Part 1

Katydid’s Poems

WITH A LETTER BY

Jno. Aug. Williams.

ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1887, BY

MRS. J. I. McKINNEY (“KATYDID”)

IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN AT WASHINGTON.

PRINTED BY THE COURIER-JOURNAL JOB PRINTING COMPANY.

Dedicated

TO

J. I. McKINNEY.

To him whose every word is one of praise, Who loves to linger where my thoughts have been, And who delights in all my rhyming ways, I offer first these efforts of my pen.

LETTER TO KATYDID.

DEAR KATYDID:

I am more pleased with your lines than when I first read them; they are intensely womanly, natural, musical and sweet--they are absolutely free from affectation, only the restraint of rhyme and measure seem to deprive your muse of perfect freedom and grace. There is also a delicacy of thought and fancy, and of purity of sentiment that pervades the whole like the sweetest perfume.

No one can listen to your “Chirpings” and feel like touching the bough from which you sing with a rude, critical hand; he would rather listen through the live-long night to the end of your song.

I remember well your first attempt at rhyme while a girl here at school; even then, there was a pleasing promise of a beautiful and useful pen; and I am glad that you have found time and opportunity to improve your early gift. I am glad, too, that you have been persuaded to give some of your sweet little poems to the press; the tender, the true, and the pure of heart will read them with delight.

Affectionately your friend,

JNO. AUG. WILLIAMS.

DAUGHTER’S COLLEGE, Harrodsburg, Ky.

CONTENTS

PAGE. To A Katydid 7 A Day Dream 9 The Old Ravine (Illustrated.) 11 Some Day You’ll Wish For Me 12 To Hallie 13 I’ve Asked You to Forget Me 14 Little Blanche 15 The Little Front Gate 16 Drifting 16 Looking Back 17 Scotta 18 The Lover and Flower 20 My Cloud 22 The Decision 23 Autumn 25 A Sister’s Love 26 In Memory of Nannie Johnson White 26 The Heliotrope’s Soliloquy 27 A Problem 28 My Palace (Illustrated.) 29 Death of Summer 33 Spring and Summer 34 Under the Snow 35 The Prettiest Girl in Town 36 I Am Musing To-night 37 A Curl 38 Somebody’s Face 39 Good-bye, Maggie 40 The Hermit’s Farewell (Illustrated.) 41 A Window I Love 43 Thistle Down 44 Bitter Memories 45 An Acrostic 46 My Angel Visitor 47 Keep a Bright Face, Darling 48 My Neighbor’s Mill 49 Dripping Springs 51 In Memoriam 53 The Old Orchard Trees 54 On the Hill-top Grow the Daisies 55 Ella Lee 56 What is the West Wind Saying 58 To a Mountain Stream 59 Pen Pictures 60 To Mother 62 The Broken Heart 63 A Year Ago 65 A Christmas Peep 66 Winnie’s Christmas Eve 68 My Heart’s Little Room 69 The Three Muses 71 A Recollection 72 Don’t Question Him Why 73 Why? 74 A Sunset Longing 74 Journeys 76 The Lost Poem 78 A Maple Leaf 80 A Gallop With Santa Claus 81 Home Memories 83 Sunshine and Shadow (Illustrated.) 85 Only a Fern Leaf 87 A Dream 88 Those Soft Airs She Played 89 To Albert 91 The Reunion of the Flowers 92 Children of the Brain 94 A Lily of the Valley 96 Lines to the Old Year 97 Why I Smile 98 My Phantom Ships 99 The Weight of a Word 101 An Apology 103 Speak Kindly 104 Those Willing Hands 106 Look Into the Past 107 A Little Face 108 The Canary and Rose 109 A Sigh or a Tear 110 Snow-flakes 112 A Foot-print 113

KATYDID’S POEMS.

To a Katydid.

Little friend among the tree-tops, Chanting low your vesper hymns, Never tiring, Me inspiring, Seated ’neath the swaying limbs, Do you know your plaintive calling, When the summer dew is falling, Echoes sweeter through my brain Than any soft, harmonic strain?

Others call you an intruder, Say discordant notes you know; Or that sadness, More than gladness, From your little heart doth flow; And that you awake from sleeping Thoughts in quiet they were keeping, Faithless love, or ill-laid schemes, Hopes unanchored--broken dreams.

No such phantoms to my vision Doth your lullaby impart, But sweet faces, No tear traces, Smile as joyous in my heart, As when first at mother’s knee Learned I your sweet mystery. I defend you with my praises, For your song my soul upraises.

Do you wonder that at twilight Always by my cottage door I am seated? You’ve repeated Oft’ner still those tunes of yore; And I love them, love your scanning And your noisy tree-top planning; Though you struggle with a rhyme, In due season comes the chime.

Oft I fancy when your neighbors, In some secret thicket hid, Are debating, Underrating What that little maiden did, That above their clam’rous singing I can hear your accents ringing, Like a voice that must defend From abuse some time-loved friend.

Though the nightingale and swallow Through the poet’s measures sing, No reflection Of dejection Petrifies or palls your wing. In the calm and holy moonlight, On and on with hours of midnight, In the darkness, in the rain, Still you whisper your refrain.

Dream I not of fame or fortune, Only this I inward crave, Sweet assurance, Long endurance, Of a love beyond the grave. Should my songs die out and perish, You’ll my name repeat and cherish; Though all trace is lost of me, Still you’ll call from tree to tree,

KATYDID.

A Day-Dream.

I’m looking in a mirror, Belle, The mirror of our past; And many a bright reflection, Belle, Into its depth is cast; Reflections that are calm and clear, And O! to us so very dear.

I see a village--old Kirksville-- Its long and narrow street, And as it climbs upon the hill, How many friends I meet! And, Belle, your face smiles out to me-- The sweetest face that I can see.

There is my home hid ’mong the trees Back of the village street, A welcome rushes on the breeze, And restless grow my feet; My heart leaps forward, and I view The dearest spot I ever knew.

Home! home again! and, children, we Skip through the pastures green; Your eyes of blue I plainly see-- “The sweetest ever seen;” And on your cheek the rosy tinge; And curls of gold your temples fringe.

And see the dogs we used to pet; Down through the lawn they run; Not many passing by, forget Their bark, or fail to shun Old Carlo of the greyhound race, And Lion with his vicious face.

Yet us they follow to the hedge, Where hours with them we’ve played; And to the pond, along whose edge, Barefooted, we would wade. Decorum could not cramp the brain, And Love unlocked his golden chain.

We climb upon my father’s barn, Hide in the straw and hay; We watch aunt “Silvy” spinning yarn In the old-fashioned way. She tells us tales by candle light, That fill our hearts with wild delight.

A shadow falls; I lose your face; Lost is the fairy-tale; And just before my eyes I trace A kind of airy veil; A network that is strangely planned, Held by the Present’s cunning hand.

The shadow now has passed away; I glance the meshes through, And find strange children there at play Beside your knee; one, two-- The little faces both foretell A happy future for you, Belle.

Long, long I gaze. That pretty view Dissolves away in air, And still I’m looking, Belle, for you, And still I’m standing there; I strive your image to retrace-- All, all has vanished but my face.

And closing ’round me as before, I see a figured wall, A carpet blue upon the floor, And sunlight over all. Bewildered, yet entranced I seem, And ’waken from a sweet day-dream.

The Old Ravine.

Just back of my dear old home it rolled, With many a crumpled and rocky fold, Hedged ’round with cherry and locust trees Their strong arms toyed with the breeze-- Like knights arrayed for march or fight They stood with waving plumes of white.

And O! that valley’s inmost room Was a mass of ivy and violet bloom; The larkspur shook from its purple crest A dew-drop down on the lily’s breast; The blue-bell dozed on the rivulet’s brink, And the myrtle leaned o’er the edge to drink.

Even now, as I write, through the open door I catch a sound of the cataract’s roar, And see the girls just out from school Knee-deep in the ravine’s limpid pool; And the boys, ah, me! how plain can I see Them stealing the bark from the slippery tree.

The door slams back, it is scarce apart; With steady eye and fluttering heart, I watch the girls up the valley turn, In search of peppermint and fern; And the boys are waving their caps to me, As they stand in that ragged and torn old tree.

In some wild way, I never knew how, I climbed to the swing on that elm tree’s bough; Was twitt’ring a song as I used to do, And counting the clouds in the sky’s soft blue, When the girls came out from the valley’s shade, And earth into heaven seemed then to fade.

’Twas the Eden of old, and I was a child (I have thought of it since and often have smiled); Sitting there in the swing, with the girls at my feet, And the boys overhead--my joy was complete; What a mockery, then, to awaken and part With the happy illusion--how hollow my heart!

Some Day You’ll Wish for Me.

FOR ---- ----

Some day, my darling, when the rose has died, That on your pathway throws its petals sweet, When the sharp thorn is springing near your side And nettles pierce the mould beneath your feet, You’ll wish for me.

Some day, my darling, when the crystal cup Of Beauty shattered lies, and spilled its wine; When Pleasure’s urn denies your lips one sup, And you drink deep of Disappointment’s brine, You’ll wish for me.

Some day the wreath will wilt upon your head; You’ll smell the bud and find a worm within. Some day, my darling, when your friends have fled, And strangers mock your frequent tears, ah! then You’ll wish for me.

Some day, my darling, when Death’s dews fall cold Upon your brow, you’ll gladly let me come-- When dreams present the shroud that must enfold Your limbs, and your sweet lips grow chill and dumb, You’ll wish for me.

You’ll long for him whose hands were oft denied To pluck a rose lest they the bush pollute-- Yet he would come and stand a slave aside. To grasp the bramble and the thorn uproot, If you but wished for him.

He’d kiss your limbs the hidden briar had torn, And bathe the wounds with Pity’s saddest tear; He’d close your eyes that ne’er till death had worn For him one look of love, and at your bier He’d kneel and pray

For strength to watch you hidden from his sight, For strength to turn aside and leave you there Clasped in the arms of everlasting night; And yet, my darling, not as great despair He’d feel than now.

To Hallie.

WRITTEN FOR ----

Sad and cheerless stands the homestead In its grandeur as of old; ’Tis a casket--lost, the jewel; ’Tis a mine without its gold.

Once a sunbeam at the doorway Gilded room and gladdened hall; Making life a golden summer, Full of joy for each and all.

But the sunshine that has vanished Ne’er can brighten o’er us more, Though I bow in meek submission Yet my heart is sad and sore.

I have lost my life’s sweet treasure, Earth holds nothing dear for me; “Upward, onward,” be my motto, Onward, upward, still to thee.

Hallie! be my guarding angel, Teach my footsteps not to stray; Spread your sainted wings above me, Lead me in “the narrow way,”

So that you can come and meet me-- Waft me heavenward on your breast, “Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.”

I’ve Asked You to Forget Me.

I’ve asked you to forget me, To let our happy past Ne’er be recalled; for ah! it was Too sweet, too bright! to last.

But yet you say that you’re my friend, And still as fond and true; While I ne’er care to see thy face, Or have one thought of you.

Then ne’er again recall those days When roguish Cupid played At twining garlands ’round our hearts Only to wilt and fade;

For I have with a steady hand, Not heeding Love’s sweet art, Unwound them from their resting place And freed your faithless heart.

Little Blanche.

Gather up the broken playthings, Scattered on the nursery floor; Blanche is gone!--her little fingers Ne’er will fondle with them more.

Hide away the dolls, the dishes-- Precious treasures! O! so dear! Lay aside the little dresses-- In each fold a mother’s tear.

God hath given--God hath taken, Though it rends the heart in twain, He but sends his frowns upon us, To give back his smiles again.

She hath gone to ’wait your coming, Smiling where the angels stand; Lingering there at heaven’s gateway, That she first may clasp your hand.

The Little Front Gate.

Away from the world and its bustle, When the daylight grows pleasant and late; In our own cosy cot, I am waiting For the slam of the little front gate.

The birds at the doorway are singing, The roses their beauty debate; But I sit here alone, and I listen For the slam of the little front gate.

Sometimes, ere the shadows of twilight Send the roving bird home to its mate, I list for a hurrying footstep, And the slam of the little front gate.

O! you who are burdened with sorrow, And believe that life is but fate, Learn from me there is joy in waiting For the slam of the little front gate.

Drifting.

Scotta, you are drifting from me, O’er the billows of life’s tide; You and I have sailed together, With our frail barks side by side.

You are drifting with the current, But my feeble oar is light, Too light to follow; and, in anguish, I must watch you drift from sight.

Drifting, gliding, moving onward, Tide and sky seem one deep blue; All in vain my eyes are yearning, You have drifted from my view.

But there’s yet a broader current, Where our meeting barks will land; You and I still bound together, Heart to heart, and hand to hand.

Looking Back.

She opened a little worn package, Scarred yellow by Time’s ruthless hand; Disclosing a bundle of letters Tied up with a pale ribbon band.

“These,” she said, “are like leaves from a fernery, Long pressed in a book with a flower; And the memories wafted up from them, Like perfume that follows a shower.

“With no wormwood or gall in the essence, Few tares in life’s garden were sown; The clouds partly hiding the sunshine, Some weeds with the blossoms have grown.

“But we loved”--here she held out a picture; A tear-drop was dimming her eye, As a cloud will o’ershadow the landscape, Or shut out a star in the sky.

I took up a ring and a locket, Set deep with a ruby and pearl; The clasp was all tarnished and broken, And tear-stained the face of the girl,

Whose eyes were awake in Hope’s morning, Love kindled their depths with his spark-- Even then, from the red velvet lining, They glowed like a gem in the dark.

I turned to the sad little figure, ’Round the package the faded cord tied; Pressed my lips to her cheek--ah, how sadly The roses had bloomed there and died.

Long we sat in the lingering twilight, Looking back o’er the vanishing years; She sobbed out her grief on my bosom, And moistened my brow with her tears.

What comfort in words could I offer? There was more in a soul-telling glance; For each heart hath its season of springtime, Each heart hath a buried romance.

Scotta.

I Saw her last night in a vision (How often she comes when I dream!) Through the garden of Heaven she loitered, Then stood by a clear, placid stream.

And out of the heart of the river A bunch of white lilies she drew, I scarce could discern from the blossoms Her fingers, so waxen their hue.

But her face wore the same quiet features, And her smile was enhancing the light That fell on this friend of my bosom, This angel robed softly in white.

I longed to reach upward and touch her, To ask why the flowers she twined; Wondered often for whom was the garland, And the crown with the lily buds lined.

So I cried and my voice soared onward Farther than sight could extend-- “For whom are you weaving this chaplet? Speak, Scotta! sweet spirit and friend.”

“O! tell me just why from the portals Of Heaven you’ve wandered away, And sit here alone by the river Wreathing these lilies to-day.”

Her lips parted, as if for an answer-- Then a cluster of cherubim, came-- They hovered about this sweet seraph, And whispered in concert _a name_.

It resounded along Heaven’s archway, But soft on my ear that word fell, Soft as her accents of friendship, Soft as a Sabbath eve bell.

And the dewdrops and spray of the river On the garlands to crystals had turned, The crown she embedded with snow-drops, One jewel there glittered and burned.

Its luster was brilliant and sunlike, As burnished as those in the throne, But the name that her own gentle fingers Had carved there, ah! me, was--_my own_.

And what if Life’s thorns pressed my temples Or sorrow to midnight turns day, I will press on alone through the darkness, Believing her hand leads the way.

I will traverse the chill “Swamp of Cypress” Where the “Rivers of Death” slowly wind; For she’ll beckon me over with garlands, And the crown with the lily buds lined.

The Lover and Flower.

I found it, one day, in a pretty shade Which a vine and a maple together made; ’Twas blooming away in a dress of white, With eyes of a blue transparent light. I knelt at its shrine, And this heart of mine Drank in the fragrance as one drinks wine.

Then I said, “Sweet flower, this cooling shade With the summer weather will dim and fade, There’s a place in my heart--a cozy room-- Where you may nestle and grow and bloom.” Thus I wooed the flower, In this shady bower, And lovers we were that self-same hour.

I carried it home, I pruned it with care, I gave it the sun and the morning air. The honey bees came its dew to sip, But I drove them away with pouting lip; For I loved my flower, And with jealous power I banished the bees from our curtained bower.

A butterfly came on wings of lace, And tried to fan my blossom’s face; But I brushed it away with cruel hands, And tore from its wings the velvet bands; Then I kissed my flower; But a summer shower Burst from the clouds with mesmeric power.

Then the pale little blossom heaved a sigh, And opened a blue and timid eye To thank the cloud as it did in the shade, Which the vine and the maple together made; But my heart would rebel; I could not quell Its raging fire--it seemed from hell.

I slammed the shutters with curses of doom; I made it dark as a dungeon room, Then I hurried away like a thief in the night; But I strolled again in the warm sunlight, And another flower From Fashion’s own bower I culled, and nursed it only an hour.

It proved but a weed with a gaudy bloom, And a poisonous odor filled my room. So I turned once more to my wildwood flower, That I locked in my heart that sinful hour, When the angel of love, To its mansion above, Had fluttered away like a wounded dove.

How softly I turned the key in my heart; One moment I faltered--the door swung apart-- A faint, sweet essence, like heliotrope bloom, Was sick’ning my senses; I moved through the room With a staggering tread, With a brain reeling head, And swooned there--_a murd’rer_--my flower was--_dead_.

My Cloud--To Scotta.

There’s a cloud on my life’s horizon Of wonderful shape and hue, Like the feathery down of a snow-drift ’Tis dimpled with changeful blue. I gaze on its shadowy outline And drink in the calm of the skies, Till I fancy it floats out of heaven, As an angel in disguise.

No slumbering storm in its bosom, No hint of the lightning’s glare, Only a feast for the heart and soul Is this treasure of the air; For I know from its silvery edges, And glimpses of hidden gold, That a picture of rare tranquility Its tender depths enfold.

Else whence is this mystic feeling Of peace that’s stealing o’er me? Like the magic of summer moonlight Enchanting a restless sea. O! heavenly cloud! why are you So calm? so angelic you seem, My spirit escapes in its longing-- I am lost in a beautiful dream.