Part 5
And may the bright _Star_ of the _Heavens_ Ever guard and guide us aright-- May we all many times be permitted To meet here in ardent delight. May we ever be true to our Master-- Prove faithful and honest in all; And be ready to answer the summons When the One great Master shall call To a higher and nobler Grange.
_UNCLE JOE’S SOLILOQUY_
Talk about your new inventions And the wonders of the age; _I_ think the pesky foolishness Has reached the topmost stage! The news that this here world is round Comes from some great man’s mouth-- And that ’tis hung onto a pole That goes from North to South.
And I suppose that this here way Is the way to solve the riddle-- Just take an apple up, and thrust A needle through the middle. And what is it they won’t do next? For now, Why, ’pon my soul They say that larn’ed folks have tried To find the great North Pole!
_I’d_ rather stay upon the land Than sail upon the sea; Why can’t _them_ folks just stay at home And let the North Pole be? Now I am kind of worried like For fear some of those men That’s sailing round and round the airth Will _find_ the pole and then
Some of them chaps who thoughtlessly At common sense will scoff Will take it into their wise heads To cut the North Pole off! And then what would become of us? I’m sure I haint no notion-- I spose that _we_, the world and all Would fall into the Ocean!
And what a bad thing that would be-- How dreadful is the sound-- _To let the world fall in the sea And all the good folks drown’d!_ I wish that them ere pesky folks Would let the pole alone; I think that they had better find Some business of their own!
I wish some one would find them folks And try and make them see That they had better stay at home And let the North Pole be! If _I_ should ever see them men As sure’s my name is Joe They’ll find what _my_ opinion is And I shall tell them so!
_WHEN DADDY ROCKS THE KID_
Little daughter, fair and sweet With dainty baby charms; Making every joy complete As from mamma’s arms Very tenderly she’s laid;-- (Mamma’s smiles are hid-- _Sees_ the queer maneuvers made When daddy rocks the kid!)
Darling, winsome as can be-- Blossom sweet and rare; Hears the tuneful melody From the rocking chair. Never heard such songs before,-- (And guess _he_ never did--) Language new--and tunes galore, When daddy rocks the kid!
Though forty times, ere day is done, From work he homeward comes; To hold his precious little one And see it suck its thumbs-- Mamma, e’er with loving glance Sees new charms amid The beauties, Which the joys enhance When daddy rocks the kid!
When daddy rocks the kid to sleep He banishes all care; And o’er his visage smiles will creep-- Contentment’s written there. No worldly sorrows cast their shade But vanish as they’re bid.-- A pleasing picture thus is made When daddy rocks the kid!
_STOP TALKIN’_
When a feller gets his back up And his temper’s in a muss; If he keeps a peckin’ at ye-- Tryin’ hard to pick a fuss.-- Jest ye go about yer bis-ness. ‘Course its aggravatin’--but Half the row will be averted If ye’ll keep yer talker shut!
Shut yer lips together firmly-- Let the “other feller” groan,-- Soon ye’ll find the ranch deserted, For he will not fight alone. Ferocious bully’ll prove a coward,-- If ye swerve not from the rut Of yer staunch determination That ye’ll keep yer talker shut!
Talkin’ makes a heap o’ trouble Out o’ nothin’, scandals great,-- As one gossip, then another From the truth will deviate ’Till the color of the story Darker grows--I tell ye what, Wouldn’t be so many heartaches If they’d keep their talkers shut!
Talkin’s right, if they would only Try to smooth the weary way Of some poor, lone, ship wrecked brother And a word of comfort say To the sick and weepin’ dweller Of the rude and lowly hut.-- Then, yes, _then_, the time is for ye _Not_ to keep yer talker shut!
If ye try to see the many Virtues of yer feller men-- And yer kindly acts uplift him-- Ye are doin’ nobler, then When to some heart yer words so cruel Gives a deep malicious cut.-- If ye can’t speak words of _kindness_ Better keep yer talker shut!
_A YULE-TIDE MISSIVE_
To my dear friend:--E. L. F.
As onward Old Time is e’er rolling, And Summer again has gone by; The sweet bells of Christmas are ringing, And wafting their music on high-- Telling the same sweet old story, That ever emotion awakes; Of Him who was born in a manger And Who suffered and died for our sakes.
My wish is, that this day may bring you Very rich and abundant good cheer; May yours be a bright happy Christmas, With friends that are ever sincere. It is willed that I cannot be with you-- As you still linger “down by the sea;” But my wish is--and may it be granted-- That one thought-wave may reach you from me,
Ere the bells have ceased ringing the tidings Of Peace and Good Will to all men, Old Santa will wake from his slumbers And, hobbling forth from his den He will harness his fleet footed reindeer To the sleigh, and away he will flee,-- And eagerly on, he will hasten To bring you this message from me!
Though this has no value, excepting The love it contains in its fold,-- Yet, love that is true and unfading To me is more precious than gold. So, when you shall weigh in Worth’s balance The gifts you receive on this day; Surely mine will not be found wanting, For Love will be sure to out-weigh.
Were I sure, that, receiving this missive You should feel just one pang of regret That I cannot be with you this evening, It would fully repay me, and yet I know you’ll transmit _one_ thought message To me, from afar o’er the plain; While the sweet bells of Christmas are ringing And telling their story again.
While the sweet bells of Christmas are ringing In accents of joy and of praise; For the Babe in the manger, so blessed, As they rang in the dear by-gone days,-- May they ring as of yore,--And the blessing Of “Peace and Good Will” which they gave In the ringing descend o’er our Spirits,-- Like music which wafts o’er the wave.
Buckfield, Me., 1911.
_THE HUNTER_
Traditions of a hunter tells-- A hardy man, and stout; Who ne’er used snow-shoes--for his feet Were large enough without! With dog and gun, across-lots, he Would roam ’mong bush and stump; Nor swerved he from the snow-drifts deep,-- He’d very seldom slump!
But once, ’tis said, he sank far down While crossing o’er a field; The damp snow caved upon his feet And there he stuck--and squealed! Then, standing like a statue Beneath the sun’s warm glow-- His feet, like steamship’s anchor Fast pinioned under snow.
He one mighty effort made-- He gave a piercing yell,-- The language wafted far and wide E’en Echo ne’er would tell! His pleading tones reached listening ears And help soon reached the spot.-- And altho’ more we fain would know Tradition telleth not.
_THE POETRY MACHINE_
Pray, have you ever heard about-- Or have you ever seen That Pearl of Ingenuity-- A Poetry Machine? The wonderous thing is fashioned With most exquisite skill; Designed precisely to obey The operator’s will.
When touched by “Muse’s” magic wand The _thought-waves_ throb and spout; Then, by the turning of the crank It grinds the verses out.-- The sweet, poetic stanzas Of equal length will be; Then, clipping off the ragged lines It makes a poem.--See?
And ’tis an elegant thing to have When you’re “down in luck” you think-- (And the only cost is a trivial sum Of some of your mental chink.) When e’er the world seems going wrong And you your courage lose; Get out your “Poetry Machine” And drive away the “blues.”
Just turn the crank--Sad thoughts will flee As the cog-wheels whirr and buzz,-- There’s naught can raise one’s spirits up Like the “Verse Mill” always does! Let the rippling, rollicking rhymes roll out With a clamor, a clash, and a clang; Then punctuate each line with a laugh-- Be one of the “Jolly Gang!”
There will steal a soothing sense supreme As we linger ’neath the spell,-- As steal sweet strains from Seraphic Song Far o’er the Ocean’s swell Or like soft breezes whispering O’er the sun-kissed, mossy bank,-- With sweet, poetic fancies rife If we but turn the crank!
_OCTOBER_
Down, the faded leaves are drifting, From grey branches overhead; All summer birds have taken flight, The grass is sere and dead.-- The brown earth tells us Summer’s gone-- The frost lies white at early morn. October
See! now is yon distant landscape Clothed in warm and purple haze; Redolent with ripen’d harvests Of the Indian Summer days. Bright--ye golden days--and glad, Beautiful, yet erstwhile sad October
Now the corn, no longer waving, Shocked, stands waiting for the bin; Choice fruit and garden products Soon will all be gathered in. Golden pumpkins, piled up high,-- Indicative of luscious pie! October!
_TO MARY_
Dear Mary: The sweet bells of Christmas Are ringing out vibrant and true,-- As I list to their music in gladness I am thinking of _Danville_ and _you_.
So Sister, I’m sending this picture-- You will see at the Ward at the right A little X marked o’er the window, Where a star peeps in at me at night.
You know where my cot is, you fancy-- Tho’ your vision of _me_ is not clear; Yet you know on that cot I am lying-- You have _Faith_ to believe I am here!
Then _now_, as the sweet chimes are pealing In accents so joyous and rare; Look, in _Faith_, towards the window of Heaven And _believe_ that our _Saviour_ is there!
_THE WINDS DO BLOW_
[Written while the author was a patient at the Maine State Sanatorium, Hebron, Me.]
There’s danger that some of these gales Will lay this Cottage level-- For every other day, at least, The wind blows like the---- deuce. Should it occur, the chances are That all the fields and lawns From here down to “West Minot” will Be scattered o’er with “Cons.” Then Dr. Garrison, Dr. Knowles And Dr. Nichols, too, Will have to search o’er hill and dale To find which way we blew!-- And all the nurses, too, will run As fast as e’er they can And help to bring “us patients” back To this gale-stricken San! Sure, if the wind strikes “Greenwood Hill” With such an awful boom We shall go sailing through the air Like Witches on a broom!-- Whiz-Zip-Crash-Bang-Oh, Ugh!--My face Is full of whirling snow!!-- It’s blown the coverings off my bed!!!-- Ah yes, “the winds do blow!”
Jan. 1913.
_FAREWELL TO THE SAN_
To Dr. N.:--
My stay here has been quite extended, And many long months now are gone; But soon my sojourn must be ended, For now I’m not sick with the “Con.” My _heart_ may have an “affection”-- Yet do not imagine I’m ill,-- For I’m sure that, in case of detection It would baffle your medical skill.
The “Microbe” lies hidden, tho closely you scan, Yet it _lives_! Now, sad to relate; One grievance exists which I owe to the _San_-- Oh dear, I have gained so in weight! No more like a fairy am I.--Yet ’tis true It is lovely to come here and rest,-- It’s a fine place to thrive--For see, even _you_ Are not very _small_ round the vest!
Oh no! and if ever I meet with a friend Who is built on the skeleton plan And wishes some fat on the ribs, I intend To tell him to come to the San! I’m sorry to leave Greenwood Mt. so fair And the scenes I’ve so long dwelt amid,-- I know I have been an annoyance and care Like a naughty refractory kid.
But vain are regrets.--So why let them tend Toward the past?--Let ill memories flee! Yet this will I say: Dr. Nichols--Kind friend I thank _you_ for your kindness to me. And I hope the Good Father who rules over all By an all-wise and infinite plan May guide and bless you, what e’re may befall-- And rich blessings send down to the _San_.
_The San Poetess._
_WE KNOW NOT WHY_
’Tis true, to some Good luck will come As we go life’s path along; While to others here There’s naught of cheer, And every thing goes wrong.
Yet we cannot know Why it is so-- For a few there is peace complete; The while for some There is not a crumb From the loaf of comfort sweet.
Some know not the turmoil Of struggle and toil-- Yet there’s enough and to spare for those Who can live at their ease And do as they please-- And their crown is entwined with the rose.
While others there are From near and afar Who by “sweat of the brow” earn their bread; And ’tis very sweet To those who may eat Who by their own efforts are fed.
As God made the rich And poor alike which Will be guarded and led not astray? And which, do you ween, Will wear the bright sheen When they get to the end of the way?
To some he sends woe-- We know not why ’tis so-- But he chasteneth _all_ more or less; Where sorrow and strife And burdens are rife, _These_ will He especially bless.
When o’er trials we sigh To Him we should fly Who doeth all things for the best; When comes the release There’ll be eternal peace In that beautiful Haven of Rest.
Let the rich help the poor,-- Drive the wolf from the door-- In the sorrows of others take part; And He will receive All “ye who believe” And come with a pure sinless heart.