Part 4

“Oh! mercy! no,”--it was no use, She could not eat a mite She hardly ever cared for much-- She had no appetite!--

Strange, wasn’t it? that one day she Could eat a slice of steak, Potatoes, and a ham sandwich, With coffee, pie and cake,--

Yet the _next_ day, when her beau was nigh What changes it did bring! She was _so_ dainty and _so_ frail She could not eat a thing!

_MAMMA’S STORY_

Come hither my children, Sue, Archie, and Nell And listen to me as a story I tell How “once on a time,” in the mist and the fog Was a poor ragged boy, and a little brown dog. The dog, while at play, fell from a high bank Into a dark pool--and down, down it sank. To escape it endeavor’d, but slow was its speed, For the treacherous mud did its progress impede.

But the folks passing by took no heed of him Excepting to say--“Just see the pup swim!” Or, regardless of all save their own worldly pelf-- “It is only a dog--Let it care for itself.” ’Till a poor ragged urchin with pitying eye In passing that way the poor dog chanced to spy.-- Quickly thrusting a stick within reach of its jaws It clung to it, and, with the aid of its paws

Reached the top of the bank, with a loud joyous yelp-- Ah! none but this boy had offered it help! Then he took it up kindly, ’neath his jacket to hold To protect the poor creature, now shivering with cold. As snugly it nestled ’neath the boy’s ragged frock It said (as plainly as a poor dog can talk) I love you, dear friend--I’ll help _you_ if I can; For in all this vast throng there’s but _you_ that’s a _man_!

Then came the dog’s master, who found it so wet, And he sought now to fondle his dearly loved pet In a loving embrace.--but it clung to the boy With many plain manifestations of joy. While its glance towards its master said plain as it could:-- “I’ll stay with this laddie because he is good.” “Oh! my little pet knows you are honest and true; The dog ’s name is Gipsy, and well he loves you.

But say, little man, how came you to save ‘A poor little cur’ from a watery grave?” “I know what it is to be friendless,” he said,-- “I’ve no friends, or home, now since Mother is dead-- I know what it is to be hungry--forlorn-- I’ve not tasted food, sir, since yesterday morn. And at night I must sleep where I happen to be-- And I thought this poor doggie was friendless like me.

The gentleman’s head was bowed low.--And he thought Of his sister, who married a poor drunken sot,-- Ten years it had been since he last saw her face-- And five it had been since of her he lost trace. For a moment he prayed--with heart beating wild: “Have mercy on _her_, as I pity this child!” Then aloud he said--as they moved through the throng-- “My dog will not come unless I take _you_ along.

So come home with me, ’Tis not good you should roam”-- And he treated him kindly, and gave him a home. Then he sought the boy’s kindred--here fate on him smiled,-- _The lad was his nephew,--his lost sister’s child!_ And now in his prayers he forgets not his joy-- He thanks the kind Father for sending the boy. Now children, who think you ’twas, out in the fog? My dears, ’twas _your Grandpa_ who saved the brown dog!

_EVERY CLOUD HATH SILVER LINING_

(In response to “Pennies In The Box” by R. F. D. carrier No. 1, Buckfield.)

It is said that there are sunbeams Shining in the distant blue; Tho’ the dark and angry storm-clouds May obscure them from our view, Thus, mayhaps, the seeming hardships Of the rural carrier’s lot Are but shadows, merely flitting Lest the sunbeams get too hot.

Though at times, the mailman’s fingers Are half frozen, and he talks Language of his own invention,-- Cursing “pennies in the box.”-- Though obliged to doff his mittens In the zero wind, intent On opening an icy mail-box-- Struggling with a wayward “cent.”

He should ne’er let angry passions Vex his spirit--cloud his brow,-- For, beyond the sombre cloudlet There are sunbeams shining now! He can breathe “health-giving ozone” With no doctor’s fees to pay-- All distructive germs dispelling By “Fresh-air-cure” every day!

He should count the many blessings That around his pathway creep-- No matter if the path’s blockaded By a snow drift hard and deep,-- He should cultivate his patience With a fortitude most rare; Ne’er should frown beset his features-- Never even wish to swear!

These R. F. D. chaps should be happy, But, alas, contentment damps When they worry that “we patrons” Don’t lay in a stock of stamps,-- If they’d gather up our pennies And not grumble, they would see Each and every patron murmur Blessings on the R. F. D.!”

_DENNIS O’NEIL’S DREAM_

Dennis O’Neil fell asleep one day And he dreamed from this life he had passed away And went to Heaven, where, at the Gate ’Mong other pilgrims, he had to wait ’Till came his turn to ask for grace To pass through the gates of that Holy place. At length the vast throng ceased to flow-- A few entered the gate--the rest went below-- And he found himself waiting where others had been ’Till St. Peter should come and usher him in. Soon he heard the sound of hurrying feet Echoing out from the pearly street; And, looking up, his eyes behold Not the Saint--but a friend of the days of old. With joyful smile they meet, embrace, And tenderly gaze in each others face. “Why Pat, old friend, so it appears You, too, have left the ‘Vale of Tears’ No more to dwell mid scenes of woe And the din and strife of the World below. How is it, then, do you think that I Can gain admittance if I try? A plea for me of course you’ll make In my behalf for friendship’s sake. What must I do--if there should be A vacant place in there for me-- Tell me now, I ask of you What is the _first_ thing I must do?” “First,” then said Pat, “Inside the gates A pure and spotless Book awaits Where _you_--like each and every one Must write your name, What you have done, Your faults, your sins, every time you have lied, That you can recall till the day that you died.-- Every dishonest act write out plainly and bold-- For your chances are lost if _one thing_ you withhold! “And how long is it, I’d like to know Pat, since _you_ left the world below?”-- “If I mistake not, it is ten Years I’ve with patience held the pen.”-- “What errand calls you forth this morn?” “More ink,” said Pat, “I must hasten on.” “Ten years since you’ve been in this clime-- And you’ve been writing all the time! Begorry then, its more than ’tis worth-- And I think, on the whole, I’ll go back to the Earth. --For really, you see, ’tis not worthy the strife-- _Sure, ’twould kape me at work all the days of me life!_”

_A LESSON WELL TAUGHT_

Along down the street walked a dandy Who sported more beauty than brain; He was dressed in an elegant fashion And carried a gold headed cane. With nothing to do, he was strolling-- Just seeking amusement and fun.-- But his practical joke caused him sorrow, And _this_ is the way it was done.

“Bah jove! here comes an old crone-- Now excitement I anticipate!” And his vest was pulsative with laughter Thus causing his cheeks to inflate. With a jug in her hand, and a basket, She was wending her way from the store,-- A powerful woman from Erin’s fair isle Weighing _two hundred and ninety_--or more.

As she with quick footsteps approaches This _intrigue_ he hastily planned:-- To jostle against her, in passing, And knock the things out of her hand. And alas for the basket she cherished-- He had planned but too wisely, and well,-- The jug for an instant went whizzing-- Then, broken to atoms, it fell.

But she had him fast by the collar-- She shook him, then flung him down flat; His legs broad-cast on the pavement Were thrown, and down on them she sat! He writhed like a fish out of water-- But in vain, for she held him down tight,-- “Ah, me honey, I have the advantage An’ I’m thinkin’ ye’ll stay here tonight!

What ye doin’, ye black-hearted black-guard That ye can’t let an ould leddy alone? Are ye meddlin’ wid business of others Because ye have none of yer own? Ye have broken me jug--an’ molasses Is spattered all over me dress-- But, begorra! ’fore wid ye I’m done Ye’ll be lookin’ like me I guess!”

She arose--and both his feet seizing Walked on, while he struggled and yelled; But the more he struggled and shouted-- So much the more firmly she held! Through the pool of molasses she dragged him Until his immaculate shirt, His trousers, and coat of fine broad-cloth Was a mixture of molasses and dirt.

“Ye blear-eyed spalpeen! A lesson I’ll larn ye afore I’m content-- Ye’ll not trouble agin an ould leddy Because she’s of Irish descent!!! Arrah--but ye don’t get away aisy! Will ye be done wid yer pratin’, yer jokes? Shure there’s no more honor about yer Than to any ould bullfrog that croaks!

An’ a right sorry figure I’m thinkin’ Ye look fer a “swate bloomin’ youth!” Will ye show yerself to the fellers? Will ye tell yer ould Mither the truth? Will ye tell her ye spilled me molasses-- If ye do, will she say it was right To deprive an ould woman of somethin’ To eat on her cold bread to night?

An’ now, me molasses-cheeked dandy-- Ye may let _this_ yer feelin’s console:-- If ye ever agin let me ketch ye I’ll thrash ye! I will, by me soul!!! My advise ye had better be takin’ If ye’ve got a shmall mind of yer own,-- When ye meet an ould woman that’s _Irish_ Her ye’d better be lettin’ alone!”

_REMINISCENCE_

Tonight, of the Past I am thinking-- Of one of the Autumn’s bright days When the beautiful hills of old Hartford Were covered with October haze,-- When the leaves, all russet and golden Came rustling down, and the breeze Seemed bent upon mischief, dispelling The radiant garb of the trees.

Where the Oak and the Elm stand, defying The wrath of the tempest’s fierce blast-- Through the thicket, where warble the wild-birds And the chipmunk goes scurrying past.-- To the brilliant-hued, picturesque landscape No color could artist e’er lend On this day, when o’er hill and thro’ valley I wandered in search of a friend.

In search of a dear loved one, dwelling In a quiet, suburban retreat-- The friend whose kind manner e’er charmed me-- Whom I long had been hoping to greet. And I found her at last, my friend Emma! As at last thro’ the garden I walk. She was sitting quite close by the window-- And I found her there--_mending a sock!_

_HUMOROUS_

“Oh!” said the chick To the white hen, “Run, quick!” (They stood in the garden patch;) “Here’s a woman coming Who will send us ahumming-- She’s determined she’ll not let us scratch!”

“Now if ’twere a _man_ That yonder I scan” And her eyes she opened wide,-- “And a rock he should throw We’d know where ’twould go And could easily dodge it one side,--

But _this_ is a _Woman_-- A terror uncommon, What to do I’m sure I can’t see; If a missile _she_ throws It will veer, and, who knows? May by accident hit you or me!”

“You silly chick,” Said the white hen quick-- “Much wiser I hope you’ll soon be,-- Just stand in your track When she makes an attack And your safety I will guarantee!”

When, as it chanced, She firmly advanced, Hen and chicken with diligence scratched; No verbal command Availed, so her hand A stone from the dusty loam snatched.

To _Southward_ she aimed-- And hostilely proclaimed! (’Twas just as the white hen said--) The pebble flew forth, And, sailing due _North, It struck her old man on the head_!

_ONWARD FOR FREEDOM AND RIGHT_

(Written at the time of the Spanish-American War.)

“All that there is in Cuba’s lands Is ours, and we shall reign; Or we will fight them till they die!” Thus comes the cry from Spain. “They never shall their freedom have-- We will rule with iron hand; They shall bow to us, they shall heed our laws Or we’ll drive them from the land!”

“Ye cruel tyrants! Are ye men?” (’Twas ‘Uncle Sam’ who spoke.) “Desist, or ye shall see this end In cannon roar, and fire, and smoke Ye worse than tyrants! what have ye done? Ye have pillaged, burned and destroyed-- Ye have starved helpless men and women to death And the wailing of children enjoyed.

Ye have tortured them with fiendish delight, And hundreds of people have slain; Ye caused the death of our brave, noble men, Who went down in the wreck of the “Maine.” Ye can come to me if ye want to fight,-- Ye can come with your jeer and taunt; And ye can fight to your hearts’ content. If fighting is what ye want.

Our boys so brave, when duty calls, Will all their strength unite; And fight as long as there is need For freedom and for right. May the curse forever be wiped out That now the country mars; And peace restored in this fair land Where float the stripes and stars.”

_A MYSTERY EXPLAINED_

Hi Sambo--don’ yo’ talk dat way-- Aint yo’ a silly coon! A talkin’ ’bout de mystery Ob de man dats in de moon! _I_ tell yo’ ’taint no mystery ’Bout de moon, or how it acts, I reckon ef yo’d like to know _I_ kin tell yo’ all de facts.

’Tis dis:--Yo’ see when de world was new De moon was roun’ an’ clear; An’ kep’ a shinin’ ebery night Jus’ so, year arter year.-- ’Till dis man he done some drefful t’ing-- He ran, but dey cotched him soon An’ widout no odds dey banished him An’ sent him to de moon.

Dey see’d him lookin’ down to earth Whar dey wouldn’t let him stay; Den solemn like, an’ bery slow He turn he face away.-- An’ arter dat de moon was new-- Den half a moon dar’ll be; Den de moon am roun’, an’ de man looks down On de lan’ an’ on de sea.

An’ he gazes ober all de earth ’Til he wants to see no more-- Den he slowly turn he face away Jus’ as he did before. Dese am de facts ob what yo’ call De “Mystery profound”-- When de moon keeps changing as yo’ see _’Tis de man a turnin’ round_!

_A BIRTHDAY GREETING_

Your natal anniversary Once more around has crept; And, as a token of respect Will you these flowers accept

From all your friends? And we do hope That they may bring delight; And shed abundant cheer and joy From every petal bright.

And as another year speeds on To swell the list of Time; We truly wish that each day may Be filled with Peace sublime.

And may the Heavenly Father’s grace Be with you on your way; And keep you safely ’till returns Another glad Birth-day.

_ALL’S WELL THAT ENDETH WELL_

The robins and the blue-birds sing In tones so sweet and clear; “Cheer up dear, Annie dear, ’tis spring And Summer time is near.”

The crocus soon will wake from sleep And lift its dainty head; The trailing arbutus will peep Out from its leafy bed.

Dame Nature soon will deck the hills And vales in verdant clothes; While ’neath the oak the brooklet trills Where blooms the blushing rose.

Fair daisy sweet and buttercup The breeze will softly kiss; Then do not pine, dear friend, cheer up And share with them their bliss.

Let not your heart be troubled dear, The birds this message tell,-- Ye faint at heart, be of good cheer, “All’s well that endeth well.”

_A TALE FROM MOUNTAIN GRANGE_

[This poem was written for, and read at the first meeting held after the completion of the new grange hall at North Buckfield, Nov. 1st, 1904. The poem was founded on facts, but in order to be more amusing for the occasion the incidents were, of course, somewhat exaggerated by the author, who was also a member of Mountain Grange.]

Patrons and Friends:

Within the annals of this Grange A circumstance occurred-- And, be it true--Or otherwise, I’ll give it as ’twas heard. When last winter’s icy breezes Brought the welcome news, so strange That the ever staunch, and loyal Patrons of this Mountain Grange

Decided to erect their temple Ere the coming of the Fall In the village of North Buckfield,-- There to locate their new hall.-- Ere the last glad trump had sounded Thro’ the vales, and o’er the plain-- Ere the zephyrs bore the echo To the rugged hills of Maine--

Ere the last faint notes were wafted To “Old Shack’s” most distant peak-- There a brave, and loyal patron Thus to himself did speak:-- “I, Lucius Record, patron, member Of this Grange, a vow do make That _I_ the very first will be The foundation ground to break.

For I have read of honors great To “lay the corner stone,” _I’ll_ be the first to break the ground And do it _all alone_! And so, for months, this patron brave Did cherish in his breast A longing for the time to come Which gave him much unrest.

“Old Father Time” moved slowly on-- The snow began to melt-- The bleak earth showed in tiny spots Where _Lucius Record_ dwelt. For aught else in the world, just then He neither cared nor feared; But watched those patches grow, until The snow had disappeared.

To all who anxiously await Time slowly wears away; But at last--at last there came the eve Ere the eventful day. That night no sweet dreams came to him, No sleep his pillow sought; But listened he to every sound With nerves most tensely wrought.

And ere the sun’s first rays arose To gild yon distant domes; And shed their radiance upon These fair North Buckfield homes Arose he from his downy couch-- And with his gleaming spade Proceeded he to carry out The plans which he had made.

In silence marched he by Fred Heald’s, Slow, stealthy as a mouse; With bated breath, on tiptoe went Past Celia Dunham’s house Lest she or Fred should be awake And chance to hear his step,-- And thus--with soft, and cat-like tread He past the school house crept And reached the spot where stands this hall When lo! in yonder field He spied a form approaching near, And found ’twas Brother Heald And on the self same purpose bent! Lute straightway feared the worst; It but remained now to be seen Which one would get there first!

Lucius quickened up his pace Nor stopped for rocks or planks, ’Tis said his record equaled then The far-famed Nancy Hanks! He nearly now his courage lost, The way seemed not so clear To be the first to break the ground With _tother feller_ near.

So in the road the spade he dropped And scooped it full of earth Then sprang with all his wondrous might And ran for all he’s worth And dumped that sand upon the spot, And made a little mound-- “Ah, ha!” quoth he, “_I am_ the first To break the Grange Hall ground!”

Then with a sigh both turned away-- They felt somewhat--perhaps One like the ‘Russians’ at bay-- The other like the ‘Japs.’-- The morning dawned with azure skies, And then the workmen came; Brad Damon and another man Sir William Brown by name.

They saw the sand, and then one spoke-- (The other followed suit,) “What tarnal fool done this, d’ye spose? I vum, I’ll bet ’twas Lute!” The other answered, “I’ve no doubt ’Twas him, but see these tracks-- Now you don’t spose dew ye, they Resemble Danville Jack’s?”

“Oh, no, taint Dan--I know ’tis Lute-- To reason _this_ appeals:-- These tracks look like an Elephant While _Dan’s_ got _Nigger heels_!” Then exclamations volleyed forth, With laughter long and loud; Just then Geo. Record’s silvery voice Came ringing through the crowd:

“I say there, _Bill_! Tim Jones’n me Will give fifty cents in change To whom will write this story up And read it in the Grange!” Five poetic pencils glibly glide-- Low bends each thoughtful head-- Presented for inspections, thus Brad Damon’s poem read:--

Lucius Record Sat up late,-- Broke the ground-- Honor great.

Road to fame-- Show’s us how,-- Pile of dirt-- Big’s a cow.

Danville Jack-- Gloomy feels-- Awfully fat-- Nigger heels.

Awfully solemn-- Awfully mute-- Sadly feels-- Beat by Lute!

Walls of fame-- Got Lute’s name on-- Poem complete-- Bradbury Damon.

“By Gum! he’s beaten us all!” they cried Between their tight--shut teeth; Then brushed away that pile of sand And saw what lay beneath! They cried “Let’s give three cheers for Lute! Of him we have learned this day If we can’t succeed _just as we wish_ We’ll do it _as we may_.”

PATRONS, FRIENDS:--

Should aught arise within this Grange Which we don’t understand; Let’s look beneath the surface _then_, Let’s clear away the sand.

_SONG OF THE GRANGERS’_

(Written for Mountain Grange)

Away o’er the hills, or thro’ valleys, Wherever I happen to be; ’Tis wafted along by the breezes, And comes like sweet music to me, As on, by the wayside I wander A Brother I happen to meet,-- The hand-grasp is ever most cordial And _this_ is the way that we greet,-- Goin ’t the Grange?

I stroll mid the tall waving grasses Where the laurel and sweet brier springs-- Thence on, to the deep-shadow’d woodland Where the brooklet so merrilly sings-- How lulling the chirp of the cricket-- How drowsy the hum of the bees.-- I start.--for a voice speaking near me In deep tones utters words such as these-- Goin ’t the Grange?

Oh! the tables so loaded with dainties We hail with the keenest delight; The fruit, pies, and cake, we all welcome With faces so happy and bright. There’s naught like the rich, amber coffee Great fervor and zest to impart-- While the savory baked beans and brown bread E’er touch a deep chord in the heart-- Goin ’t the Grange?

_Grange!_---- name so laden with beauty I hail with the greatest of glee; I love it, our dear banded Order-- And ever a Granger _I’ll_ be! Oft I long as the season approaches The time for a “meeting” again To hear from the tumult of voices Re-echo this gladsome refrain:-- Goin ’t the Grange?