explosion, but of a different sort. A plunge, a splash, and I gave a jerk strong enough to tear the bottom of the brook right out.
I went heels over head backward on the grass, and, on scrambling to my feet, looked eagerly at the end of the line to see my trout. But no trout was there, and what was more, the grasshopper was gone.
"What a fool I was," said I to myself, "to tear the line out of the water in that way, and scare all the fish. Now I wont catch any, and the people will laugh at me when I get home."
I caught another grasshopper, and tried again and again, but it was of no use. The fish were evidently frightened. My feelings, from the highest pitch of hope and exultation, were reduced to those of despair and chagrin. I almost cried. I hated to give it up; so I tried a little further down the brook.
This time the grasshopper lay undisturbed on the top of the water for several minutes, and I was just about to pull him up and try somewhere else, when there was a ripple in the water — a splash! The grasshopper disappeared, and there was a jerk on my line! I, too, gave a jerk upward. Oh, how delightfully hard the line pulled up! And then, as I whisked my pole round toward the land, there came out the water a silvery, sparkling fish! In a moment, he was lying on the grass — my first trout!
How I walked around him and gazed at him, and admired his beautiful spots, resplendent in the sun!
No more fishing that day. I had my fish. It only remained now to get home. It was the middle of the afternoon when I folded up my rod, and with my trout strung upon a piece of fish-line, started homeward. I went along the road pretty rapidly, I can tell you. I had no fear of bulls now. I was too much interested in getting home with my fish to think about that. I verily believe if I had met a bull, and he had tossed me, I should have gone up into the air holding on to that trout like a martyr. Alexander the Great, when he entered in a triumphal car one of the cities he had conquered, could not have felt prouder than I did when I entered the village, dusty and tired, and exhibited my prize to the astonished townspeople.
I have a great many times in my life worked hard and overcome difficulties, but I do not remember ever feeling such satisfaction and such pride as when I caught my first trout.
—St. Nicholas, June 1875, pp. 459-461.
Note: I left the contractions the way they were, "wont" and the others with a space, except the halves of "don't" were closer together.
Milmy-Melmy
MILMY-MELMY
By RACHEL POMEROY.
MANY hundred years ago,
People say,
Lived in busy Rhineland
Giants gay;
Folks of mighty stature,
Made so tall,
They would hit the sky in walking —
Stars and all.
When one stretched him on a mount
For a nap,
Why, the clouds would fit him
Like a cap;
In the valley under
Sprawled his toes;
How he could get out of bed
No one knows!
Did he snore a little loudish
(Do you wonder)?
People only thought it
Heavy thunder.
Did he have the nightmare,
Knock-a-knock!
Everybody grimly muttered:
"Earthquake shock!"
One of these tremendous fellows,
I suppose,
Could have hung your father
On his nose.
Half a score like you, sir,
(Don't look pale!)
Might have straddled see-saw
His thumb-nail.
He'd have been a crony
Worth the knowing!
For they were the kindest
Creatures going.
So good-natured, somehow,
In their ways;
Not a bit like naughty giants
Now-a-days.
Well, the biggest one among 'em,
So they tell me,
Had a pretty daughter —
Milmy-Melmy;
Ten years old precisely —
To a T;
Stout enough to make a meal of
You and me.
On her birthday, Milmy-Melmy,
All alone,
Started on a ramble —
Unbeknown.
Left her toys behind her
For a run; —
Big as elephants and camels,
Every one.
Through the country, hill and valley,
Went she fast;
Willows bent to watch her
As she passed;
Hemlock slender, poplar
Straight and high,
Brushed their tops against her fingers,
Tripping by.
Half a mile to every minute —
Like enough,
Though she found the going
Rather rough;
Men folk, glancing at her,
Cried aloud:
"We shall have a shower shortly —
See the cloud!"
Milmy-Melmy thought it rather
Jolly play
Nurse to leave behind, and
Run away;
In her life (imagine
If you can)
She had never seen a woman,
Or a man.
Three times thirty leagues of trudging
(Listen now)
Brought her to a plowman
At his plow;
Getting rather tired,
Stubbed her toe;
Stooped to see what sort of pebble
Hurt her so.
Picking up the plow and plowman,
Oxen, too,
Milmy-Melmy stared at
Something new!
Stuck them in her girdle,
Clapped her hands
Till the mountain echoes answered
Through the lands.
"Here's a better birthday present,"
Shouted she,
"Than the leather dollies
Made for me.
These are living playthings —
Very queer;
La! the cunning little carriage —
What a dear!"
So into her apron, tying
The new toy,
Off she hurried homeward
Full of joy;
Stood it on a table
In the hall;
Ran to bring her father to it,
Told him all.
"Milmy-Melmy," cried the giant,
"What a shame!
You must take the plaything
Whence it came.
These are useful workers,
Daughter mine,
Getting food for human beings, —
Corn and wine.
"Never meddle with such tiny
Folks again;
Only ugly giants love to
Trouble men."
Milmy-Melmy pouted
('T was n't nice),
But she carried back the playthings
In a trice.
When she 'd made her second journey,
Little sinner
Really felt too tired
For her dinner
So to bed they put her,
Right away,
And she had her birthday pudding
The next day.
What the plowman did about it,
Mercy knows!
Must have thought it funny,
I suppose.
If you want a moral,
Ask a fly
What he thinks of giants such as
You and I!
—St. Nicholas, June 1875, pp. 457-458.
Note: Each second line should be indented approximately 2 em spaces. Left quote marks were hanging outside the left margin.
By RACHEL POMEROY.
MANY hundred years ago,
People say,
Lived in busy Rhineland
Giants gay;
Folks of mighty stature,
Made so tall,
They would hit the sky in walking —
Stars and all.
When one stretched him on a mount
For a nap,
Why, the clouds would fit him
Like a cap;
In the valley under
Sprawled his toes;
How he could get out of bed
No one knows!
Did he snore a little loudish
(Do you wonder)?
People only thought it
Heavy thunder.
Did he have the nightmare,
Knock-a-knock!
Everybody grimly muttered:
"Earthquake shock!"
One of these tremendous fellows,
I suppose,
Could have hung your father
On his nose.
Half a score like you, sir,
(Don't look pale!)
Might have straddled see-saw
His thumb-nail.
He'd have been a crony
Worth the knowing!
For they were the kindest
Creatures going.
So good-natured, somehow,
In their ways;
Not a bit like naughty giants
Now-a-days.
Well, the biggest one among 'em,
So they tell me,
Had a pretty daughter —
Milmy-Melmy;
Ten years old precisely —
To a T;
Stout enough to make a meal of
You and me.
On her birthday, Milmy-Melmy,
All alone,
Started on a ramble —
Unbeknown.
Left her toys behind her
For a run; —
Big as elephants and camels,
Every one.
Through the country, hill and valley,
Went she fast;
Willows bent to watch her
As she passed;
Hemlock slender, poplar
Straight and high,
Brushed their tops against her fingers,
Tripping by.
Half a mile to every minute —
Like enough,
Though she found the going
Rather rough;
Men folk, glancing at her,
Cried aloud:
"We shall have a shower shortly —
See the cloud!"
Milmy-Melmy thought it rather
Jolly play
Nurse to leave behind, and
Run away;
In her life (imagine
If you can)
She had never seen a woman,
Or a man.
Three times thirty leagues of trudging
(Listen now)
Brought her to a plowman
At his plow;
Getting rather tired,
Stubbed her toe;
Stooped to see what sort of pebble
Hurt her so.
Picking up the plow and plowman,
Oxen, too,
Milmy-Melmy stared at
Something new!
Stuck them in her girdle,
Clapped her hands
Till the mountain echoes answered
Through the lands.
"Here's a better birthday present,"
Shouted she,
"Than the leather dollies
Made for me.
These are living playthings —
Very queer;
La! the cunning little carriage —
What a dear!"
So into her apron, tying
The new toy,
Off she hurried homeward
Full of joy;
Stood it on a table
In the hall;
Ran to bring her father to it,
Told him all.
"Milmy-Melmy," cried the giant,
"What a shame!
You must take the plaything
Whence it came.
These are useful workers,
Daughter mine,
Getting food for human beings, —
Corn and wine.
"Never meddle with such tiny
Folks again;
Only ugly giants love to
Trouble men."
Milmy-Melmy pouted
('T was n't nice),
But she carried back the playthings
In a trice.
When she 'd made her second journey,
Little sinner
Really felt too tired
For her dinner
So to bed they put her,
Right away,
And she had her birthday pudding
The next day.
What the plowman did about it,
Mercy knows!
Must have thought it funny,
I suppose.
If you want a moral,
Ask a fly
What he thinks of giants such as
You and I!
—St. Nicholas, June 1875, pp. 457-458.
Note: Each second line should be indented approximately 2 em spaces. Left quote marks were hanging outside the left margin.
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Hill of Gold
1895
The ragged rail fence just loafed along,
In a leisurely, zigzag line,
Down the side of the hill and wandered out
To the murmuring slopes of pine.
And I had only to climb the fence,
Or go through a crumbling gap,
To let gold spill down out of my arms
And overflow from my lap.
And the fence never cared a single bit,
For all it was there to guard,
And I might have doubled my golden spoils
Untroubled of watch or ward.
A careless old fence, and yet the hill
Broke splendidly on the eyes —
Gold clear out to the west, my dear,
And gold clear up to the skies!
And you needn't say, "Oh, it's a fairy tale!"
With that odd little scornful nod,
For it happens to be our own East hill
Grown over with goldenrod.
— Fanny Kemble Johnson.
The ragged rail fence just loafed along,
In a leisurely, zigzag line,
Down the side of the hill and wandered out
To the murmuring slopes of pine.
And I had only to climb the fence,
Or go through a crumbling gap,
To let gold spill down out of my arms
And overflow from my lap.
And the fence never cared a single bit,
For all it was there to guard,
And I might have doubled my golden spoils
Untroubled of watch or ward.
A careless old fence, and yet the hill
Broke splendidly on the eyes —
Gold clear out to the west, my dear,
And gold clear up to the skies!
And you needn't say, "Oh, it's a fairy tale!"
With that odd little scornful nod,
For it happens to be our own East hill
Grown over with goldenrod.
— Fanny Kemble Johnson.
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