Part 2
“Oh! Mamma!--come look at this queer looking _bird_-- An _owl_ is perched up in our tree!-- Or is it a night-hawk just taking a rest-- What kind of a bird can it be?”
Miss Jennie came tripping along down the street, In the hope of meeting her lover;-- Then he quietly let himself down from the tree Before she had time to discover.
Then arm in arm they returned to the gate,-- And he blushed, as in silence stood he And saw the white spectre, which drove him in fright To the top of the crab-apple tree!
_AS IT HAPPENED_
As the circus train passed through the street An Elephant caught the eye Of a “rural duffer,” who remarked As the creature lumbered by,-- While a wondering look stole o’er his phiz-- (No artist’s hand could paint it;) “Wa-al neow, Maria,--I swan to man _That’s quite an insect, aint it?_”
A city swell heard the remark, And quickly turned his nose Up, with an air that plainly said: “Such horrid folks as those May go their way--for they’ll pollute The very atmosphere With their uncouth ways and ignorance-- We can’t endure them here!”
* * * * *
The time rolled on,--and the city swell Was brought to account one day For the many bills and debts he owed-- He had not a cent to pay. His creditors gobbled all his goods And set them up for sale; But the cash they brought did not suffice So they marched him off to jail.--
* * * * *
The “duffer” shook his jolly sides With a hearty, merry laugh; And recalled the time when he “so shocked The insipid city calf.” “I pay my bills as I go along-- I _owe no man_,” said he; “There’s no _insect_ born that can compete With a _biped such as he_!”
_THE CAPTIVE BUTTERFLY_
(A true tale)
One morn as I walked in the meadow Where flooded the sun’s golden light Athwart tree and shrub--mid the grasses A butterfly gorgeous and bright
Was caught in a web which a spider Had deftly and craftily wrought; Aloft as a snare she had placed it And the unwary butterfly caught.
Vainly the poor insect fluttered To be freed from the web’s fleecy fold; But its wings were caught fast in its meshes And its fate could be plainly foretold.
It appealed to my heart so pathetic Ne’er thought I to ignore its strife It was one of God’s own little creatures And it had a good right to its life.
So I knelt there beside the small captive And gently the fine web I tore; Then away on glad wings it bounded, Rejoicing in freedom once more.
It was only a poor lowly insect, Yet perchance, does the Good Father see _Small deeds_ that are wrought in the spirit of love He would say “_Ye did this unto Me_.”
In the Book where all works are recorded-- In that Haven up yonder so fair; Who knows but _one_ mark bright and shining Now illumines my name “over there.”
_WHAT WOULD THEY DO?_
’Tis true that the city is pleasant, With its scenes ever varied and new; But if it were not for the country Oh, what would the city folks do? Soon plenty would be superseded By dearth with its train of distress; The gaunt wolf would roam by the once happy home Though riches untold you possess.
True, this may seem strangely in error, But doubtless, if you will take heed You’ll find that the sources are rural Of that which supplies every need, You say there are great mills and factories By whose process rich fabrics are made; But pause for a moment and ponder How the material first came into trade.
Of Fashion’s apparel so dainty, Of which our great stores are so full; Whence comes that from which they were made-- The cotton, the silk and the wool? ’Tis not from the city--no, never! But from the free sunshine and air On the broad, verdant acres extending O’er the glorious country so fair.
Tis true that the city has pleasures, And aspirants to fashion and fame,-- But yet, should you search the world over You’ll find it is ever the same. ’Tis the toil-harden’d hand of the farmer By which are the multitude fed,-- Yea, the farmer--the _“hard-handed” duffer_, Who supplies the vast cities with bread.
’Tis the farmer who toils on, unheeding The mid-summer sun and the rain, Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheat And garners the golden grain. From the forests afar down the valley Or up over mountainous height Is sent timber for use in the city, And fuel to make the hearths bright.
The orchards, the fields and the mead lands Fraught with richness from West to the East Send forth to the homes in the city Rich viands and fruits for the feast. True, the brilliant paved streets are abounding With wonders and charms ever new-- But, if from the country excluded Oh! what would the city folks do?
Then have praise and respect for the farmer-- Be cordial to him when you meet-- Ne’er pass him with countenance scornful Or gaze at the “old codger’s” feet, Though he has not the costly apparel Which you wear with such elegant grace-- Remember, you can’t live without him Nor can aught in the world fill his place.
_COURAGEOUSNESS_
The house-wife came with smiling face, Bearing in her hand a broom; With thoughts intent, and purpose bent On clearing up the room. She spied an object on the floor, Ne’er dreaming what it was; But close inspection soon revealed Its tail and head and claws!
What was the sound that pierced the air-- Was it an Indian’s yell? Or a wandering note from some demon throat From amidst the depths of--somewhere? Oh, no! of a different origin Were the tones that smote the air,-- ’Twas only a frightened woman’s scream As she mounted on a chair.
Oh dear! Oh dear! she had seen a mouse! And it entered not her head It would never, never do more harm For the poor little thing was dead. It seems the cat, in hunting, had Caught more than she could master; Of course old pussy never guessed That it would cause disaster.
The mouse was in mischief, so old Puss Had caught him in the night; But the lady never paused to think Whether it was wrong or right. She knew ’twas a mouse--a horrid mouse, And there she stood, dismayed; What could she do, with no one near To whom to appeal for aid?
She stood for what seemed hours to her,-- (Her weapon was the broom;) Waiting in vain for some one to come And take her from the room. At last she thought of a beautiful plan, And making good her aim; Jumped, and landed two yards the other side Of the animal’s prostrate frame!
* * * * *
A short time thence her hubby came.-- He saw the signs of storm; And to his brawny bosom close He drew her fainting form. When he had searched, and found the cause-- So motionless and stark; Then to himself in undertone He ventured this remark:--
“Women may talk about their rights And wish for a chance to vote; Put on the airs of a gentleman And don the vest and coat,-- They’d better be content to wait Until it can be said That they are brave enough to fight A mouse when it is dead!”
_TALES THAT WERE TOLD_
A decanter and a crystal cup Met in a banquet hall; The rosy light of the sparkling wine Shed radiance over all. Ah, ha! old friend--and how is this-- What is your mission here? “A pure, sweet spirit bid me come,” Replied the water clear.
“So we have met,” said the ruby wine, “Now let us social be,-- Let’s see who holds the greater power O’er the nation, you or me.” “_I can boast_” said he, “of mighty deeds-- I can tell you many a tale Of woe, and folly, sin and crime,-- Can you, my friend so frail?
I have caused Old Age to droop and die-- I have caused fair Youth to fade; I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,-- When _I_ strike there is no aid. I have hurled men down from their high estate-- Remorseful I’m not in the least,-- I have dragged them down, and down, until They were level with the beast.
I have happy homes made desolate Ha, ha! I laugh with glee As I see the babes every comfort denied, While the money is wasted on me! Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray, Of a power that is greater than mine-- Not _yours_--No! you are but water weak, While _I_ am the fiery wine!
And though I am classed in the bar-room Under many a different name,-- No matter what liquor they call me, My spirit is always the same. I have sunk big ships--Yes, sank them down In the depths of the briny deep; And for the loved who perished there Their kindred e’er may weep.
I have wrecked the train--I have mansions burned --’Neath my power _man’s senses_ flee-- I have cast proud monarchs from their throne,-- Behold! _this wrought by Me!_ And this I say is not the half Of the great success I win-- But I’ll no longer take the time So you, pale friend, begin.”
* * * * *
“I do not boast” the water said, Though my power is as potent as yours; For to all who freely drink of me It health and strength insures. I gently sooth the sick and the faint, I new life in the weary imbue; And even the roses smile sweetly and bright As I touch them with kisses of dew.
I turn the mill which grinds the grain-- I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal; All things rejoice with grateful breath When my cool hand they feel. I send the brooklet on its way-- I lift the drooping vine,-- I make all vegetation grow-- Can _you_ do that, Sir Wine?
Of our might and power we’ll not dispute-- (The result of our deeds will show;) For the worth of _me_ and the curse of _you_ All noble minded know. No, no! Sir Wine, _Your_ path is death, While _mine_ is safely trod; _You_ are cursed by a demon’s hand-- _I_, blessed by the hand of God.
_BRAVERY_
A youth once went to a party Whose sweetheart was there with the rest; The moments that flew on swift pinions Were enjoyed with great fervor and zest. ’Til at length came the time for dispersing, When each went their various ways-- This fond youth escorting his sweetheart-- His heart with emotion ablaze.
On his sleeve her hand trustingly rested As they wended their way through the wood,-- When lo! a white spectre before them Appeared.--In their pathway it stood Like a Goblin, with long arms extended It swayed, while a wild, weird note Like the wail of a disparing spirit Came issuing from the Ghost’s throat.
’Twas too much for our hero--and turning He ran in the wildest alarm; And left his companion in terror-- But a word from Sir Ghost made her calm. The echoing footsteps grew fainter ’Til at last in the distance they fade-- The rival then threw off the mystic _And boldly walked home with the maid_!
_THE MISSING LINK_
The theory of _Darwin_ With evidence was bound; But when the chain was broken One link could not be found Connecting Man and Monkey,-- Yet Modern Science shows Advancement which may nearly That missing link disclose.
The “Telephonic System” Has spread near and afar; Until the Way-Back County And Town connected are. Thus, sturdy “country Jamie,” With hands and cheeks so brown And heart so true and loyal, Can call up Reg. in town--
“_Dude Reggie_” with the eyeglass, And hair in “_done up_” curls; With brain so weak he scarcely Can think of aught but “Girls,”-- As at the ’phone they linger, The line does _then_, I think; Connect the _Man_ and _Monkey_ And forms The Missing Link!
_HE GOT LEFT_
“I swan!” said farmer Joe one morn,-- “Them pesky crows shan’t have my corn!” So he went to work, and soon he found Two stakes, which he drove into the ground. Then he brought to light some ragged pants And a tattered coat soon found a chance; While an old felt hat was perched for show Upon the head of the old scare-crow.
One arm reached out while the other one Held to his breast a rusty gun. “There it is done, and now,” quoth he-- “See which will beat--_them crows or me_!” So in the house the whole day he spent, Feeling at ease and well content,-- While a broad grin o’er his features strayed As he tho’t of the trick on the crows he’d played.
Meanwhile, two crows sat on a tree-- The young said to the old one:--“See That horrid thing that’s standing yonder-- What is he doing here I wonder? If he stays here what’s to be done? For Mother, look, he’s got a gun! Here in this tree all day I’ve stayed-- Oh, Mother! are you not afraid?
What _shall we_ do? it takes my breath-- Must we stay here and starve to death-- Do you s’pose that old thing will hurt me? I’m just as hungry as I can be! But to get my grub I don’t know how-- For see, he’s looking at us now! And what oh earth are we to do-- Oh, Mother! I’m afraid, aren’t you?”
“You foolish child,” the old crow said, “Fret not your silly little head-- That is our _Corn King_ good and true, He came and stayed here last year, too.-- He has come to us, armed with a gun; To tell us when the planting’s done. He tells us that we need not fear, He’ll protect us as long as he is here.
He tells us--as he did before:-- ‘Fear not the _farmer_ any more!’ Our honest _Corn-King_ tells us right,-- Come, let us go and have a bite! Let’s pay our respects to the Corn-King true”-- Then to the field of corn they flew. And the rest of the crows they did invite-- _Not a hill of corn was left in sight!_
_THE JAY AND THE FROG_
A blue-jay sat on a hickory limb, And a bullfrog sat below On a tuft of grass, where rushes green Were waving to and fro. While near him lay the glassy pool Where the tad-poles leap’d in play; But the old frog’s face wore a troubled frown As he thus addressed the jay:--
“Did I wear your dress of brilliant hue Instead of this coat of green; I could have the best the world affords, And always live serene. You fly away to the fields of grain Or feast on the cherries high; While I sit here ’neath the rushes cool, And snap at a wary fly.”
“Then why,” said the jay, “If you wish to rise Do you not ascend this limb?” “I will! I will!” cried the silly frog, I’m tired of folks that swim!” So he hopped from the tuft of grass to the tree, Then up where the branches divide; Then with a grin he crawled along And perched by the blue-jay’s side.
“I’m big as you, I’m big as you,” Cried the frog in greatest glee; “I wish my friends could see me now-- In this high society!”-- But his joy waned.--As a flock of jays With one accord did rise And, swooping down, they pecked at him With harsh and jeering cries.
’Till he was forced to quick retreat.-- As the rushes green he seeks He said, as he leaped in the quiet pool And escaped their cruel beaks:-- If _this_ is the way the ‘high class’ treats The lowly ones, ’tis clear ’Tis best that we should be content To stay in our native sphere!
MORAL
When proud _Ambition_ seeks to rise From its accustomed ways; Oft jealousies will jeer and peck, As did the haughty jays.
* * * * *
To all who chance to read this tale, Its simple warning speaks,-- “Ye who aspire to sphere’s aloft-- Beware of vicious beaks!”
_THE COTTAGE BY THE RIVER_
(Lines on a very old house situated on the west shore of the Nezinscot river, and some distance from any other dwelling.)
On the bank of Old Nezinscot, Where the sparkling waters flow Down this sea-ward course, as freely As the roving winds that blow, Stands a cottage by the river-- (Built upon the side-hill plan;-- Think it was a blacksmith built it Else it was a crazy man!
Must have been an awful ship wreck Once, upon Nezinscot’s waves; When a score or more of sailors Went down to their watery graves-- All except old Robinson Crusoe, Guess _he_ landed on a scow; And this fact seems most emphatic For man “Friday” lives there now!
Probably, from out the wreckage They contrived to save their goods,-- Then, with jack-knife and a hatchet Built this cottage in the woods-- _Must_ have been some ship-wreck’d sailor By the angry tempest tossed-- Or an aeronaut that landed Who with his balloon was lost.
Doubtless, then, this lonely exile Fought the wild-cat and the bear-- Else he’d not have pitched his cabin Forty miles from any where-- Far away from habitation-- Neither do we often find Houses that are built like this one With the front door on behind!)
Though in this salubrious climate Often lurks the river fogs;-- Yet the sweet, halcyon chorus Of the whip-poor-wills and frogs When the twilight shadows gather And the sun sinks in the west-- Calms and sooths the fever’d pillow, Lulls the weary into rest.
Then all hail--all hail to Crusoe (Or what ever was his name) Who discovered this fair haven, And in reverence we’ll proclaim That to him who built this cottage We should ever give our thanks For the hours we’ve spent in pleasure On Nezinscot’s mossy banks!
_THE POET TO THE ARTIST_
(To E. A. M.)
You painted a beautiful picture And sent it a gift to me; So I will write you a poem,-- But what shall the poem be? Your picture, like beautiful sunset So brilliant, will ever be praised,-- But my poem will be like a cipher That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
Your picture seemed “Tidings of Gladness,” --As the beautiful rainbow will cast Its bright, glowing tints on the billows Of clouds when the tempest is past. Like the unbounded depth of the Ocean Is the gratitude felt.--for your gift Was like rending dark storm-clouds asunder When a sunbeam shines bright thro’ the rift.
Your picture was eagerly welcomed, --As the first rosy tints of the dawn Are welcomed by vigilant watchers When the curtains of Night are withdrawn. --As the rose hails the dew of the evening When parched by the heat of the sun; --As the hand, that with toil has grown weary Welcomes rest when the day’s work is done--
--So thus, for your picture a welcome Most fervent will e’er be secure But my poem--Ah! what of my poem? --There can scarcely be aught to endure. Tho’ your picture’s like beauteous landscape That by Artists will ever be praised; --Yet my poem will be like a cipher That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
_THE TRAMP’S STORY_
Any work for me? No? I am sorry-- For I’m weary, and hungry and cold; You’re wishing to hear my life’s story? ’Tis the first time it ever was told. Yes, friend, I will tell you. A sorrow Extinguished the flame from life’s lamp; Which made me a wanderer--an outcast-- And why I am now called--a _tramp_.
Well friend, I once was as happy As that little boy over there,-- My cheeks were as rosy and chubby, And my soft, golden curls just as fair. But I then knew the care of a mother-- A mother as noble and good As God ever gave to a fellow, And she did just the best that she could,
To show me the path straight and narrow, And I never once wanted to stray Away from her side, where she taught me Each morning, and evening, to pray. At length, when I attained manhood, The crowning joy came to my life; And never was husband more happy Than I, with my sweet little wife.
And she loved me so fondly and truly, It made all my toil seem like play; I was working for her, and for baby-- _Baby Charlie_ I call him alway. Well, I got a snug home for my loved ones. And a good sum of money to spare; ’Twould have been like the Garden of Eden Had the Serpent not gained entrance there.
But I had a dear friend--Jim Daley, The chum of my boyhood and youth; And true, like a brother I loved him-- For I thought him the ideal of Truth. At school we were always together, E’er shared with each other our joy; And only God knows how I loved him-- This handsome, and proud, winsome boy.
And I trusted him, friend, I trusted him With all that was sacred and dear To my heart, Yes, I trusted him fully-- Nor dreamed I could have aught to fear. But one day he complained of reverses-- Said his money just then was not free-- There were bills he must pay on the morrow-- And he wanted to borrow of me.
So I loaned him all of the money I had saved for some chance rainy day,-- And in less than a month I was homeless-- My family were kidnapped away! What inducement he tendered, I know not, Or whether ’twas mesmeric power Which lured my poor, true-hearted girlie From me and our beautiful bower.
Were he here now, ah, could I forgive him-- Would duty, and right, say I must? Could I extend the hand-grasp of friendship To him who has broken that trust? I can only _pray God_ to forgive him-- And me. For with memory’s stamp Comes the knowledge of why I am needy-- And why people call me--a tramp.
I sold our dear cot mid the roses, And stealthily set out to trace The whereabouts of my dear loved ones, And I wandered from place to place At last came the sorrowful tidings Of a ship going down in a gale,-- Their names, on the list of the lost ones! And this is the end of the tale.
From my great sorrow then I sought refuge, And I drifted from east to the west; In my young days I worked hard and steady, In every place doing my best. But now there ’s no work,--I’m heart broken.-- Alone, in the cold and the damp,-- To my poor heart it seems--save in Heaven There’s no room for the poor, aged tramp.
_’Tis EASY TO GET MISTAKEN_
In a cozy cot, mid bloom and leaf, There dwelt a woman very deaf,-- If anything _special_ she wished to hear She’d put a trumpet to her ear. _Without_ the instrument, she could at best But hear _some_--and _guess_ the _rest_.